Preludes And Nocturnes

Malcolm went on his first road trip with his mom and his grandma - it was lots of fun. We drove the three hours to Nakusp and visited with family there. We stayed at a little cute motel, went to music in the park, and walked around main street looking into all the little shops. We were there for two days and had a wonderful time. Malcolm was wonderful on the road, and he slept the whole way there and back (missing out on his first and second ever ferry rides). I didn’t get many pictures out and about because sometimes I’m bad at that, but I do have a bunch of random pictures to share, nonetheless.

Here is Malcolm as “the ghost of Christmas past”

Now he is getting ready for the trip. And not feeling too thrilled to start.

We’ve arrived and Malcolm is exhausted from the three hour sleep.

But later that night he wakes up and has some time just looking darned cute on the bed.

Not pictured: going to the park, going downtown, getting ice cream (well, that was me), visiting with cousin Patty, visiting with Auntie Doreen, going out for dinner, going for a walk by the elementary school, ferry ride, various spots along the highway… etc.

Oops.

(Edited to add: yeah, this is long. And sorry I haven’t blogged for a while, I was totally sick with, I think, a gall bladder attack)

I have this crazy fear of people seeing my new house. Why? Well because it is rather messy. And disorganized. And I, my friends, am organized. I have always maintained that I am organized only because I am, actually, incredibly disorganized. Can you follow that. The conversation usually runs along the line of:

“oh jenn, you are so organized with all your schedules for completing your thesis and binders for tracking journal articles.”

“no, I am a spaz who would never find anything if I didn’t do this. If left to my own devices I would be sitting in the middle of a pile of papers, dirty dishes, and unwashed knickers.”

Substitute all sorts of things for that first line. My ongoing lists, my organization of my work files, my spreadsheets comparing different strollers along the lines of prices, features, and colour options…

Now take that second line - my greatest fear - and make that my current reality. I just feel like my house has become an incarnation of my true disorganized internal self. The rooms full of boxes half unpacked. The piles of baby stuff in the living room. The never really emptied laundry baskets of clothes.

Anyone who knew me in my teen years knows I’m not a tidy person. I am a cluttered person. I have cluttered thoughts, cluttered shelves, cluttered purses of tic tac containers with only one tac left. I struggle against my impending towers of clutter daily. The move down from PG where I went from a 3 bedroom house with full basement to a two bedroom apartment saw the clutter build (in my mind). Although there is an argument to be made that it wasn’t really clutter, it was just the reality of moving from a larger home to a smaller apartment while also merging households with my husband. And now we’re in a house and it hasn’t gotten much better despite the basement (empty and waiting for us to find the perfect renter) and the third bedroom (beeb-a-rama). Add to this the one week in new house and then beeb makes his debut just a smidge early and we have the perfect recipe for Jenn going mental with the mess.

But I’ve been pretty good. I’ve gone a bit zen on the messes and whatnot.

Mostly.

It is just when I think of someone coming over and seeing my nice new house that I kinda freak. I worry about being judged. And I think part of what I struggle with is the difference between gross messes/unhealthy clutter, normal homes that are lived in, and The Perfect Home ™.

I don’t understand how some of my friends have those homes: those perfect homes. You know, those homes without books stacked around the living room and laptops with papers on the dining room table. Homes with coordinating furniture and things that all fit in their places. Homes with bowls of things in the middle of the dining room table that aren’t even real things like balls made up of willow sticks or something. And vases full of glass beads or glass rods or, um, stuff. And shelves with so few books on them that there is room to put some books flat and leave a space and then have a nice single piece of pottery. All the furniture matches - throughout the whole house! There is a single accent colour in the living room and everything is either the neutral or the accent.

I really saw it when I watched Juno. You know the difference between the adoptive home and Juno’s home - that is how I feel. And I don’t want that perfect house, I’ll never have it so why want it? But I still struggle with feeling that people might judge me when they see my house. And I don’t know why there would be this value put on the one vs the other… I don’t judge those who have those kinds of homes, I don’t judge those who don’t - unless it is me.

Cat hair rolls in tumbleweeds down the floor as you walk from the living room to the kitchen. Some kitty kibble might greet you there where Rupert has knocked the bowl over. It doesn’t sit there long enough to rot; I don’t have a smelly dirty house - but it isn’t vacuumed or swept every day, and right now it isn’t even done every week. I have so many beautiful quilts and knitted blankets and pillow covers from far away lands bought/knitted/hand-crafted by people I love. I love them, I wrap myself in them, I display them in a jumble of colour and textures at the end of the couch. But they are not monocromanic in the slightest. And they all live in my living room at the same time.

