Presenting...

I'm probably not supposed to do this, but since this site is still up and I can still get here...

I am pleased to introduce Owen Gregory.  Born February 10th at 3:26 PM, 9 lbs 3 oz, 21.5 inches.

All Good Things

I'm not good at good-byes, which is why I've avoided this one until the absolute last minute, and also probably why I've almost entirely avoided this blog this month.  Sorry about that.

When I started this blog a year and a half ago, I called myself the "Playgroup Dropout" because "Playgroup Reject" seemed a little too harsh.  Although it would have been a more accurate title.  I had tried to do the playgroup thing, tried to do what I thought the stay-at-home mom thing entailed, and had failed miserably on all counts.  Mia and I did a little program at the library, had one mom friend we hung out with, and otherwise pretty much just stayed home and waited for Chris to show up every afternoon and provide us with a little variety. 

I had a hard time making the jump from corporate flunky to baby flunky.  I felt isolated from my childless friends.  I had one good friend with kids before Mia was born, and I really hate to admit this, but her parenting philosophy is so opposed to my own that I decided early on I did not want my child spending a lot of time around her.  I always have a hard time making friends - taking those first steps are a little terrifying for me - and had an even harder time making "mom friends" since I worried (and sometimes flat out knew) that they were judging me for my parenting choices, for my ratty mom ponytail, for my still squishy belly.

Cutting from then to now, it hardly seems like I am the same person.  Mia and I take classes, we spend time with several wonderful women and their charming children, we are so busy with this thing and that thing that I frequently find myself planning my schedule around the desire to have a couple of hours to just hang out at home and play "doll house" or "Mia cook" or "let's put on mommy's heels and pretend her lingerie is a party dress."  I have even sort of peripherally joined what can only be accurately called a sort of informal playgroup.  Get me, I'm not the Dropout anymore, and I'm not the Reject.

A lot of these changes have to do with me changing as a person over the past 18 months.  I've learned how to be a mom, learned how to be basically unemployed, learned how to be confident in this life and these choices.  I've learned to say yes, my kid slept through the night for the first time at 21 months and still eats nothing but apples and cheese and I don't give a hot damn what you think about that.  I've learned to believe that I am doing the absolute best I can to parent this stunning child with which my life has been graced, and to prepare for the next one, and someone making different choices with their child no longer feels like a personal attack to me.  In short, I guess Mia isn't the only one who has grown up a lot.

And some of this, and in some cases large parts of this, I owe to this blog and to all of you.  You taught me that it is ok to disagree, it is ok to not have a clue what you are doing, to be confused, to get angry, to question and doubt yourself.  It is ok to not be the perfect parent, it is ok to mess up today and try to do better tomorrow, it is ok to hate playgroups with the fire of a thousand suns, and it is ok to find a playgroup you actually like.  So thank you, all of you, for spending this time with me, for talking to me, for challenging and supporting me.  I've enjoyed it, and I hope that you have too.

(On an administrative note, I am not going to continue this blog and I have decided to give myself a bit of maternity leave before looking too hard for another gig.  However, I do hope to republish this blog elsewhere so that I can update those who care to know on where I end up next and also for one final update when the fetus makes his grand debut.  ClubMom has graciously agreed to redirect this domain as soon as I figure out where to have them point it, so if you are so inclined, check back later this month and you should end up at the new joint.)

My Mother would Not Approve

I'm 32 weeks pregnant.  And uncomfortable.  And cranky.  And you know all those rude people who ask if you are sure you aren't having twins or say you must be about to pop?  Yeah, I've started explaining to them, sometimes in great detail, just how rude they are.  Which oh, I know, is just evidence of my own poor manners, but honestly I just can't take it anymore.  Sure, I am obviously Quite Pregnant at this point, but I am certainly not in a condition that should inspire total strangers to start boiling water and scrounging up old towels.  And so today, when the checker at the grocery store (and not my usual grocery store, mind you, but a place I very rarely go) said to me "Haven't you gone yet?  That's going to be a Christmas baby!"  I walked over to her and said, in the sweetest tone of voice I could muster, that if my child was a Christmas baby he would be seven weeks premature and that it was a terribly cruel thing for her to wish on an unborn child.  I also explained, again in the sweetest, kindest voice ever created by mankind, that commenting on my girth was incredibly rude and that she may wish to consider being a bit less insulting to her pregnant customers.

I didn't wait around to see how long it took her to close her mouth.

(Sorry Mom, you raised me better.)

Confession

I've been trying to think of a way to tell you this.  I was going to ease into it, break it to you gently, but have decided instead to just do it, just tell you.  We'll get it all over with right at once and then we can, as needed, take a few minutes to adjust to the news.  To come to terms, etc.

I seem to have, all unintentionally and perfectly innocently, joined a playgroup.  And I'm really enjoying it.

Grumble

You know what I hate about housework?  Well, everything, actually.  But at least it used to last a while.  Back when Chris and I were both working and eating out a lot more and spending only a few hours a day in our house, most of those sleeping, we just didn't manage to dirty things up all that quickly.  Certainly it helped that the cleaning lady came every other week, but the house held up pretty well in between.

In the last two days I've cleaned my kitchen and swept, mopped and vacuumed the entire main floor of my house, and if you walked in right now (which, please don't because I'm in my jammies and it isn't a pretty sight) you wouldn't be able to tell.  Mia just seems to leave a constant trail of crumbs and dirt in her wake and I think the only solution is to just stop cleaning until she leaves for college.

Ho Ho Ho

Mia met Santa for the first time today.  This is the first year we've even mentioned Santa to her and also the first year I thought there was a small chance that she could sit on his lap for 30 seconds without totally losing it.  When I told her where we were going, she lit up like a firecracker.  She spent the entire car ride delivering a monologue of all the relevant facts she has collected thus far about Santa: North Pole, reindeer, big white beard, etc.  She then announced that Santa might be wearing pants.  I told her that Santa had better be wearing pants or we were turning right around and coming home.

When we were in line, she spent half an hour detailing her plan to ask Santa for a bumblebee toy.  (This is consistently her answer for what she wants from Santa, we have no idea what she's talking about, kid is in for a real disappointment.)  The only catch was that she told me in no uncertain terms that she was not going to sit on Santa's lap.  She was willing to sit on my lap or willing for me to sit on Santa's lap while she watched from the sidelines, but had no interest in doing it herself.

When the time came, I plopped her down and ran as fast as I could out of camera range, cooing comforting words at her the entire time.  Santa gave her a lollipop, which I thought would win her love and affection forever, but not so much.  She didn't cry, and she didn't scream, but she did spend the entire (very brief) interlude yelling "I want my mommy!" at the top of her lungs.

Once I had rescued her she was fine, and she's madly in love with the picture, so I think the experience was worth securing proof that Mia has met Santa Claus in the flesh.  Also, I let her eat the lollipop, so that helped.

If you are inclined to make visits to Santa yourself, how did your kids react the first time?