Friday, October 17, 2014
Thursday, October 16, 2014
A few weeks ago, I wrote about the only type of man I consider worth the time of day, as far as marriage is concerned. Today, I finished Mindy Kaling's book, and she totally seems to get what I was saying. Here is how she puts it, much better than I did:
Until I was thirty, I only dated boys, as far as I can tell. I'll tell you why. Men scared the shit out of me.
Men know what they want. Men make concrete plans. Men own alarm clocks. Men sleep on a mattress that isn't on the floor. Men tip generously. Men buy new shampoo instead of adding water to a nearly empty bottle of shampoo. Men go to the dentist. Men make reservations. Men go in for a kiss without giving you some long preamble about how they're thinking of kissing you. Men wear clothes that have never been worn by anyone else before...Men know what they want and they don't let you in on their inner monologue, and that is scary.
Because I was used to boys.
Boys are adorable. Boys trail off their sentences in an appealing way. Boys bring a knapsack to work. Boys get haircuts from their roommate, who "totally knows how to cut hair." Boys can pack up their whole life in a duffel bag and move to Brooklyn for a gig if they need to. Boys have "gigs." Boys are broke. And when they do have money, they spend it on a trip to Colorado to see a music festival. Boys don't know how to adjust their conversation when they're talking to their friends or to your parents. They put parents on the same level as their peers and roll their eyes when your dad makes a terrible pun. Boys let your parents pay for dinner when you all go out. It's assumed.
Boys are wonderful in a lot of ways. They make amazing, memorable, homemade gifts. They're impulsive. Boys can talk for hours with you in a diner at three in the morning because they don't have regular work hours. But they suck to date when you turn thirty.
I'm thirty-two and I finally feel like an adult...That's one of the weirdest things I've noticed about being thirty-two. It's a lot of women and a lot of boys our age. That's why I started getting interested in men...I knew I wanted in the next guy I dated seriously: a guy who wasn't afraid of commitment.
...I'm not talking about commitment to a romantic relationships. I'm talking about commitment to things: houses, jobs, neighborhoods. Having a job that requires a contract. Paying a mortgage. I think when men hear that women want a commitment, they think it means commitment to a romantic relationship, but that's not it. It's a commitment to not floating around anymore. I want a guy who is entrenched in his own life. Entrenched is awesome.
So I'm into men now, even though they can be frightening. I want a schedule-keeping, waking-up-early, wallet-carrying, non-Velcro-shoe-wearing man. I don't care if he has more traditionally "men problems" like having to take prescription drugs for cholesterol or hair loss. I can handle it. I'm a grown-up too.
To all the dating women I know, you know what she's saying. And she's right. Boys are not marriage material. Marry a man.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
On Monday night, Brandon slept in his big boy bed. Neither Steve nor I was ready for it. Truthfully, Brandon has asked to sleep in his big boy bed a few times (OK, more than a few). But I always disregard his request and stick him in the crib. He is two and a half, true, but he doesn't attempt to climb out and the cage is a nice comfort to myself and Steve. He can't electrocute himself in there, pull a bookshelf on top of himself, or roll out of it, for example. Steve has always been a worrier, and I have come to join him ever since the children arrived.
After I laid him in bed, I surrounded him on all sides with pillows, then piled up his stuffed animals too for good measure. I told Steve Brandon was in his big boy bed and he just replied, "no."
"Yes, he is," I answered.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because he asked to go in there and at some point I have to let him grow up."
Steve was immediately up there, rearranging pillows, piling up even more stuffed animals.
Not long after, Brandon fell asleep. So of course, I snuck in there, made sure he was breathing, covered in blankets, and free from harm. Not long after, I saw Brandon's door was open and Steve was in there. "What happened?" I asked, afraid that Brandon had woken up from some night terror involving big boy beds.
"Nothing," Steve replied, "just checking on him."
"He's fine," I admonished, not admitting I had just been doing the same thing.
Today, we went to the store and Brandon picked out big boy underwear. We really are waving goodbye to all the comforts of babyhood - the crib, the diapers, the pacifier. And then today I scrolled through a few 2012 blogs to see just when it was that we transferred Brandon out of his infant carrier and into his first car seat, because Holden is at about that age. When I sent Steve the old blog post, he said it made him emotional, how they grow up so fast. And although I was trying to be the stoic one, we all know that I'm really not that way at all. I kiss Brandon's cheek every chance I get because I know one day soon he will outgrow mama's kisses. It gets me too - not the growing up, per se, but the outgrowing.