What is funny is that if I think of homes I have known growing up - my home, my friends’ homes - that are similar to this, I remember them as being so comfortable and cozy and loving. I grew up expecting homes with comfy couches waiting to have the various quilts pulled over feets and legs as we all snuggle down with popcorn to watch a (vhs) movie. There should be a cat sleeping on the quilt when you go to pull it down. There should be a half-read magazine on the mismatched end table where you go to put your glass of pop. Somewhere on the main floor someone has a spot set up where they are writing/painting/knitting/crafting/sewing so there are piles of books, paints, textiles, feathers, papers. I loved those houses. And when I am in the right mood, I love the thought of being one of those houses.

So why is it that I stress about being that other house? I think part of it is having a new house. I think another part is all the home decorating shows. And I think, now, there is more stress put upon having these coordinated homes. I know as a teen I rolled my eyes at fancy rooms nobody was allowed to go in unless there was company. Not to say I don’t like a neat home, at times, but this is different. And not to say I don’t like a decorated home, I love decorating and I love beautiful things - but again this is something different. This is a fear. This is a strange belief about a “perfect” house.

And this isn’t about having a baby. Trust me, I’ve struggled with this before Malcolm arrived. Now, thank goodness, I just have a valid excuse.

I will now share some pictures of my home - when we first moved in and from this week:

(please note the box of huggies is, in fact, a box of cloth diapers)

And I won’t leave you without some beeb (boob pic at the end - you’ve been warned):

It is 5:30am and I’m feeding my 11 week old son. He is fussing on and off of the feed. He wants to eat.. he doesn’t want to eat. I’m getting slightly miffed as I really want us to get back to sleep; I could use another solid two hours.

Then he stops eating, looks at me, scrunches his face and lets out a loud, guttural “UUURRRRRRGGGGG” - soon followed by the mother of all wet farts. He doesn’t let up. He grunts and poops loud enough to make any caveman proud.

I burst out laughing. No matter how tired I was and how much I wanted to get back to sleep, this was just too funny.

And the content look on his face when he is done, his satisfied smile and his grin up at me as he waits for the praise he feels he is due… priceless.

Yep, one end of him to the other - with a pee thrown in for good measure (and he then spit up on himself while I was cleaning.. which made me laugh too at that point). Then as I lifted both his legs and pushed his knees to his chest to clean the rest of his bum, he poo’d again. It was like lifting his legs up and back like that operated a soft-serve ice cream machine.. or maybe a slushy machine. I laughed so loud at that one I was thinking Jim would hear me upstairs.

Anyone find that after they clean up something like that they feel like they still keep smelling poo? I’m sitting here at the computer (as we are now way too wide awake to let mommy get back to sleep), and I have to keep checking my hands and my arms and my shirt because I feel that there MUST be more poo on me still.

Of course there are those times where you discover there IS still poo on your hand… like when I was out at my friend’s place at the COUNTRY CLUB. Yeah, I wasn’t feeling out of place enough already without a smear of baby poo on the back of my hand.

*sigh*

Pictures are not from this morning’s poofest.

Yesterday I cleaned both upstairs bathrooms. I timed myself and it took just over 30 min; this included the tub/shower, both toilets, sinks, baseboards, and cabinets.  Then I vacuumed the main floor rugs (side note: I want a dyson as my mom has one and it kicks ass.. then I just realised this morning we have the rough work done for central vacuum which I think would then cost less than a dyson and actually be quite handy with all the stairs here).  Then I started work on the office and promptly dropped some rather large framed art from the top of the spare closet onto the top of my foot, edges down.

You know that moment. That moment where the pain hasn’t started, but you can tell by the impact that it is coming.  When you look down and only see scrapes but no blood, but you know the blood is coming.  I hobbled over to the chair cursing like a trucker and sat down just in time for the pain and the blood.

My foot is a total mess. Holy sweet jesus that hurt!  I think I was being punished for being too productive.  Or possibly being too productive while sleep deprived.

Yes yes, now how about a picture of the beeb! This is from today while he was having a sleep after grandma came over so MOM could have a sleep.

Any Canadian readers who wouldn’t mind helping me with a coupon thingy, could you reply to this post and I’ll email you at the address listed for your comments (that one field you fill in is visible to moi).

Many thanks!

Because she is away right now and needs more pictures of the beeb.

