My posting will be light (read: nonexistent) for the next week. We're off to Maine again and our Internet access will be patchy (read: nonexistent). Hopefully I'll return with lots of stories and pictures to share. See you in August!
---
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Welcome Back, Ferber
We started sleep training Savannah last night.
She's a good sleeper, but had some picky habits about how she would fall asleep. Like only with a pacifier. While being held. And rocked. And patted. For half an hour. Or maybe more.
It was wearing us out. And because she's already a little mama's girl, her falling asleep issues were making it really difficult for me to get any time away. (And you know I need my time away.)
With Chelsea, sleep training was salvation and sanity. Before training, all three of us would be in tears every night, trying to get her to bed over and over again, never knowing when the night would be over.
When we finally did it, she cried for 90 minutes the first night. Every minute of which was sheer torture for me. I had to distract myself with TV, painting my toenails, and reading motivational note cards (don't laugh! I needed them!) all at once.
I have come full circle now that I'm writing about sleep training on my own blog, because it was during Chelsea's middle-of-the-night crying jags when I first discovered blogs. I was up one night Googling something like "baby doesn't sleep" and came upon an old post on dooce. When I first read it, I didn't even understand what it was. An ad? An article of some sort? Chelsea had plenty of sleepless nights, giving me enough time to explore dooce's archives and finally figure out what a blog was.
It was an eternity before Chelsea went to sleep without tears. Anything and everything would trigger a setback and require us to start up training all over again: travel, recovering from an illness, switching to a big girl bed. Now I just count her among the ranks of most kids whose bedtime refrain is always, "But I'm not tired!"
Savannah took an hour to get to sleep last night. And then she slept FOR NINE GLORIOUS HOURS. She woke up wiggly and happy and smiley. And what did I use to distract myself from her crying? A blog, of course.
---
She's a good sleeper, but had some picky habits about how she would fall asleep. Like only with a pacifier. While being held. And rocked. And patted. For half an hour. Or maybe more.
It was wearing us out. And because she's already a little mama's girl, her falling asleep issues were making it really difficult for me to get any time away. (And you know I need my time away.)
With Chelsea, sleep training was salvation and sanity. Before training, all three of us would be in tears every night, trying to get her to bed over and over again, never knowing when the night would be over.
When we finally did it, she cried for 90 minutes the first night. Every minute of which was sheer torture for me. I had to distract myself with TV, painting my toenails, and reading motivational note cards (don't laugh! I needed them!) all at once.
I have come full circle now that I'm writing about sleep training on my own blog, because it was during Chelsea's middle-of-the-night crying jags when I first discovered blogs. I was up one night Googling something like "baby doesn't sleep" and came upon an old post on dooce. When I first read it, I didn't even understand what it was. An ad? An article of some sort? Chelsea had plenty of sleepless nights, giving me enough time to explore dooce's archives and finally figure out what a blog was.
It was an eternity before Chelsea went to sleep without tears. Anything and everything would trigger a setback and require us to start up training all over again: travel, recovering from an illness, switching to a big girl bed. Now I just count her among the ranks of most kids whose bedtime refrain is always, "But I'm not tired!"
Savannah took an hour to get to sleep last night. And then she slept FOR NINE GLORIOUS HOURS. She woke up wiggly and happy and smiley. And what did I use to distract myself from her crying? A blog, of course.
---
Friday, July 25, 2008
She Got Cabbage Fever
I was a child of the 80s. The question is not, "Did you have a Cabbage Patch doll?" It is, "How many Cabbage Patch dolls did you have?"
Oh, lots. Lots and lots.
I remember when they first came out and I thought, "Ew. Who would want one of those fat-head, chubby-cheeked, butt-ugly little dolls?" (Yeah, I had a third-grade potty mouth. Jealous?)
Within weeks, I was begging for them. All of them. ANY of them.
My mom said, "Why couldn't you have asked for one a couple of weeks ago? When the shelves were full of them? Now that you want one, they are impossible to get!"
She tried. And we couldn't get one.
So I did what any self-respecting, potty-mouthed, future-blog-writing third-grader would do: I wrote the manufacturer a letter. I think it was Coleco (yes, thank you, Wikipedia). I told them how much trouble I was having finding a Cabbage Patch doll and that it would be oh so lovely of them if they would just go ahead and send me one. The redhead. With the blue eyes.
Yeah, that didn't happen.
Eventually, the stores got them back in stock. And I got more than my share of those dolls. My classmates and I brought so many to school that Ms. Starkey had to make a "doll daycare" for us to leave them in, lest they take over the building.
Now that I'm a mom, my girls are still too young to beg for the latest hot toy. But I know what I'll give them when they do: paper and a pen. Or a twenty-year old collection of pre-owned, fat-head, chubby-cheeked, butt-ugly little dolls.
Oh, lots. Lots and lots.
