Binkytowne

Make a splash

When I met my husband we lived in separate apartments. Then the same apartment, then a duplex that we purchased and then a house we completely renovated. I was 32 when we bought our house. Our first home. It had a garage, two stories, a mailbox with just one number on it. I think it was when we moved into that house that it started.

We bought that house on a whim. We knew we wanted to graduate from the duplex to the single family but didn't plan on doing it so quickly. One day he brought the listing home, we went to see it- just to look. We went on vacation, came home, made an offer and bought it.

It was a small house but the upstairs had three bedrooms. The largest was ours, of course. We set up a spare room for the in-laws for when they came to visit and the third one was turned into an office. Even with the clutter of our old beat up desk, boxes of papers, random junk stuffed in the closet, it never felt like an office to me. When I entered I pictured curtains on the windows, the walls a pale shade of yellow and a rocking chair.

What really got me was the bathroom. Past the sink and the shower curtain with stripes, in my minds eye I saw a baby bathtub. A white one. I couldn't yet imagine the soft curve of a baby's full belly or the wrinkles on it's toes, those were still unknown to me. But I could imagine it there in the space of my house and my heart, where I never had envisioned such a thing before.

Like the house, the baby arrived relatively quickly, maybe too quickly for some. Not wanting to rush into anything else impulsively, we set an arbitrary parenting deadline; Two years.

Two years has come and gone and many conversations have been had. The answer my husband gave, many maddening times, when I asked if he wanted to do this again was "I think so". I can not help but over analyze everything and in my mind, if you are saying "I think so" and are not saying yes, then you are saying no. Which is part of the problem. Because it's not that clear cut and he was being honest with me, which was what I really wanted. I felt that he got swept up in the torrents of my baby fever last time and I didn't want that to happen again. Whatever outcome we chose, we would decide together.

I just wish that we could be clear in what we wanted. Some people know they want children so badly they will go through anything to get them. They just know. We are not those people. We do want another, but we talk endlessly of day care expenses, time, how we would manage, how little man would react, how old I am, risks of waiting, risks of not waiting, college funds, sick kids. I'm exhausted. And I'm not even pregnant. 

But I know I could be. Because the ghost images are back. I imagine a baby strapped in a Bjorn when I'm on the treadmill. I picture two car seats in the back of the car. I think about introducing Cheerios for the first time, for the second time.

I told my husband I felt like we had already jumped in with both feet. Having another seems natural, since we're already parents. He feels like this decision is bigger than the first time, now that we know what it is to be parents. Sometime I have a hard time picturing it, he said to me.

Not me. I picture it all the time.

Make a splash

When I met my husband we lived in separate apartments. Then the same apartment, then a duplex that we purchased and then a house we completely renovated. I was 32 when we bought our house. Our first home. It had a garage, two stories, a mailbox with just one number on it. I think it was when we moved into that house that it started.

We bought that house on a whim. We knew we wanted to graduate from the duplex to the single family but didn't plan on doing it so quickly. One day he brought the listing home, we went to see it- just to look. We went on vacation, came home, made an offer and bought it.

It was a small house but the upstairs had three bedrooms. The largest was ours, of course. We set up a spare room for the in-laws for when they came to visit and the third one was turned into an office. Even with the clutter of our old beat up desk, boxes of papers, random junk stuffed in the closet, it never felt like an office to me. When I entered I pictured curtains on the windows, the walls a pale shade of yellow and a rocking chair.

What really got me was the bathroom. Past the sink and the shower curtain with stripes, in my minds eye I saw a baby bathtub. A white one. I couldn't yet imagine the soft curve of a baby's full belly or the wrinkles on it's toes, those were still unknown to me. But I could imagine it there in the space of my house and my heart, where I never had envisioned such a thing before.

Like the house, the baby arrived relatively quickly, maybe too quickly for some. Not wanting to rush into anything else impulsively, we set an arbitrary parenting deadline; Two years.

