- What are my sheets made of?
- How is he sleeping through this?
- Is she finally sleeping? No? Why is she not sleeping?
- If I started singing it when she first woke up, I wonder if I would have finished all the verses of "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall?"
- Could we take out that wall in the kitchen and put in a breakfast bar?
- What is my favourite word?
- Is partial insanity from sleep deprivation a good defense for murdering my husband because he is sleeping so peacefully while I am never going to sleep again?
- How many pairs of shoes do I have?
- What is my least favourite word?
- Why do we count sheep? Why not goats? Is it because their creepy rectangular pupils will give us nightmares?
- Why did I think about goat eyeballs?
- If I ever do sleep again, will I have nightmares about goat eyeballs?
- Who was the first person who tasted Marmite and thought "Hey, this will be a tasty snack?"
- And then who decided to make a vegetable version?
- Why did I stop sleepwalking?
- Do I still sleepwalk and they aren't telling me about it?
- Do I have an accent?
- Why do all those things I used to be afraid of at night still influence the way I sleep?
- What will we have for supper?
- Why is she not sleeping?
13 May 2013
Questions I ask myself at 3 AM when the baby won't sleep
9 May 2013
This Week I was...
Reading... 1982 by Jian Ghomeshi. It's two weeks overdue. I am a terrible borrower. My apologies to the Annapolis Valley Regional Library. The book is great, I just don't have time. Any tips other moms/busy ladies have on reading while wrangling toddlers would be appreciated. Both by me and the library.
Watching... North & South. When I started watching it, I immediately thought of my roommate from university, and so I promptly sent her a text telling her all about it and to hurry up and watch it too, and this is the conversation that followed:
She is right about two things: Mr Thornton IS a dream. And it IS her fault that I didn't know about this gem of the BBC until NINE YEARS after the fact. Now that I am through with publicly shaming her oversight, maybe you should go watch it too. Have you heard? Mr Thornton is a dream. Possibly dreamier than Mr Darcy. Possibly. As an I aside, this particular North and South should never ever be confused with the 1985 Civil War miniseries starring Kirstie Alley and Patrick Swayze, because despite its all-star cast and the fact that Patrick Swayze circa 1985 was pretty dreamy himself, it just is not going to be the same.
Listening to... The Lumineers. I think I'm late to the game on this one, but considering that most of the music I'm listening to lately involves cartoon characters (more Backyardigans than Gorillaz, in case you were wondering), I think I'm just about right on time.
Knitting... with a crochet hook. Well, I'm crocheting, okay? It's part of my never-ending quest to avoid knitting that afghan that was supposed to be a wedding present for a marriage that is nearly one year old. It's mostly so embarrassing now that I can't bear it. So I'm crocheting endless granny circles out of scrap yarn with the idea that eventually I'll put them all together and make... an afghan. Is this ironic?
Cooking... this cake for the Management's birthday. It speaks for itself.
Watching... North & South. When I started watching it, I immediately thought of my roommate from university, and so I promptly sent her a text telling her all about it and to hurry up and watch it too, and this is the conversation that followed:
Listening to... The Lumineers. I think I'm late to the game on this one, but considering that most of the music I'm listening to lately involves cartoon characters (more Backyardigans than Gorillaz, in case you were wondering), I think I'm just about right on time.
Knitting... with a crochet hook. Well, I'm crocheting, okay? It's part of my never-ending quest to avoid knitting that afghan that was supposed to be a wedding present for a marriage that is nearly one year old. It's mostly so embarrassing now that I can't bear it. So I'm crocheting endless granny circles out of scrap yarn with the idea that eventually I'll put them all together and make... an afghan. Is this ironic?
Cooking... this cake for the Management's birthday. It speaks for itself.
On Shepherding a Free-Range Baby
Dear Mama,
I like grass. I'm glad we thought of it.
