Busy bee

Boy.
Have I ever been busy this summer.
I had wanted to post this picture as proof that my child does indeed do things that are totally against my wishes (she's not always the angel that you normally see, her little horn buds are just below skin level). She did this when I brought her in to work with me one day; as such we've since gotten her daycare schedule back in place.

On playing hooky

I received a telephone call yesterday afternoon from Rosemary's daycare saying that she had a fever of 102 degrees and I better get my butt in there to pick her up.
I promptly drive over to get her (teething, so a fever is normal) and bring her to my studio to give her some of that repulsive red sticky poison that she rejects immediately and which finds itself on whatever clean white clothing is within arm's reach. What's that called? Oh, Tylenol.
I was informed that she would not be able to return until she is fever-free for 24 hours; which would be Friday, most likely. So we decide to take the morning off on Thursday and do some random stuff together.

We load up a really nice walker that I had purchased at Target in May. She has clearly moved beyond it developmentally (who knew she'd be walking independently at 10 months anyway) and which she's used maybe four times - all of which prompted a total meltdown at being set into a device that she could neither chase the dog in nor bust up furniture with because our bungalow house is quite small and navigation is tricky for a toddler (and for an adult with a third glass of wine who's misplaced her eyeglasses, I hear).
Paid 40 bucks for it and just sold it to a child's resale shop for 7.

I dazily cruise around the store with my shopping cart while Rosemary is babbling about something incoherent (did she just say, 'iced tea'?) and scratching my head in disbelief that I was just paid less than $10 for a brand new piece of child equipment (damn you), I pick up this book and buy it (thus giving even more money to this stupid store that just ripped me off). I start to read the opening pages at the multitude of red lights on our way home (no apologies to the snot in the red Jeep who was behind me this morning at SR 26 and 52 and honking like an insane person, by the way).

If I get a minute of free time, I'd like to read it in it's entirety in the next couple of days as the secret of a happy child is something I just gotta know; because I've been foolishly acting like it was chocolate ice cream before dinner and, gosh, do I feel dumb.

Having done it three times, it's now a habit

For the last week or so I've been sliding into this bizarre routine of swinging by the drive-thru window of Wendy's for a small frosty (I hear it's made of soy, which I don't really believe), stopping the car somewhere (Friday it was in the parking lot of the state tax office) and sharing it with Rosemary.

Then upon entering the house proclaiming, "This is not frosty on her shirt", when it very clearly is just seems to crack me up.

Family camping 101

The family (dog, babe, husband) and I spent three days and two nights at Shades State Park recently with several friends and three campsites to accomodate the pack. This being Rosemary's first camping trip, we spent most of the week prior to the event researching family tents via the internet and local shops.
Our previous tent had been of a small two-person, lightweight backpacking variety, which was perfect for our 60 mile trek though the Washington mountains a few years back. Ready to purchase a new sleeping abode, we confidently strolled into Sportman's Warehouse (there isn't actually a reputable outdoor store here for hiking and the like, to my dismay; but, hey, if you want guns and reloading gear, they'll hook you up) the night before our trip and were ready to shell out the cash for a 4 person tent. After looking around the tent area for several minutes and a few too many uncomfortable glances at photos on the oversized bulletin board of local folk with bloody deer and turkeys in the back of their pick-ups, we noticed that they were out of the smaller sized tent and we were promptly offered the larger one. Some discussion ensued.

"A 6-person tent for two and a half people, and maybe the dog if she hasn't spent too much time in the creekbed smearing the decay of animal carcasses into her hide? Seems a little large to me."

"Come on, we'll grow into it. How big can it be?"

We purchased the tent; and after setting it up at the campsite and having to stand in the poison ivy ten feet away with tent poles that extended to an embarassing length, I'll still say that I very much prefer an air mattress with fitted sheets and room to stand over pumping and filtering a mud puddle for drinking water and pooping behind a tree.

Mother is a verb

My first mother's day will be spent outside as much as I can stand; planting flowers, avoiding picking up dog poo, hiking in the woods, not weeding.

This Just In: necessary edit!

At risk of being pummelled by overworked mamas everywhere, I must interject and say that we will NOT EVER be meeting at Chunky Cheese.
That is all.

Startin' a Mama's Group. Are You In?

So due to the disappointing number of hip mama's groups (mainly, monthly get-togethers and sanity support for new and experienced mamas), I've decided to do a bit of my own organizing.

If you're a mama and would like to participate, post a comment with your thoughts (and/or send an email) and we'll get things rolling in the new year.

I'll get things started and say that I'd like to meet the first Wednesday or Thursday of every month from 6:30-7:30 or so at a location yet to be determined (something informal, a rentable meeting room or a kid-friendly, inexpensive restaurant, etc); we can discuss the direction of the group at that time. When spring arrives, we can meet up for outdoor events (walks, parks, hiking, you get the idea).

Let's do it.

Cool.

'How Do I Look In This Hat?' or 'What Day Is It? I've Been Awake Since Sunday.'

I'm lovin' this motherhood thing. Seriously.

I've never really been much of a mall-rat (well, except for that one summer with my mom when I couldn't get enough of The Limited and their uber-contemporary chrome and glass store displays); but, believe me, when there is a newborn involved, anything that makes you feel like a normal woman and not just a walking breast, you gotta get down with it.

So we're (me, Rosemary and her daddy) strolling through the mall via LensCrafters (my obsession with the perfect pair of eyeglasses continues. Why is it so damn difficult to find a pair of black-framed slightly upturned cat eye frames that don't look like I'm going to a Mardi Gras party? Pisses me off). Anyway, after spending over an hour trying on frames (Prada? D & G? Armani? Are you fuckin' kiddin' me? It'd be a cold day in Maui before I'd lay down $300 for frames, despite how desperately the sales clerk stroked my ego by telling me how 'Hollywood' and 'modern' I looked in them), we head on over to the mall pizza spot (complete with framed photos of the customary b&w shots from 1973 of open-shirted Guido and Tony holding a hand-tossed pizza and looking like they finished doing laps at the corner Rollerama to the 45 of Billy Joel's 'Movin' Out'). Then off to Old Navy to take a peek at their baby section, as Rosemary is in dire need of some sleepin' clothes and I'm attempting to clothe her in as many 'non-pink' items as possible (brown? blue? bring it on. I'll deal with the gender identity issues later).

It's gonna be a long winter.

Good Christ Almighty

Well, jumping Jesus.
It's been ages since my last post.

Flowers have come and gone in my yard (I view the seasons and overall passage of time in terms of which flowers are in bloom, ridiculous, I know) and the leaves are a' changing. As we head into my very least favorite time of year (winter, ick) I've decided to get the blog churning again.

First and foremost, my beautiful daughter was born in mid-September.
Rosemary Autumn is an absolute joy and I couldn't be more in love with her adorableness and sense of wonder. I couldn't wait to kiss her little feet immediately after she was born and I gotta tell you that, thus far, motherhood is everything I had hoped for (my opinion is likely to change in about 14 years) and the sleepless nights will be merely a memory soon enough; so I'm trying to appreciate even the difficult aspects of raising a newborn (diaper rash, sore boobies, nighttime feedings, adjusting my previously selfish schedule to allow her to come to work with me, did I mention sore boobies?). Anyway, she is joyous and will provide years of easy conversation and amusement.

Isn't she a peach?