Two years has come and gone and many conversations have been had. The answer my husband gave, many maddening times, when I asked if he wanted to do this again was "I think so". I can not help but over analyze everything and in my mind, if you are saying "I think so" and are not saying yes, then you are saying no. Which is part of the problem. Because it's not that clear cut and he was being honest with me, which was what I really wanted. I felt that he got swept up in the torrents of my baby fever last time and I didn't want that to happen again. Whatever outcome we chose, we would decide together.

I just wish that we could be clear in what we wanted. Some people know they want children so badly they will go through anything to get them. They just know. We are not those people. We do want another, but we talk endlessly of day care expenses, time, how we would manage, how little man would react, how old I am, risks of waiting, risks of not waiting, college funds, sick kids. I'm exhausted. And I'm not even pregnant. 

But I know I could be. Because the ghost images are back. I imagine a baby strapped in a Bjorn when I'm on the treadmill. I picture two car seats in the back of the car. I think about introducing Cheerios for the first time, for the second time.

I told my husband I felt like we had already jumped in with both feet. Having another seems natural, since we're already parents. He feels like this decision is bigger than the first time, now that we know what it is to be parents. Sometime I have a hard time picturing it, he said to me.

Not me. I picture it all the time.

Bite Back

I hear biting is common among two year olds. I have chuckled when other moms have told me they walk in to day care only to find the embarrassing 'incidence report' waiting in the mailbox. I've even had one roll their eyes and say, if they only knew that this is the least of my problems during the day.. Until now I've been able to shrug it off as something that happens among toddlers, and that was fairly easy since mine is not a biter. There has only been one time where I have picked him up to hear that a 'friend' bit him. (And really, they should just tell me who did it because my son will two seconds after I've buckled him into his seat belt.)

This changed on Friday. Of all the days I send my husband to pick him up from school (he's the drop off guy), this was the day that a teacher told him that a friend bit him. On his back. On his back? I questioned and I gasped when my husband lifted up the back of his shirt. There, next to his shoulder blade were two distinct marks where someone else's teeth had broken his skin and a bruised area the circumference of a half dollar.

This child, I'll call him TB for 'The Biter' is a ruffian. I've seen him throw smaller two year old's on the ground. During a fairly stressful run one week, my son woke up one day and immediately announced to me that TB hits him. I chalked it up to a dream but my husband insisted we tell the school. Which I did, and they told me that TB is a little more prone to aggressive behavior but they were working on it. Not long after I ran into TB and his mom at the playground. They have only lived here a few months. She works full time and her husband puts in 80 hours a week and they were about to move from an apartment to a house near by. I thought she was nice.

But today I want to take her down. I know it's not her fault and this is not a rational reaction, but there is something about seeing bruises and teeth marks on my child's back that is bringing out the mama tiger in me. A bite on the arm says hey, get out of my way but a bite on the back says I want to hurt you and I am not about to let a three foot tall little dude take another chunk out of the person I worked long and hard to create. I like his back. I'd like to keep it thank you very much. I'll be calling the school at nap time to get the low down on exactly what happened and what they did about it and holy shit did you even look at his back when this happened? Because it you didn't, you'd better start.

See, there I go again. This is when I need to take a deep breath and remember that TB is a child and one who sounds like is probably going through a stressful time in his short life. I need to remember that the teachers are doing all they can, they are dedicated and have helped me more times than I can count. I need to try and smile at TB's mom when I pass her in the hallway and remember to ask her how the move is going.

I'm not sure I'll be able to.

** Edited to add: When I called the teachers to ask exactly how one does receive a bite on the back, they explained that TB was sitting on a play tire that was on the ground (butt on the seat, feet in the middle). My darling boy decided to come and lay across the tire, refusing to move, which is why TB leaned over and bit him. It's really kind of comical and I now think he might have learned a valuable lesson in all of this. Do not lay on someone elses tire. It's just not a good idea.

