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By Emma, on February 26th, 2012 As I was reading bedtime books to Linnea tonight—a favorite part of her rather elaborate nightly routine—I was struck right between the eyes by the clock of life. On the inside covers of A Gift-Bear for the King were illegible letters of the alphabet, squiggly hearts, and stick figures that lack bodies. Linnea saw the drawings and shouted, “I did that, Mommy!” In truth, I did that. More than thirty years ago (gulp).
Lately, it seems as though I am constantly stunned by the passage of time. “What?” I think, “It’s going to be March next week?” Or, “Seriously? I’m going to be 35?” Recently, my mother-in-law brought over a $25 savings bond that someone had bought for Josh in 1977, presumably for his first birthday. Now it sits perched by our front door in its patriotic envelope—navy blue with fireworks and the words “A Share in America”—waiting to be taken to the bank or wherever you redeem such things.
Parenthood certainly punctuates the warp-speed nature of life. Going over my mental to-do list today, I realized that not only does Linus need to have his nine-month well child visit, but I also need to schedule a three-year appointment for Linnea. Her birthday is in a couple weeks, and it’s hard to imagine that three years have already passed since that slushy grey day when I met the delightful nymph who regularly looks at me and says in earnest, “You’re my favorite mommy.”
Whether I like it or not, time is slipping through my fingers, and I constantly ask myself whether I’m doing what I can. Am I crawling around on the rug enough with the kids? Am I being the best version of me I can be? Am I remembering to lock eyes with my love every day? No matter how quickly the days and months succeed one another, there are always moments to relish. The key is to recognize their beauty in real time, to breathe slowly and let the sounds and images of the people I love fill my chest to its brim.
If I can remember to stop and do this regularly, the passage of time becomes less alarming, for I am doing it—I am really living.
*****
I Want to Know
- Do you obsess about the passage of time like I do?
- How do you remind yourself to be present in the moment?
If you enjoy reading memoirs, you should pop over to my other blog, Divorced Before 30, to enter for a chance to win a copy of Deborah Feldman’s new bestseller, Unorthodox.
Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”
By Emma, on February 19th, 2012 My husband’s increasingly intense love affair with brewing beer has had some unexpected benefits. Drawbacks as well, to be sure—he spends a ridiculous amount of time cleaning bottles, shopping for supplies, reading books about beer, and marketing the “burgeoning brewing society or club or organization or some damn thing” known as Subzero Brewing. But back to the benefits. First of all, Josh’s partners in this venture are some of my favorite guys: my brother-in-law, Brian; my brother, Andy; and my dear old dad, Pete. I get to see a lot more of them than I used to. Second, we’ve established a very cool ritual known as Brew Day.
Brew Day occurs every two to four weeks and is held at my house. Friends and family who are interested in huddling around cauldrons of boiling water in my driveway brave whatever weather Minnesota happens to dish up. Children chase each other across the front yard, the dogs make a worse commotion than usual, and passersby crane their necks, most likely thinking, “What in God’s name is that stainless steel contraption?”
Music plays in the background, the garage television displays football or golf, and beer geeks old and new sample ales from tiny tasting glasses. Brewers in hats, gloves, coveralls, boots, and parkas measure, mix, stir, pour, and hone their recipes, all whilst educating their guests on the magical properties of yeast and hops. The scent that wafts from the batch in progress is like honey-wheat bread baking in the sunlight. If you inhale slowly through your nose, perhaps you can smell it.
I mainly hold down the fort in the house, where there could be anywhere from two to six children playing at any given time. Cousins work on sharing, toddlers grind play-doh into the rug, and parents sit around shooting the breeze. For me, what’s beautiful is that once a bunch of people gather, I can’t really get anything done around the house. And as long as I’ve had a chance to clean and grocery shop earlier in the weekend, that’s a good thing. Ironically, Brew Day has become a sabbath of sorts.
Like any good gathering, Brew Day involves food. Sometimes, it’s as simple as calling our favorite pizzeria, but we’ve also had fare as fancy as pork tenderloin and as appropriate as grilled brats and burgers. Today, I started working on a soft pretzel recipe, and as the brewers were wrapping up their batch at the end of the day, we stood around in the driveway, dipping warm pretzels in mustard, melted butter, and queso dip.
I know that Brew Days are a ton of work for the brewers, and in truth, they do wear me out a bit too, but I have to say—these simple days of playing, eating, and spending time together are the stuff of future good-old-days tales. “Those were the days, kids,” we’ll say to our offspring as they roll their eyes. “Those were the days.”