I remember when they first came out and I thought, "Ew. Who would want one of those fat-head, chubby-cheeked, butt-ugly little dolls?" (Yeah, I had a third-grade potty mouth. Jealous?)
Within weeks, I was begging for them. All of them. ANY of them.
My mom said, "Why couldn't you have asked for one a couple of weeks ago? When the shelves were full of them? Now that you want one, they are impossible to get!"
She tried. And we couldn't get one.
So I did what any self-respecting, potty-mouthed, future-blog-writing third-grader would do: I wrote the manufacturer a letter. I think it was Coleco (yes, thank you, Wikipedia). I told them how much trouble I was having finding a Cabbage Patch doll and that it would be oh so lovely of them if they would just go ahead and send me one. The redhead. With the blue eyes.
Yeah, that didn't happen.
Eventually, the stores got them back in stock. And I got more than my share of those dolls. My classmates and I brought so many to school that Ms. Starkey had to make a "doll daycare" for us to leave them in, lest they take over the building.
Now that I'm a mom, my girls are still too young to beg for the latest hot toy. But I know what I'll give them when they do: paper and a pen. Or a twenty-year old collection of pre-owned, fat-head, chubby-cheeked, butt-ugly little dolls.
--------------------------------------------------
This post inspired by the Parent Bloggers Network Blog Blast and the Hasbro Toy Event.
The Hothouse
I recently finished reading A Nation of Wimps: The High Cost of Invasive Parenting by Hara Estroff Marano. Marano explores the current upswing in "helicopter parenting" and its many damaging effects on children, parents, and our society.
Some of the effects on the "over-parented" children are obvious: kids whose parents shelter them in the extreme grow into adults who lack all sorts of emotional and practical skills. Some effects are less obvious, but equally harmful: anxious parents deprive their children of adequate play time, opting instead for Little League or Italian classes or even just staying at home, safe from imagined hazards.
Marano explains how easy it is for parents to fall into this trap. When we wait longer to have children and have fewer of them, they become overly precious to us. Those who over-parent do so with only the best intentions: to protect their children from danger, to provide their children with opportunities.
In the end, these parents create stunted, damaged adults. Adults who overburden university counseling centers. Adults who fail their frustrated employers.
I do not believe I am a "hothouse" parent. Marano cites an example of a mother of a 4-year-old who had never been away from the child for more than a couple of hours. I sent my 2.5-year-old to California for a week! And was happy for the break!
But I can understand how easy it is to let your child become your life. Especially when that child is your first. Especially when you stay at home with that child.
Marano writes about parents being hyper-concerned with their OWN children and uninterested in children in general. She warns that instead of working to create unfair advantages for our kids, we should try to improve conditions for all kids.
Is this blog a reflection of my own selfish obsession with my children? Look at me! Look at my kids! Aren't they smart/cute/hilarious?
Or is it my attempt to hold on to some semblance of my adult self? To have a place where I can focus on things that I like. A place where I can be a parent, yes, but also a wife, a daughter, a reader, a writer. To avoid becoming a helicopter/hothouse/snowplow parent. To have a life outside of my children.
The latter. Please let it be the latter.
Some of the effects on the "over-parented" children are obvious: kids whose parents shelter them in the extreme grow into adults who lack all sorts of emotional and practical skills. Some effects are less obvious, but equally harmful: anxious parents deprive their children of adequate play time, opting instead for Little League or Italian classes or even just staying at home, safe from imagined hazards.
Marano explains how easy it is for parents to fall into this trap. When we wait longer to have children and have fewer of them, they become overly precious to us. Those who over-parent do so with only the best intentions: to protect their children from danger, to provide their children with opportunities.
In the end, these parents create stunted, damaged adults. Adults who overburden university counseling centers. Adults who fail their frustrated employers.
I do not believe I am a "hothouse" parent. Marano cites an example of a mother of a 4-year-old who had never been away from the child for more than a couple of hours. I sent my 2.5-year-old to California for a week! And was happy for the break!
But I can understand how easy it is to let your child become your life. Especially when that child is your first. Especially when you stay at home with that child.
Marano writes about parents being hyper-concerned with their OWN children and uninterested in children in general. She warns that instead of working to create unfair advantages for our kids, we should try to improve conditions for all kids.
Is this blog a reflection of my own selfish obsession with my children? Look at me! Look at my kids! Aren't they smart/cute/hilarious?
Or is it my attempt to hold on to some semblance of my adult self? To have a place where I can focus on things that I like. A place where I can be a parent, yes, but also a wife, a daughter, a reader, a writer. To avoid becoming a helicopter/hothouse/snowplow parent. To have a life outside of my children.
The latter. Please let it be the latter.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Now If I Just Don't Sit Down. Or Eat Anything. Or Breathe.
Behold!
I have found the missing jeans!
And? THEY FIT!