Bite Back

I hear biting is common among two year olds. I have chuckled when other moms have told me they walk in to day care only to find the embarrassing 'incidence report' waiting in the mailbox. I've even had one roll their eyes and say, if they only knew that this is the least of my problems during the day.. Until now I've been able to shrug it off as something that happens among toddlers, and that was fairly easy since mine is not a biter. There has only been one time where I have picked him up to hear that a 'friend' bit him. (And really, they should just tell me who did it because my son will two seconds after I've buckled him into his seat belt.)

This changed on Friday. Of all the days I send my husband to pick him up from school (he's the drop off guy), this was the day that a teacher told him that a friend bit him. On his back. On his back? I questioned and I gasped when my husband lifted up the back of his shirt. There, next to his shoulder blade were two distinct marks where someone else's teeth had broken his skin and a bruised area the circumference of a half dollar.

This child, I'll call him TB for 'The Biter' is a ruffian. I've seen him throw smaller two year old's on the ground. During a fairly stressful run one week, my son woke up one day and immediately announced to me that TB hits him. I chalked it up to a dream but my husband insisted we tell the school. Which I did, and they told me that TB is a little more prone to aggressive behavior but they were working on it. Not long after I ran into TB and his mom at the playground. They have only lived here a few months. She works full time and her husband puts in 80 hours a week and they were about to move from an apartment to a house near by. I thought she was nice.

But today I want to take her down. I know it's not her fault and this is not a rational reaction, but there is something about seeing bruises and teeth marks on my child's back that is bringing out the mama tiger in me. A bite on the arm says hey, get out of my way but a bite on the back says I want to hurt you and I am not about to let a three foot tall little dude take another chunk out of the person I worked long and hard to create. I like his back. I'd like to keep it thank you very much. I'll be calling the school at nap time to get the low down on exactly what happened and what they did about it and holy shit did you even look at his back when this happened? Because it you didn't, you'd better start.

See, there I go again. This is when I need to take a deep breath and remember that TB is a child and one who sounds like is probably going through a stressful time in his short life. I need to remember that the teachers are doing all they can, they are dedicated and have helped me more times than I can count. I need to try and smile at TB's mom when I pass her in the hallway and remember to ask her how the move is going.

I'm not sure I'll be able to.

** Edited to add: When I called the teachers to ask exactly how one does receive a bite on the back, they explained that TB was sitting on a play tire that was on the ground (butt on the seat, feet in the middle). My darling boy decided to come and lay across the tire, refusing to move, which is why TB leaned over and bit him. It's really kind of comical and I now think he might have learned a valuable lesson in all of this. Do not lay on someone elses tire. It's just not a good idea.

Boy meets sidewalk

You just know there's not going to be a happy ending to this story:

 

Boy meets sidewalk

You just know there's not going to be a happy ending to this story:

 

Who wears the sk*rt around here?

I had a very very important meeting with some legal eagles on Monday at work and I needed a power outift. I have plenty of "business casual" work clothes, i.e., capri pants, short sleeved sweaters, button down blouses, dressed up denim skirts. But this was different. I needed to be fierce. In order to look fierce I needed to feel fierce. That meant it was time to do some shopping.

  I bought my first suit this year. An actual pantsuit. It's fine. It's black. It's from a chain department store. I felt forty-five when I put it on. I couldn't do it again, there had to be a better way. I wanted something that felt more like.....me.

I actual found quite a few things I liked that I couldn't afford and just as many that I did, but needed some piecing together. As I stood in the dressing room with items scattered all around me, I realized it all came down to one question:

Would I wear pants or a skirt?

My boss is a forty-something woman, a dynamo. She's tiny. She's assertive, she's outspoken, she's smart and she knows how to get shit done, and she always wears pants. She told me one day as I sat across from her at a table, my lower half obscured, that she didn't understand how women could wear bare legs and open toe shoes now-a-days. Umm. Because it's comfortable? I muttered, crossing my fake-tanned legs beneath my skirt and stopping to pause and admire my high-heeled strappy sandals.   