*****
I Want to Know
- Do you have any weekend rituals that don’t involve household chores?
- For what purpose do you and your friends and family like to gather?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”
By Emma, on February 12th, 2012 Now that the baby is sleeping well, I have no excuse. It’s time to redirect my attention to Linnea for some go-big-or-go-home potty training. She will turn three in a few weeks, and ditching the diapers by then would be a splendid gift for all involved. Considering how uptight I can be, I’ve been surprisingly nonchalant about this. Over the past year and a half, we’ve gone through a few false-start attempts at potty training, but the sticker charts, pull-up diapers, and big-girl underpants had little effect.
Last Monday, one of my coworkers reported that her daughter, who is younger than Linnea, had learned how to use the potty over the weekend. No problemo. Hearing this made me feel lazy. I suspect that if I put in the effort (like I did with Linus’ sleep training), Linnea would catch on quickly. She’s a smart girl. But I’ve had so much on my mind lately that it’s seemed easier to change a few diapers than to play mind games with a preschooler.
I had every intention to go for it this weekend, but it didn’t happen. Linnea woke up crabby on Saturday morning, so I chose the path of least resistance, which was delightful. By Sunday afternoon, however, I felt guilty that another weekend had come and gone with no progress. I encouraged Linnea to try, and she spent a good amount of time sitting (and singing) on the potty while I finished making dinner. “This isn’t so hard,” I thought. As soon as she crawled down from her porcelain throne (without any success), I suggested that she leave her pants off so we could get her on the potty again quickly. I went back to cooking, and minutes later, she came running into the kitchen yelling, “I peed!”
Naturally, she had peed on her bedroom floor and left a trail of urine-soaked footprints across most of the house. We have a ways to go, but as soon as I get in the game mentally, I’m sure our girl will take to the potty like a natural. But I wonder: Am I just putting this off because it’s a pain in the butt? Or, am I afraid that my baby is growing up?
*****
In other news, I spent my weekend running for Sherry, reading the quite entertaining comments on my recent Huffington Post pieces, going out for dinner with my man, and eating too many donuts.
I Want to Know
- Do you have any great potty-training tips or stories?
- Is there something that you’ve been putting off?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”
By Emma, on February 5th, 2012 I’ve got nothing, friends. There’s not a thing to complain about. My sarcasm has run dry. The baby is sleeping like a champ, and while my body isn’t quite in sync with sleeping through the night, I am getting more sleep than I’ve had in eight months. It’s undeniable—I am ridiculously happy. My only regret is that my peaceful, easy feeling may not make for great blog fodder.
I worked the sleep training like nobody’s business this week. Once I decided to go for it, a switch inside of me flipped. Suddenly, I could handle the crying. I felt confident that painful nights would make way for pleasant ones, and I was right. By the end of the week, Linus was putting himself to sleep in less than five minutes.
It’s not that the baby was ready for this. Hell, I wasn’t ready for this, either. I guess if I learned one thing this week it’s this: Sometimes, you have to do something that makes you feel like shit to get to the good stuff. Sometimes, you need to go for it, even when you don’t think you’re ready.
As I packed up the bassinet this weekend, I felt like my heart might burst. Our little guy has left my side of the bed to share a room with his big sister, and while I know it’s a positive step, I miss him. But he’s been sleeping through the night, and this morning, he woke up giggling in his crib. You can’t beat that.
Meanwhile, our dear girl Linnea is my hero. She has welcomed her new roommate with open arms and slept through hours of crying this week. Plus, she continues to amuse me on an hourly basis. During our family Super Bowl party tonight, I asked if she wanted to dance with me during Madonna’s halftime performance. She stood up on the sofa wielding a bowl of potato chips and shouted, “No! I don’t want to dance. Let’s throw chips at someone instead!”
Okay, so Josh and I have plenty of parenting challenges ahead of us.
By Emma, on January 29th, 2012 For right now, both of my children are sleeping—in the same room, at the same time. Linnea clutches a plush Minnie Mouse in her bed lined with at least a dozen blankets. Linus, zipped snugly into his pale green sleep sack, fingers a satin-piped blankie in the crib across the room.
For right now, the house is silent. Josh is playing volleyball in a school gymnaseum somewhere, and the dogs are lounging like the people they think they are on our living room furniture, breathing slowly through little black noses. I hear nothing but the hum of the refridgerator and the click of my keys.