So I had to lie back on the bed and suck it in to get them zipped. And yes, the result was an unsightly muffin top. And technically they're so tight I can't really walk in them... BUT THEY FIT! Ha-hah!
I have found the missing jeans!
And? THEY FIT!
So I had to lie back on the bed and suck it in to get them zipped. And yes, the result was an unsightly muffin top. And technically they're so tight I can't really walk in them... BUT THEY FIT! Ha-hah!
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Click-Blocked
In case you never noticed, I've got me some Google Ads over on the right side of the screen. Now here's how they work: Google magically matches up the ads based on what I write about, because presumably, if you are here reading this, it must be because you are so deeply interested in what I'm writing about, yes?
After I wrote about our trip to Six Flags, the Google Ad was:
Thomas Toddler Bed!
Design your own Thomas Nursery!
Click here for more Thomas crap than you ever dreamed of!
I saw it and thought, "Hey! I would like some more Thomas crap, I mean, stuff! Maybe they have one or two things that the super Thomas emporium in Thomastown did not have!"
But wait. I'm not allowed to click my own ads. That's part of the deal. Google sends me a penny (or some fraction thereof) any time a visitor to my blog clicks on one of the ads. (Disclaimer: I'm also not allowed to suggest that you might enjoy clicking on my ads. Or encourage you to do so in order that I get some Google pennies in the mail. I'm just explaining here, ok?)
So, I don't click the ad. No Thomas crap for me.
Then I wrote about what we should do before leaving Boston, and Google blared:
64 Boston Attractions!
Museums, Excursions,
Trolley Tours, Historic Sites!
For 1 Low Price!
Hey! I want to see that! I want to pay 1 low price! But alas. Still not allowed to click my own ads. *sigh*
When I wrote about Tim Gunn's book, Google started to piss me off:
Little Black Dress
Dresses that Fit & Flatter You.
Get $25 off plus...
(Why am I typing this? If you just look over there, it's probably still there.)
Hey, Google! Here's the problem with your ads: No one is visiting this blog because of their deep and abiding love of Thomas, Boston attractions, or Little Black Dresses. They are simply here to humor me. Or keep track of how ginormous my husband's facial hair is getting. The only person interested in all of those things is... oh yeah, that would be me. Ah, the Googlicious irony.
After I wrote about our trip to Six Flags, the Google Ad was:
Thomas Toddler Bed!
Design your own Thomas Nursery!
Click here for more Thomas crap than you ever dreamed of!
I saw it and thought, "Hey! I would like some more Thomas crap, I mean, stuff! Maybe they have one or two things that the super Thomas emporium in Thomastown did not have!"
But wait. I'm not allowed to click my own ads. That's part of the deal. Google sends me a penny (or some fraction thereof) any time a visitor to my blog clicks on one of the ads. (Disclaimer: I'm also not allowed to suggest that you might enjoy clicking on my ads. Or encourage you to do so in order that I get some Google pennies in the mail. I'm just explaining here, ok?)
So, I don't click the ad. No Thomas crap for me.
Then I wrote about what we should do before leaving Boston, and Google blared:
64 Boston Attractions!
Museums, Excursions,
Trolley Tours, Historic Sites!
For 1 Low Price!
Hey! I want to see that! I want to pay 1 low price! But alas. Still not allowed to click my own ads. *sigh*
When I wrote about Tim Gunn's book, Google started to piss me off:
Little Black Dress
Dresses that Fit & Flatter You.
Get $25 off plus...
(Why am I typing this? If you just look over there, it's probably still there.)
Hey, Google! Here's the problem with your ads: No one is visiting this blog because of their deep and abiding love of Thomas, Boston attractions, or Little Black Dresses. They are simply here to humor me. Or keep track of how ginormous my husband's facial hair is getting. The only person interested in all of those things is... oh yeah, that would be me. Ah, the Googlicious irony.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Time Wasters
Three reasons why my carpet is so dirty:
Gosselins Without Pity
This blog is devoted to the rights and interests of the kids on Jon & Kate Plus 8.
BSYTYCD
Blogging So You Think You Can Dance. 'Nuff said.
Project Rungay
Two queens going on and on and on about Project Runway. Plus pictures! And video!!
Hmmm... I sense a theme here. Who knew I was such a sucker (and pimp, apparently) for blogs about reality TV? Go enjoy, and I dare you not to spend altogether too much time at these sites.
Gosselins Without Pity
This blog is devoted to the rights and interests of the kids on Jon & Kate Plus 8.
BSYTYCD
Blogging So You Think You Can Dance. 'Nuff said.
Project Rungay
Two queens going on and on and on about Project Runway. Plus pictures! And video!!
Hmmm... I sense a theme here. Who knew I was such a sucker (and pimp, apparently) for blogs about reality TV? Go enjoy, and I dare you not to spend altogether too much time at these sites.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