Still I couldn't help wondering, is she right? If I were to go on an interview or start a new job would I go in sans-hose, pedicure out there for the world to see? What does that say about a woman? Does it undermine your credibility if you've got a great set of gams and don't mind if the world knows it? Does it say anything at all? Are skirts more comfortable or do I wear them because I like to feel feminine? If I feel feminine do I feel less authoritative?

I decided on a black jacket. (Always a classic, right?)I selected a funky, silky, flowy shirt that was tight waisted and had a cool scarf thing attached. I knew what black shoes I would wear; Leather pointy toe sling backs. The pants and the skirt both fit perfectly (what are the chances of that?) so it truly came down to what I wanted to put out there. Above all else I just have to admit, as a small woman, wearing a pair of flattering pants and some sturdy high heels makes me feel like I am charge. It really is the simplicity of the design. I think I move faster in pants. As much as I love the feel of fabric fluttering around my legs, and I do, there is more to think about in a skirt; How to move, how to sit, how to stand up and smooth out the creases.

The pants won. They were perfect. They sat at the rise of my hip just right. They had a tiny bit of flair at the bottom; Enough to look serious but still feel stylish. At work, I charged up the stairs, my heels clickety-clacking and sat in on my daily eight-thirty meeting with my boss. We wrapped up and collected our things, ready to head down to the big meeting.

She walked around her desk to gather her papers.

She was wearing a skirt.

Posted as part of the PBN Blog Blast for Sk*rt . You can visit my entry on Sk*rt and if you feel powerful, you can vote for me to win stuff. Vote HERE . And while you're visiting, click the LOVE IT button. Or else. Because I'm authoritative and all that.

Who wears the sk*rt around here?

I had a very very important meeting with some legal eagles on Monday at work and I needed a power outift. I have plenty of "business casual" work clothes, i.e., capri pants, short sleeved sweaters, button down blouses, dressed up denim skirts. But this was different. I needed to be fierce. In order to look fierce I needed to feel fierce. That meant it was time to do some shopping.

  I bought my first suit this year. An actual pantsuit. It's fine. It's black. It's from a chain department store. I felt forty-five when I put it on. I couldn't do it again, there had to be a better way. I wanted something that felt more like.....me.

I actual found quite a few things I liked that I couldn't afford and just as many that I did, but needed some piecing together. As I stood in the dressing room with items scattered all around me, I realized it all came down to one question:

Would I wear pants or a skirt?

My boss is a forty-something woman, a dynamo. She's tiny. She's assertive, she's outspoken, she's smart and she knows how to get shit done, and she always wears pants. She told me one day as I sat across from her at a table, my lower half obscured, that she didn't understand how women could wear bare legs and open toe shoes now-a-days. Umm. Because it's comfortable? I muttered, crossing my fake-tanned legs beneath my skirt and stopping to pause and admire my high-heeled strappy sandals.   

Still I couldn't help wondering, is she right? If I were to go on an interview or start a new job would I go in sans-hose, pedicure out there for the world to see? What does that say about a woman? Does it undermine your credibility if you've got a great set of gams and don't mind if the world knows it? Does it say anything at all? Are skirts more comfortable or do I wear them because I like to feel feminine? If I feel feminine do I feel less authoritative?

I decided on a black jacket. (Always a classic, right?)I selected a funky, silky, flowy shirt that was tight waisted and had a cool scarf thing attached. I knew what black shoes I would wear; Leather pointy toe sling backs. The pants and the skirt both fit perfectly (what are the chances of that?) so it truly came down to what I wanted to put out there. Above all else I just have to admit, as a small woman, wearing a pair of flattering pants and some sturdy high heels makes me feel like I am charge. It really is the simplicity of the design. I think I move faster in pants. As much as I love the feel of fabric fluttering around my legs, and I do, there is more to think about in a skirt; How to move, how to sit, how to stand up and smooth out the creases.