For right now, I am optimistic. Sleep training is progressing, and while it still pains me greatly to hear Linus cry for long stretches, I think he is getting the hang of it. And I am getting the hang of distracting myself from the crying with cleaning or ice cream (flavor of the day: cookies ‘n’ cream).
For right now, nobody needs me. I can just sit here and store up my courage for the night shift, or maybe I’ll indulge in a bath. I didn’t get half of what I wanted to accomplish done today, but for right now, that’s okay.
I Want to Know
- Did you finish your to-do list this weekend? (Clearly, I did not!)
- What do you do when you find yourself with a pocket of uninterrupted time?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”
By Emma, on January 22nd, 2012 It’s been a typical week in the Wilhelm household. You know—a little vomit, a headless rabbit, and a trip to the ER. Laughter hasn’t been optional, because if I didn’t laugh, I’d probably cry, and what’s the fun in that?
I believe I’ve covered the fact that my seven-month-0ld baby, Linus, doesn’t sleep well. For months, I suspected food sensitivities, so I manipulated the hell out of my diet to produce the blandest milk possible—cutting out all eight of the major allergens—but to no avail. So this week, on my mom’s birthday, I threw in the towel and ate pasta, bread, cake, and ice cream. It was fantastic. And the baby still isn’t sleeping. Ta-da!
Then I got the big idea to try another sleep book. The plan seemed straightforward enough. I was supposed to employ “graduated extinction,” where you let the baby cry for five minutes, check on him, then let him cry for ten, check, and on to fifteen minutes. You get the drift. So I decided to try this last Saturday night. Josh was out of town on one of those men-in-the-woods cabin trips, but my dad was staying over to help with the kids, so while he entertained Linnea (going on 3), I attempted to tame the baby.
Now, the best thing about this new sleep book is that it actually told me to hide in the kitchen and eat ice cream while the baby cried. So I heeded this advice solemnly, standing at the counter feeding myself peppermint ice cream while reading how good this would be for the baby in the long run, how important it was to help him learn. The baby wailed and wailed, and I crept into the room at the appointed intervals to let him know that I hadn’t really abandoned him—I just wasn’t going to pick him up. I only went half-way into the room so he couldn’t see me (again, following instructions).
After 45 minutes of crying, my soft-hearted dad had had enough. “Go pick up the boy!” he said. And I was ready, too. Well, imagine my surprise when I went to scoop up my hefty bundle of a boy only to find that he was covered—and I mean covered—in his own vomit. Now, I’m not sure whether the crying made him vomit or the other way around, but let me tell you, I felt like Mother of the Year. This discovery was followed by more projectile vomiting and a lot of laundry. The new sleep program is on hold until I can get to the store for more ice cream.
Later in the week, we had a filthy, filthy pet emergency. Around 11 p.m., I finally got the baby back to sleep and nestled into his bed, and the rest of the family was already asleep. However, I couldn’t get our two dogs to come inside from the bitter cold, so I knew they were up to something. They were. Juna, our husky-collie mix, finally came in, ran downstairs, and left some friendly deposits for me. When I opened the back door again, Jack, our scrappy little guy, was proudly sitting behind a freshly beheaded rabbit.
Seconds later, I stood in the doorway of our bedroom and ordered Josh to wake up. By this time, the baby was crying again.
“Would you rather rock the crying baby, or clean up dog shit, dog puke, and a headless rabbit?” I asked. “Your choice.” Nice way to wake up, right?
My dear husband couldn’t articulate a response—he needs a little time to warm up from a deep sleep—so I handed the baby to him and went to find some garbage bags and cleaning supplies. Who knew that pink, gelatinous rabbit guts would freeze to concrete—like a tongue to a flagpole—in the dead of winter? Not I. Nor did I care to learn this lesson.
We wrapped up the week with a crash involving a toy grocery cart that was caused by decidedly reckless driving on the part of Linnea. She was dressed in a fancy red dress, all revved up about going to a party, and before we knew it, we were sitting in the ER getting a cut near her eye cleaned up. Kudos to the ER staff, as we were on our way to the party within 45 minutes of our arrival, well bandaged and accompanied by a balloon that read “Star Patient.” Indeed.
With a week like that, folks, I am reminded that life never ceases to be amusing. In the midst of chaos, I continue to reach for that favorite mug and fill it with a piping hot beverage—so far, no alcohol involved. I am committed to my winter intention of letting my thoughts, dreams, and goals percolate, though I do have one new goal for the season: no more headless rabbits.