Monday, October 13, 2014
I was feeling like pretty hot stuff on Saturday because I ran to the lake and halfway around it, completing seven miles in under an hour. I told Steve afterward, "I would laugh if anyone tried to pass me." Because even though I'm not a true athlete like those marathoners are, I am still prideful and it is always a blow to the ol' ego when you become someone's "roadkill" as they call it in the Hood to Coast.
And then, on Sunday, I told myself, "today is not about speed, but about endurance, take your time, you're in for the long haul." But even so, when I felt someone coming up behind me to pass me, I felt ashamed that some schlub was faster than me. But then, once he passed me and I saw he was an actual Kenyan - a perfect specimen of toned muscles covered in smooth chocolaty skin, wearing just these tiny little nylon shorts, I laughed in spite of myself. If the only person who passes me over the course of ten miles is a Kenyan - a person who comes out of the womb running - then I think I'm doing OK.
During the week I do short and quick treadmill runs. I still keep that post-it note, "Do Better Than Yesterday" to motivate myself and have been venturing into the six- and seven-something mile ranges on my short sprints. It pays off on my weekend outdoor runs. I PR'd in every category on my Nike+ app this weekend. When I started running without stopping to walk, my fastest mile was 9'03" and now I can do ten miles maintaining that pace. It's hard to believe what I can do when I actually give a shit.
I will be a normal person who goes out to eat here and there, drinks her Crane coffees and gets her Lamar's donuts once (or twice) a week, but mostly, eats what her body needs and gets in 30 minutes of exercise most days. I realize now that I didn't eat shitty food and sit around because it made me good; I did it because I felt shitty myself. This is the best I've felt in quite some time. Sweating releases bad energy so much better than chocolate does.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
Sometimes I think what a waste it is to have a perfectly healthy body and not to treat it like that. We use our muscles to climb our own stairs, to wash our dishes, and to transport ourselves from here to there - we stand up and walk just to get to somewhere else where we can stop and sit. We eat shitty food because it tastes good or it's convenient, disregarding what it does to our bodies. We have these amazing machines that we live in every day that can do unbelievable things, and we just use the most basic functions of them.
If I think of all the people who aren't blessed with these healthy bodies - all the people with diseases or disabilities or missing parts - I think of how we without any ailments are living without restrictions and have the health they wish for and what are we doing with it? Eating hamburgers and flipping through the channels. If I were one of them, I would hate all of us. I would be sitting there, confined to my chair, dreaming of hiking a mountain trail or maybe just walking through the neighborhood. And the people around me who are completely able to do what it is I was dreaming of are just sitting around like me anyway. What a waste.
Just like youth is wasted on the young, health is wasted on the healthy. We take health for granted because it's something we've just always had where there are people unlucky who have never had it. Sometimes I guess you have to lose something to realize how much it matters to you. And those of us who haven't lost it just forget it's even there.
I've seen pictures of those marathoners who run with prosthetic legs and think to myself, "they get it." Because they realize what it is like to live without something they once had, and they determine to make the best of what they have now and not to waste it.
We tell our kids to get outside and run around because their bodies need to move and burn off energy. They need fresh air and Vitamin D. But so do we. And while most of us would never let our kids spend all their free time in front of the TV, knowing that a healthy person needs a variety of activities, we can often find ourselves doing the same thing we forbid our children to do. We can spend entire days without doing anything creative or cardiovascular or social. I hate to be a waste. So now that I realized that's what I was, I have stopped being a waste. I'm taking advantage of what I have, because advantages should never be taken for granted.
Monday, October 6, 2014
I am about to finish A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby. Usually when I'm reading, there is a quote that sticks out to me that I want to blog about. But this book is so chock full of them, I just don't know where to start. I found some of my underlines and compiled them here:
There are other ways of dying, without killing yourself. You can let parts of yourself die.
The outward manifestations of an inner combustion are never very directed.
Everyone knows how to talk, and no one knows what to say.
It was kind of liberating, saying what you really wanted, even if you couldn't have it...We all spend so much time not saying what we want, because we know we can't have it. And because it sounds ungracious, or ungrateful, or disloyal, or childish, or banal. Or because we're so desperate to pretend that things are OK, really, that confessing to ourselves they're not looks like a bad move...Surviving in whatever life you're living means lying, and lying corrodes the soul, so take a break from the lies just for one minute.
I had that terrible feeling you get when you realize that you're stuck with who you are, and there's nothing you can do about it.
Telling me I can do anything I want is like pulling the plug out of the bath and then telling the water it can go anywhere it wants.
I've run out of room. I can't see any way forward or back.