The pants won. They were perfect. They sat at the rise of my hip just right. They had a tiny bit of flair at the bottom; Enough to look serious but still feel stylish. At work, I charged up the stairs, my heels clickety-clacking and sat in on my daily eight-thirty meeting with my boss. We wrapped up and collected our things, ready to head down to the big meeting.

She walked around her desk to gather her papers.

She was wearing a skirt.

Posted as part of the PBN Blog Blast for Sk*rt . You can visit my entry on Sk*rt and if you feel powerful, you can vote for me to win stuff. Vote HERE . And while you're visiting, click the LOVE IT button. Or else. Because I'm authoritative and all that.

(F)empowered

Someone made a joke this morning about the 761 reasons they had not to be a jogger. Some of these reasons included the inevitable bad back and the inability to balance a drink in a cup while you do it. Both points are valid and I smiled and chuckled with the group but inside I knew they didn't know.

I'm not a trained athlete but I started running about a year ago. Very very slowly. A blog bullied me into it (and I thank her for it.) Then I gradually built up a little muscle, a bit of endurance, some speed. When the weather turned cold I bought a treadmill. The most expensive, big-ticket-item I've ever purchase aside from my car. My husband predicted it would turn into a clothes rack. Not a chance. I use it almost every day of the week.

Because running makes me feel powerful. Even if I'm chugging along, my face burning up, panting hard as people pass me up the hill, I'm still in it. Running. Up a hill. I've run in the rain. I've run with shorts chaffing the inside of my leg (ouch). I've run on a few hours of sleep. When I am really wiped, towards the end of my route I picture how far I've run to that point without stopping and it amazes me. It becomes my motivation to keep going. It's knowing that you have the ability to go farther when you really want to quit that fuels not just your quadriceps, but your spirit.

I never thought I'd have a blog. My days of thinking I would be a writer had passed. My path went in a different direction. I still write, but not like that. Not the kind that feels satisfying. The writing I do is detailed and succinct and efficient. It's clean and tidy. It's not messy. You don't work up a sweat. You don't push yourself to think about what you are saying; To turn it over and examine it and try it the other way around to see if that's really what you mean. I had missed that.

I started reading blogs. Slowly. One, then another, then another. Then I had a long list I checked each day, sometimes more than once. I appreciated them for many things. For their candor, for their humor, for their grit. Bloggers put it out there. All of it. Stories of big laughs and of shrinking violets and dirty houses and oh-my-god-what-the-hell-have-I-gotten-into and how can I possibly be so in love? I admired them. But they were "bloggers". I wasn't a blogger or a writer, at that time I had a new baby and a ridiculous new hair cut and a couple of pairs of capri sweatpants and I didn't know who I was anymore.

So I thought what the hell. I can do this. If nothing else, just to clear my head. Just so I'd have place to put all my stuff. I didn't have any expectations. I didn't do it to make money. I didn't think anyone would read it. I didn't think it would be interesting to read. Looking back, it really wasn't. But I've flexed a few new muscles, built up a little bit of skill and participated in conversations that before happened only inside my head. Because you can't be a blogger and be alone. My blog doesn't blow the charts off of site meter, but people come here. Women come here, and I in turn, go there.

Because blogging makes me feel powerful. I've thought about stopping. Many of my blog companions who were jumping in around the same time I did have branched off; landed writing gigs, set up review blogs or launched businesses. They are passing me by as I'm still chugging along. But I don't want to stop. When I am stressed and exhausted and generally uninspired, I can read back and see how far I've come and that motivates me to see how far I can go. I have grown out my bad haircut and lost the baby weight and try to only wear my sweatpants on the weekends. 