*****
I Want to Know
- What kind of shenanigans were you and your family up to this week?
- Do you have any pets who like to leave “gifts” for you?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”
By Emma, on January 15th, 2012 This week, I attended a quarterly “refresh” session for a mom’s group that I’ve been part of for more than two years. During the course of the evening, we did some journal exercises meant to help us set an intention for the rest of the winter. I found myself in a foreign position—I didn’t know what I wanted or needed. There are several areas of my life that I’d like to focus on, but I simply don’t have the time to make major changes right now.
As I reported a few weeks ago, I don’t have any resolutions for 2012. I have a list of things I’d like to do or experience—most of them fun and relaxing. So as I tried to set an intention for the winter season, the words “peace” and “pace” kept coming back to me. While I usually charge full-steam ahead like I’ve got ants in my pants, that just doesn’t feel important right now. I am remarkably sleep-deprived, and yet I am, for the most part, enjoying the ride that life is delivering these days. Piles of dirty diapers, gummy baby grins, and whispered bedtime stories. Weather-defying exercise followed by the heartiest of comfort foods.
So my intention for the winter? To let things percolate. Sure, I have goals brewing at the edges of my consciousness. Yes, at some point I will step up and start going after them. But right now, what seems important is to give myself time to let those dreams develop at their own pace, to let them seep slowly and become more delicious over time.
At the mom’s group, we were asked to choose an “anchor” to help us focus on our intention. Mine? A beautiful handmade mug that was given to me long ago by one of the most loving, patient women I’ve ever known. Whenever I am feeling anxious, frustrated, or not good enough, I am going to toss in a tea bag or load up a pile of marshmallows on a sea of cocoa. For me, this winter season is about letting things be, letting things come in their own time. Letting ideas percolate until my intuition says, “yes.”
*****
I Want to Know
What are you letting percolate these days?
Do you have a physical object that you use as an anchor of sorts?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”
By Emma, on January 8th, 2012 It’s Sunday night, and while most people are watching football, reading a good book, or bathing their children, there’s a scientist in a lab somewhere trying to cure a disease that you or someone you love a) had, b) has, or c) may have in the future. The scientist gets calls in the middle of the night and drives bleary-eyed to the university to work with a team of medical professionals to transplant organs. Organs! The scientist’s vocation is life-saving, but not without cost.
The scientist checks voicemails during date night, misses his wife’s holiday party more often than not, and tends to subsist on caffeine and ramen-type substances while stuck at the lab. And he’s certainly not alone. There are countless other doctors, nurses, and researchers just like him—people who push their bodies and brains to the limit in pursuit of medical breakthroughs. The drugs, devices, and procedures that will answer the prayers of perfect strangers.
My scientist—the tall, good-looking father of my children—worked too much this week. His weekend was virtually non-existent, but as usual, he didn’t complain. And while his nightmare of a schedule frustrates me at times, what can I say? He’s doing something that matters, something for which I’m sure we’re all grateful. So thank you to my favorite scientist and the people like him around the world. It’s sometimes a thankless job, but your personal sacrifices will not be in vain.
*****
I Want to Know
Are there any medical professionals (or other “on-call” types) in your life?
What medical breakthrough do you most hope to see in your lifetime?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”
By Emma, on January 2nd, 2012 My lengthy holiday vacation did not go according to plan. There really wasn’t much of a plan in the first place—simply to enjoy time with my family, to watch lots of movies, and intentionally NOT to set any lofty goals for myself (which of course I’m prone to overdoing). Still, it’s safe to say that it wasn’t what I hoped it would be.
I won’t go into details, but my hard-earned PTO was spent at Urgent Care, the emergency veterinary hospital, and in the laundry room. My almost-three-year-old got her first set of x-rays (no fracture, thankfully), we dealt with a “both-ends” stomach bug, the baby MUST be teething (but so far, no teeth to validate that hypothesis), and both kids have ear infections. Sure, I did a lot of lounging in my pajamas, but the vibe around here was less than stellar, and I admittedly let myself spiral into a funk.
One of the hardest things about being a mom is that it sometimes feels like there’s no one to take care of YOU. “What about me?” you find yourself asking. “I feel like hell, too, but the show must go on.” You may even find yourself saying this, internally or loud and clear, with dramatic flair. It’s not that my husband doesn’t care about me, but let’s face it—he’s a GUY. A guy who has a tendency to be a little out of touch emotionally (by female standards, anyway) and who is currently obsessed with all things beer- and brewing-related.
