This past Sunday a friend's baby was fussing in church while she tried to get a bottle ready for him. I scooped him up and that sweet child quit fussing long enough for his lunch to be prepared. As I cuddled that tiny guy I realized why I'm thinking about getting a rabbit -- I'm baby hungry.
Just take a wee moment to imagine the look on Dave's face when I told him that. Yeah. My baby factory is closed for business but there's something about holding a tiny warm body that snuggles into you that touches a deep place in me. My youngest is so tall now that elbows and feet spill out of my lap no matter how we try to arrange things. My oldest now spends at least a half an hour in front of the mirror before going to school now.
But where does that leave the rabbit when my hormonal urges ebb?
Freya: [as we were in the car, running errands, and she's pretty good at keeping herself entertained]
Mom, how do you say Casa Bonita in Spanish? Casa, Casa, Casa Bonita! (breaking into a little chant)
Wednesday, November 07, 2012
Friday, November 02, 2012
Grudgingly liking the dogs
The dogs I'm looking after have been getting nicer. The little one that bit me looked ashamed of himself when I went in the next day. He wagged the tail that hung between his legs and let me pet him for several minutes. I started to look in their brown eyes and they licked my face which was a particularly slimy kind of love but it was love nonetheless. So now I'm starting to understand how people could get close with dogs but I definitely don't want to get one. Rabbit gets another couple of points toward becoming a possibility though, since a little chink in my heart has been made.
Science projects. Boy oh boy. This year Bren had a great project that came together really well and Claire's was disorganized and disoriented. I'll get pics when they bring them home today, but Claire was up until at least 11:30 getting her data printed out. She was stressing about details so it was a good opportunity to express that at 11 pm what we're going for is a passing grade as opposed to a blue ribbon. Telling that girl to dial back on the detail is like... well, telling anyone on my side of the family to dial back the detail -- it just doesn't compute with us.
The other day I sent Dave to the store for a couple of things and he brought back the couple of things and a 23 pound turkey. So it has been thawing for a bit, got brined for a bit, (if you use that recipe, use only 1 cup of sugar) and now it's driving everyone crazy as the aroma slowly builds in this house. I have a hard time criticizing impulse purchases like this, especially when smells of ginger, oranges, and garlic are all wafting about and I know that real cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes are also on the docket.
I stopped taking Prozac for a while over the summer, did well for several weeks, and ended up having a huge emotional crash shortly after the husband came home from the hospital. So I'm back on the pills (my nurse practitioner was very kind and didn't scold me too much for doing it without her advice) and getting back into therapy tomorrow. I'm having a very hard time getting back into the therapy since my emotional capacity for meaningful relationships is fairly limited, meaning I just get plain worn out from sustained, meaningful connection. I don't like that about myself, but this is what I get to work with. I can only take so many days of visiting even people I love best, and only so many social engagements in a month. Now therapy is using up a portion of my emotional endurance and I'm so reluctant to go back that it's taken me over a month to get that first appt scheduled.
My therapist is the honorable Dr Trent Claypool who has the credentials of someone with a long, white beard but has the countenance of a youth. The beard he experiments with doesn't make him look any older. He's a couple of years younger than me but can reference experience and knowledge, and uses communication and reflective listening skills that often astound me. I've been to a few therapists in my time and this is the first guy who I feel is listening to me on a really deep level, and is communicating with me in such an authentic way that the emotional honesty is sometimes as uncomfortable as it is healing. The appointments are always helpful and I have an extremely hard time going to them. Therapy is work, and he's earning every single penny when my crazy walks in the room, I tell you.
Science projects. Boy oh boy. This year Bren had a great project that came together really well and Claire's was disorganized and disoriented. I'll get pics when they bring them home today, but Claire was up until at least 11:30 getting her data printed out. She was stressing about details so it was a good opportunity to express that at 11 pm what we're going for is a passing grade as opposed to a blue ribbon. Telling that girl to dial back on the detail is like... well, telling anyone on my side of the family to dial back the detail -- it just doesn't compute with us.
The other day I sent Dave to the store for a couple of things and he brought back the couple of things and a 23 pound turkey. So it has been thawing for a bit, got brined for a bit, (if you use that recipe, use only 1 cup of sugar) and now it's driving everyone crazy as the aroma slowly builds in this house. I have a hard time criticizing impulse purchases like this, especially when smells of ginger, oranges, and garlic are all wafting about and I know that real cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes are also on the docket.
I stopped taking Prozac for a while over the summer, did well for several weeks, and ended up having a huge emotional crash shortly after the husband came home from the hospital. So I'm back on the pills (my nurse practitioner was very kind and didn't scold me too much for doing it without her advice) and getting back into therapy tomorrow. I'm having a very hard time getting back into the therapy since my emotional capacity for meaningful relationships is fairly limited, meaning I just get plain worn out from sustained, meaningful connection. I don't like that about myself, but this is what I get to work with. I can only take so many days of visiting even people I love best, and only so many social engagements in a month. Now therapy is using up a portion of my emotional endurance and I'm so reluctant to go back that it's taken me over a month to get that first appt scheduled.
My therapist is the honorable Dr Trent Claypool who has the credentials of someone with a long, white beard but has the countenance of a youth. The beard he experiments with doesn't make him look any older. He's a couple of years younger than me but can reference experience and knowledge, and uses communication and reflective listening skills that often astound me. I've been to a few therapists in my time and this is the first guy who I feel is listening to me on a really deep level, and is communicating with me in such an authentic way that the emotional honesty is sometimes as uncomfortable as it is healing. The appointments are always helpful and I have an extremely hard time going to them. Therapy is work, and he's earning every single penny when my crazy walks in the room, I tell you.
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