Blogging has helped me define who I am and who I am not. I'm not a writer. Not a real, bona fide, "writer". But I am a blogger. I don't write for a living, I write to have a life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today is the last day to write a post on this topic - (how) does blogging empower women? (possible variations - and you're encouraged to play around with this - could be: how has blogging empowered you? Is blogging a radical act, for women? Are women rocking the blogosphere? Is the blogosphere rocking you? How and why?) Then send your link to HBM who is offering this contest here.

 

(F)empowered

Someone made a joke this morning about the 761 reasons they had not to be a jogger. Some of these reasons included the inevitable bad back and the inability to balance a drink in a cup while you do it. Both points are valid and I smiled and chuckled with the group but inside I knew they didn't know.

I'm not a trained athlete but I started running about a year ago. Very very slowly. A blog bullied me into it (and I thank her for it.) Then I gradually built up a little muscle, a bit of endurance, some speed. When the weather turned cold I bought a treadmill. The most expensive, big-ticket-item I've ever purchase aside from my car. My husband predicted it would turn into a clothes rack. Not a chance. I use it almost every day of the week.

Because running makes me feel powerful. Even if I'm chugging along, my face burning up, panting hard as people pass me up the hill, I'm still in it. Running. Up a hill. I've run in the rain. I've run with shorts chaffing the inside of my leg (ouch). I've run on a few hours of sleep. When I am really wiped, towards the end of my route I picture how far I've run to that point without stopping and it amazes me. It becomes my motivation to keep going. It's knowing that you have the ability to go farther when you really want to quit that fuels not just your quadriceps, but your spirit.

I never thought I'd have a blog. My days of thinking I would be a writer had passed. My path went in a different direction. I still write, but not like that. Not the kind that feels satisfying. The writing I do is detailed and succinct and efficient. It's clean and tidy. It's not messy. You don't work up a sweat. You don't push yourself to think about what you are saying; To turn it over and examine it and try it the other way around to see if that's really what you mean. I had missed that.

I started reading blogs. Slowly. One, then another, then another. Then I had a long list I checked each day, sometimes more than once. I appreciated them for many things. For their candor, for their humor, for their grit. Bloggers put it out there. All of it. Stories of big laughs and of shrinking violets and dirty houses and oh-my-god-what-the-hell-have-I-gotten-into and how can I possibly be so in love? I admired them. But they were "bloggers". I wasn't a blogger or a writer, at that time I had a new baby and a ridiculous new hair cut and a couple of pairs of capri sweatpants and I didn't know who I was anymore.

So I thought what the hell. I can do this. If nothing else, just to clear my head. Just so I'd have place to put all my stuff. I didn't have any expectations. I didn't do it to make money. I didn't think anyone would read it. I didn't think it would be interesting to read. Looking back, it really wasn't. But I've flexed a few new muscles, built up a little bit of skill and participated in conversations that before happened only inside my head. Because you can't be a blogger and be alone. My blog doesn't blow the charts off of site meter, but people come here. Women come here, and I in turn, go there.

Because blogging makes me feel powerful. I've thought about stopping. Many of my blog companions who were jumping in around the same time I did have branched off; landed writing gigs, set up review blogs or launched businesses. They are passing me by as I'm still chugging along. But I don't want to stop. When I am stressed and exhausted and generally uninspired, I can read back and see how far I've come and that motivates me to see how far I can go. I have grown out my bad haircut and lost the baby weight and try to only wear my sweatpants on the weekends. 

Blogging has helped me define who I am and who I am not. I'm not a writer. Not a real, bona fide, "writer". But I am a blogger. I don't write for a living, I write to have a life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today is the last day to write a post on this topic - (how) does blogging empower women? (possible variations - and you're encouraged to play around with this - could be: how has blogging empowered you? Is blogging a radical act, for women? Are women rocking the blogosphere? Is the blogosphere rocking you? How and why?) Then send your link to HBM who is offering this contest here.