Maybe part of the problem was that I was feeling emotionally NEEDY at precisely the time that my husband was feeling needy in his own right—in need of time to recharge the batteries, to dig into a project with gusto. What happened was inevitable. What happened was that we squabbled about really stupid shit like DOG POOP MANAGEMENT. So part of my vacation was spent stewing about that and how he JUST DOESN’T GET “IT”/ME. Happy Holidays, right?
Thankfully, we are on the same team once again and I am feeling much better. I highly recommend some high-end hot chocolate and a little “afternoon delight” (not necessarily in combination, but that might be okay, too) to help work out the next ridiculous spat you have with your partner.
Nonetheless, I am still feeling the weight of never-ending streams of snot and a cumulative sleep shortage, and I think that the children can sense when I am feeling vulnerable. As I was trying to put Linnea to bed last night, she took great delight in the exercise of purposefully testing my patience.
“Do you want Mommy get angry?” I asked in my best stern voice. She thought about that quietly for a minute, then nodded.
“Be a monster, Mommy!” she exclaimed.
“No problem,” I thought. “No problem.”
As I enter 2012, I am thankful for this perfectly imperfect life. These are the good old days, right? I am working on a list of things I’d like to do this year, carefully selecting only activities and experiences that are actually within my control, i.e., YES to “go ice-skating,” NO to “win the lottery.” The children will get well, my dear husband and I will forge ahead together, and I will accomplish small things that make me happy.
*****
I Want to Know
What do you hope to accomplish in 2012?
Were you sick over the holidays, too? Was it miserable?
What kind of stupid stuff do you fight about with your significant other?
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”
By Emma, on December 19th, 2011 As I was driving home from the grocery store yesterday, Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” came on the radio. “You can’t beat a classic,” I thought, tired of the pop versions of holiday favorites that make the airwaves these days. And as I listened to the lyrics, I realized that I’m dreaming of more than just a white Christmas.
Chances are good that it will be a brown Christmas in Minnesota this year—a thought that doesn’t sit well with me—but I’ll take something else in return. How about a drama-free Christmas? Or a debt-free Christmas? Perhaps a Christmas in which people who feel sad find peace, those who are grieving feel comfort, and those who are fighting diseases turn the corner.
It’s not that I’m depressed these days. It’s just that as an adult, it’s impossible to avoid the darker side of the holidays. You can’t overlook the fact that for many people, this time of year falls short of magical. So yes, I’m dreaming of a white Christmas—but also a simple Christmas, just like the ones I used to know. I caught a glimpse of it in my daughter’s eyes this morning as we toured “A Day in the Life of an Elf,” an animated holiday display at the big Macy’s store downtown.
As we took in the elfin scenes, Linnea stood in quiet awe. The magic was tangible. These were the elves she had read about, the reindeer from the videos. And Santa Claus was just around the corner. My darling girl spoken nary a word, and as we led her toward Santa, she oscillated visibly between terror and glee. She was unable to verbalize the items atop her Christmas list—a toy car and something for baking cakes and cookies—but I could tell that she was happy.
My childhood memories of Christmas are simple. Trying to stay up all night to catch a glimpse of the jolly old elf. Singing in the church nativity program in a homemade angel costume. Perusing the shelves of the small-town Variety Store for the perfect gifts for my parents. Sledding down the monstrous hill at the college at alarming speeds. And the cookies. Ah, the cookies. Enjoying gingerbread men, chocolate-covered cherry cookies, and other family favorites, with no concept of nutrition.
I don’t think it’s possible to have a ___ (insert desirable quality here) Christmas, just like the ones I used to know, but in the absence of perfection, I can be more appreciative of the here and now. I can be thankful for the love, for the people, and for the imperfections. I can be thankful for the whole messy lot of it, challenging as some of it may be. And most of all, I can be thankful for the gift of two small children through which to live vicariously. It’s the perfect excuse to watch A Charlie Brown Christmas again.
*****
If you are struggling this season, I wish you peace, love, and comfort. If you are happy, I hope you’ll go above and beyond to spread the good cheer! If you don’t celebrate Christmas, then I wish you the happiest Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and/or Festivus.
Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”
I Want to Know
Do you have vivid childhood memories of the holidays?
What kind of Christmas are you dreaming of this year?
Is it going to be a white Christmas where you are?
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