Best,
The Management
The first time I put her out in the grass with bare feet, she spent fifteen minutes trying to lift both feet off the ground at the same time. And though she was clearly uncomfortable, I left her there until the temptation of the car in the driveway was too much to bear and she made a break for it, her little legs pumping across the yard.
Maybe I was mean to let her suffer for so long, but one of my favourite things about summer is being barefoot - I don't wear socks from May to October, and yes, I am aware that pushes the boundaries of "summer," especially in Nova Scotia where we had winter up until last week - and it's a love I wanted to pass on to her.
The Drummer and I have been very intentional about raising a 'free range' baby. We let her go where she wants, when she wants. We let her choose the toys she wants to play with. There are no baby gates in our house and no collection of toys hidden away to rotate out when we decide to. We have routines, of course, and if I let her choose what she ate at each meal it would be all apple sauce, all the time, but we tend to let her operate within our parameters as she likes. We want her to learn about her world without the constraints that a limited adult imagination can place on a child, and we want her to figure out what she loves without feeling pressure to follow in our footsteps.
(As a disclaimer: this isn't to say that we don't participate in her life, but we generally allow her to take the lead and we follow along offering a helping hand instead of leading the way ourselves.)
After that first day, playing in the grass became exciting. She likes to run her hands along the top of it (yeah, we need to mow the lawn, what of it?) and she likes to wriggle her toes into the ground if she happens to find herself standing still long enough to do so. She squats down to look at bugs or pick up leaves and she hates it when I try to wash the dirt off her soles when we come inside. She kicks the dandelions that have gone to see and laughs when the white fluff gets caught between her toes.
I guess the point I'm trying to make is that even though we've wanted her to develop her own interests, I've realized that sometimes it doesn't hurt to shepherd her a little bit more. Teaching her the delights of running outside barefoot has opened a whole new world of things that she loves to do - things that she wouldn't have known about if she hadn't spend that first quarter-hour, trying to levitate off the lawn.
I like grass. I'm glad we thought of it.
Best,
The Management
The first time I put her out in the grass with bare feet, she spent fifteen minutes trying to lift both feet off the ground at the same time. And though she was clearly uncomfortable, I left her there until the temptation of the car in the driveway was too much to bear and she made a break for it, her little legs pumping across the yard.
Maybe I was mean to let her suffer for so long, but one of my favourite things about summer is being barefoot - I don't wear socks from May to October, and yes, I am aware that pushes the boundaries of "summer," especially in Nova Scotia where we had winter up until last week - and it's a love I wanted to pass on to her.
The Drummer and I have been very intentional about raising a 'free range' baby. We let her go where she wants, when she wants. We let her choose the toys she wants to play with. There are no baby gates in our house and no collection of toys hidden away to rotate out when we decide to. We have routines, of course, and if I let her choose what she ate at each meal it would be all apple sauce, all the time, but we tend to let her operate within our parameters as she likes. We want her to learn about her world without the constraints that a limited adult imagination can place on a child, and we want her to figure out what she loves without feeling pressure to follow in our footsteps.
(As a disclaimer: this isn't to say that we don't participate in her life, but we generally allow her to take the lead and we follow along offering a helping hand instead of leading the way ourselves.)
After that first day, playing in the grass became exciting. She likes to run her hands along the top of it (yeah, we need to mow the lawn, what of it?) and she likes to wriggle her toes into the ground if she happens to find herself standing still long enough to do so. She squats down to look at bugs or pick up leaves and she hates it when I try to wash the dirt off her soles when we come inside. She kicks the dandelions that have gone to see and laughs when the white fluff gets caught between her toes.
I guess the point I'm trying to make is that even though we've wanted her to develop her own interests, I've realized that sometimes it doesn't hurt to shepherd her a little bit more. Teaching her the delights of running outside barefoot has opened a whole new world of things that she loves to do - things that she wouldn't have known about if she hadn't spend that first quarter-hour, trying to levitate off the lawn.
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