Malcolm is really starting to enjoy his playmat. Rupert has been a very good kitty lately (well, aside from what he did in the basement sink, but we don’t need to talk about that right now.. or his scratching the couch… okay, he’s been really good with Malcolm). And Rupert has been sharing his playpen with Malcolm and his playmat with Malcolm. We watch him carefully, but he actually seems to understand on some level that Malcolm is people.  Which, all in all, gives up some hope for ongoing relations.

All the while Chuck watches on from the safety of The Enterprise (his space ship aka the laundry basket).

And then Malcolm tells stories to the animoos on the playmat while kicking up a storm.

That should keep grandma happy for a few more days…

Well, Malcolm got his pokes today and I’m glad that is done with for right now. We don’t go back until Sept now.

When charted next to other 10week olds his weight (12lbs 14oz) and height (22.5inches) were in the 25th and 5th percentile, respectively.

But when I asked how he ranked in the 6 week group, the nurse (very very nice, we’ve seen her before on the home visits and really liked her) was all “oh right! he doesn’t look like a preemie so I forgot that he gets grouped by his due date!” and we found him to be in the 95th and 50th percentiles instead.

So he is smaller for being 10 weeks, but bigger for being six weeks… which, using the logic of the three bears, makes him just right!

My baby is getting big! He goes for his 2 mos shots this week, and I’ve been told it will be harder on me than on him. As much as I’m not looking forward to this, I am so glad we live in a country where all this takes is a phone call and a quick trip across town. My sister, Julia, had been back in Canada last month and we talked a lot about her experiences working for Doctor’s Without Borders these past two years (and this coming year - she just left Vancouver last week for her third placement in Papua New Guinea).

*everyone wave to Julia*

We talked about women who would walk for days to bring their children to the clinics to get their shots. We talked about what it would be like to live somewhere - to give birth to a child in a country- where you might have watched family members die because of these diseases. Add to this that our dad had polio as a child and that some of what he goes through with his parkinson’s could be linked to having survived polio… my dad had his second brain surgery six weeks ago for his Parkinson’s. This week they activate the implant he now has in his brain to see if it can give him more mobility. He was diagnosed when he was 39 years old, so needless to say he is still far from being an old man while dealing with advanced stages of parkinson’s. They don’t know how much the polio influences all this.

And so, I will take my baby to get poked this week.

On to happier things, we got a new mobile as the children’s store had a 45% coupon for any one item in the store. Please enjoy the pictures!

Here is the part where he is getting big (although please note that my mom is tiny)

Wearing one of the diapers I made him and getting snuggles.

Watching his mobile and making fun noises. This was taken about 20 minutes ago.

Holding grandma’s hand.

Awwww!

I have six minutes left to make this post. Please not the beeb is wearing his new soaker made by auntie Leone. These series of pictures are very much beeb telling a story while on his changing table. There is a bear mobile above him and he tells them many stories with cooing and ahhhing and gurgles and arm motions. Many many arm motions. Usually about a penguin who goes swimming:

*arm swing, swimming motion, arm swing*

And catches some fishes *this* big:

*arms go out wide in a sudden movement*

This arm movement is also what he does if he gets surprised, things he is falling, or hears a loud noise. It is his “holy shit” arm fling.

If home during the day watching tv, there are only two options for who you might be. Either you are a mom or you are a loser needing a job.  If you are a “mom” this means you either have a baby (diapers, baby cds, baby food) or you want a baby (pregnancy tests). If you are a loser, you need to go back to school. This includes training to be a medical tech or a parole officer. And the way they tell you about going back to school is rather hardcore.

“you’re sitting there with all your excuses. It costs too much, I’ll phone next semester, I don’t have time. But when are you going to get your life in order? When are you going to take that first step towards a promising future?”

When I forget that I’m home because of the consumerism thread (diapers, diaper cream, band aids, and easy healthy meals for my family in one bag), I start thinking that they are right and I really do need to get back to school and get my life in order!

What HAVE I been doing??

What ARE my plans for the future??

OHMYGOD!!

In other news, I have been using the BumGenius 3.0 and LOVING them!! Those with my prefolds and my fitted diapers I made have meant that I’ve used maybe 3 or 4 ’sposies in the last month. I don’t know how much money I would have spent on disposable diapers over the past month, but I spent about $60 in the three weeks I was home and mostly using store bought diapers with a only few of my cloth each day.

I hope to buy myself a new BumGenius every few months so I’ll slowly build up my stock. Hey, I would have been spending that money on store bought ones, right? (I might be missing out on the idea of saving money with this option..)