You can take the piss out of anyone who's unhappy if you're cruel enough.
The story follows four people who meet on the top of a building they're all contemplating jumping off of. They are all suicidal for different reasons. Yes, the premise sounds very dark, but the book unfurls them as it goes along so you understand what led them to this point. I have never read any book similar to this at all. There are some issues that people don't want to talk about or read or write about, and suicide seems to be one of them.
A long time ago, I wrote down something: "Suicide - thinking about yourself too much or too little." And this books keeps reminding me of that sentence. Those are my deep thoughts on the matter. Now I must go finish this book.
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Since before Brandon was born, I have been planning what we would read together. I love books of all types, even (maybe especially) children's books. I lined his shelves with my childhood favorites - Harry the Dirty Dog, Lyle Lyle the Crocodile, anything by Bill Peet. But there are all sorts of other kids books I never read that Brandon decided to fall in love with instead. And subsequently, I have too. Here are Brandon's top 10 books so far:
I think we have more children's books than some small town libraries. But Brandon and I love them. And of course, I buy them on the cheap. Holden doesn't yet take to books much - he mostly bangs on them or tries to eat them (with the exception of Gobble Growl Grunt). But one day maybe the three of us will have a book club.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
This week I am watching another little guy. He is a few months younger than Holden. Before this week, I have been bothering Stephen, saying, "have we really closed the door on having a third child?" not because I want to have one right now, but because maybe one day I will and there isn't a word I hate more than "never." And I might have even roped Brandon into this madness, by asking him whether he wants another brother or a sister or if he wants our family to stay as it is. And he always responds that he wants a sister. Just six months ago, he didn't want to share me. Now, he has not only acclimated to having a brother, now he wants to try out the other kind of sibling, too. Whether or not Steve and I are willing to admit it, Brandon has quite a bit of pull around here.
It was only five or six weeks after Holden was born that some of us women were talking about whether we planned to have more kids. That was back when Steve and I had agreed that we wouldn't and that I wouldn't even bring up the topic anymore (whoops). That was when Holden's scary emergency C-section was fresh in my mind; the scar still crusted over with that surgical glue that I didn't yet know I could peel off. So I shared that we wouldn't be having more kids. That this was it. Two boys. All we ever wanted. And another woman said she could never say she was done - that she would never again raise up a baby to become a beautiful, happy, adjusted adult. And a few months later, I totally get what she was saying.
Perhaps Steve hoped that with me watching another little one this week, I would go back to our original plan of two and done. That I would be so overwhelmed that I would be listing our jumper and playpen on Craigslist before the week's end. While I'm not saying that watching a third child has made me want another one, I'm not saying it hasn't, either. I do so enjoy him curling his hand around my finger while I feed him. Or the way he cries not because he's hungry or needs to be changed, but just because he wants me to hold him. I do miss the dependence a little baby has on me, the being needed and being of utmost importance. Holden has already outgrown most of this. He has been as independent as he possibly could for a long time now.
What this week has taught me is that I can do it; watch three kids simultaneously, and them all end up fed, rested, and clean(ish) at dinner time. I have long fantasized about children's names, since long before I was pregnant or even dating or out of high school; I could certainly come up with some good options for a third baby. And this time, there wouldn't be any pressure. With both of our previous pregnancies, Steve and I were dead-set on having boys. This time, we could be one of those couples that don't even find out the gender that used to make me so nervous (how can you be so spontaneous and unprepared?!?).
If it was a boy, we would be ecstatic. What boy wouldn't want more than one brother? And we know what we're doing with them (sort of) and have all the correct colors of things for them. If it was a girl, we would be ecstatic. She would be special, standing out in this sea of boys (yes, anatomically I am female, but I have no doubt that by her third birthday she would already be aware of my unwomanliness - she would be appalled by my ashy knees and asking me if it would kill me to put some lotion on). Steve would be such a great father to a girl. He has that perfect dad blend: good example of a man and tenderness that every girl's father should be. I would bawl my eyes out in twenty-some years as he walked her down the aisle. And of course, they would be crying, too.
I'm getting carried away. Now there is a couple decades and an implied fiancé involved when I was really just trying to say that I'm not ready to say "no." Or "yes," but certainly not "no."
"Never say never," was one of my mom's catchphrases when we were kids. It never (old habits die hard) made sense then. I would say something like, "I'm never going to like broccoli" and she would say, "never say never." But in this scenario, it totally makes sense. I think that was one of my mom's other catchphrases - "mothers are always right."
Posted by holly at 10:39 PM