Author: bflynn

Brenda currently lives in Stoneham MA, but grew up in Mineral WA. She is surrounded by men, with two sons, one husband and two boy cats. She plays trumpet at church, cans farmshare produce and works in software.

Snow day = parenting fail

As of 7 am this morning, the furnace was not working. It was 45 degrees in our bedroom. It was snowing, with a forecast to snow all day long. Our plans for the day had already been canceled.

It’s now 11:30. The furnace guy fixed our furnace.

Aside: Have you ever heard the saying “It takes money to make money?” This was a good example of that. We inherited a service contract on our furnace from the previous owners, and renewed it this fall. Basically, we spend about $200 for a furnace service and what is basically like AAA insurance. They put us to the top of their service list and any standard repairs we need come free. Most years you don’t need anything. But then in the middle of a snowstorm when your furnace isn’t working you get a guy within 3 hours and he makes your furnace work — a $400 repair — and it doesn’t cost you a red cent. If we’d attempted to save money by not doing the service contract, or if we hadn’t been able to afford it, it would’ve cost us two years worth of contract fees to make the one repair.

Grey and I are sitting next to each other at our respective laptops. He’s playing a Wa Wa Wubbsy game (and actually doing an amazing job) and I’m, well, writing to you. Thane has finally gotten his hands back after being in a snowsuit for most of the morning and is happily chewing on the “teriyaki” hand. Sleeping Beauty is on in the background. I can’t decide whether I’m being appropriately mellow, or if I’m full of parenting fail.

But don’t you remember snow days when you could rot your brain on screens and read books cover to cover and were feted with junk food and hot chocolate? Childhood is too short. I regret nothing.

Like the end of summer vacation

I remember that at the end of summer vacation, I’d rush around attempting to do or finish all the things that I had thought about with the stretch of unbroken leisure in front of me in June. That’s sort of where I am now.

So about a week ago I looked at the downstairs bathroom and thought, “I can totally do that.” The bathroom looked dated with a poorly installed wallpaper, a medicine cabinet with plastic handles (one of which had fallen off), a non-descript wooden towel holder and a toilet paper holder that looked for all the world like a 7th grade shop project. (Let’s just say that I did similar things in 7th grade.) I thought the paint color I used for the living room would look great in the bathroom, and that I needed nothing to start but to start.

So I removed the medicine cabinet, washed the walls, slapped on some primer and was off and running.

Coat 1: the primer didn’t do enough to block the wallpaper color splatches
Coat 2: the paint color was fine for the wall tile but ALL WRONG for the floor tile.
Coat 3: I decided to retry, this time using a gray primer to truly eradicate the wall splotches.
Coat 4: I discovered that the nearly-white paint I was using totally didn’t cover the gray primer
Coat 5: Still didn’t really cover the primer, but it will have to do.

Then I Shang-hied my husband into installing the new medicine cabinet, rewiring the light (twice) installing a new light and installing the tp holder and towel bar.

As a reward, the bathroom now looks better. But my husband confessed, as I was in the bowels of the project, that he hadn’t minded it before.

Next time I decide I can just slap up a coat of paint in a day and have a trasformative effect, someone take me aside and talk sense, please?

I NEVER remember to take before pictures, and the bathroom is really tiny so these pictures are a bit questionable, but here you go!

The new medicine cabinet area

The window and hardware
The window and hardware

Thane at three months

Thane on tummy time

I’m spending this week getting ready to go back to work. That’s involved a lot of cooking, shopping, laundry and doctors appointments. (There’s nothing wrong, I’m just cramming a year’s worth of appointments into the last week or so.) You always wonder how you are going to handle things when life is about to change. How will I deal with a baby? How will I deal with a second child? Will I go nuts at home? Will I get any sleep? How will I deal with work? Will I ever have any time to myself ever again?

I’ve learned that in general, you do manage and you do cope. But I’ve really enjoyed this time at home with my children. For the most part. Poo excepted. Still, the time is coming for me to return to work, and that’s also a good thing. I’m just making two of my most time-consuming recipes this week as a farewell (tonight: turkey).

It will be particularly difficult to leave Thane. For a quarter of a year, I have rarely gone anywhere without him. For three quarters of a year prior to that, I went nowhere without him. You would think experience would provide consolation… he’s a month older than Grey was when Grey went to daycare. He’s going to a woman I’ve known now for three years. His big brother will be there, and Grey is quite capable of watching over Thane and letting me know what goes on. Heck, I’ll still be there nursing at lunch. But oh, he’s such a joy.

I’m still struggling to decide whether Thane is a more mellow child than Grey was, or whether I am a more mellow and experienced mother. I think a little of both. Thane spends a lot of time quietly watching the tumultuous world into which he was born. He has this amazingly clear, patient gaze.

Thane is starting to gain control over his body. His hands reach out and grasp what they encounter — particularly endearing when what they encounter is your finger. He has started playing with toys. There was a remarkable day when that simply BEGAN. He reached out his hand and grabbed the beak of this colorful bird that was his Christmas present. For maybe even 20 minutes he reached his hand out to where his attention was riveted. He’s also much more active when he does move. We find him perpendicular to where he was placed in his crib. He managed to turn on the bubbler by kicking it. He rolled over again (front to back) after a month hiatus or so. He scootches across the floor.

He smiles all the time. He grows unhappy if he can’t see people, but will contentedly sit for quite a while if I remain in view. His smile is radiant, transcendent, glorious. The gummy toothless smile of a child who loves you best in the world is hard to top.

He’s a big kid. He’s well into 3 – 6 month outfits. They fit perfectly, boding ill for how long they’ll continue to fit. He’s pretty strong — he holds himself up sitting (although he lacks balance to sit by himself). His neck is very stable, and his grip impressive.

He has the auburn hair of his great-grandfather. I’ve seen pictures of my grandfather as a young man, and Thane has the exact same hair color (for what hair he has).

We are still doing very well nursing, and I have oodles of milk frozen for his journey to daycare.

Grey is an amazing big brother. I keep waiting for the resentment or impatience. Grey and I have our conflicts (over pretty much everything else), but he never ever turns his ire or impatience against his brother. (Yet.) Yesterday, the boys and I were in Thane’s room. Grey decided to spread a blanket on the floor and asked if he and Thane could have a sleepover. How delightfully imaginative! I was so impressed that he figured out a way to play with Thane that he could do! (Thane’s few skill indeed include lying on one’s back on a blanket.) Grey is incredibly careful and gentle with him, and it was wonderful to see my two boys ‘playing’ together.

It is time for me to go back to work and flex those disused muscles. I think it is a right and necessary thing. But oh. I will miss my boys.

Ah wod some powr the giftie gie us

Last night I was invited to a Bobby Burns night. Leaving my husband adequately equipped with bottles and stored milk, I hied myself to downtown Boston to partake in the adventure.

I walked in the door with my tartan tam (slightly moth-eaten) on my head, my grandmother’s silver thistle proudly on the side. I carried a heavy cast iron dutch oven full of corned beef hash (an old family recipe), along with the inevitable cottage cheese and french bread. I met many new people and told them all about my clan name, history and crest (they were very patient). I explained that the hash was from a recipe that had likely come over on a boat with my great-grandparents. I talked about just what rapscallions my ancestors were. I sang or lead singing for “My Love is like a Red, Red Rose”, and “The Rape of Glencoe” and “The Skye Boat Song” (I totally forgot the first TWO verses!) I joined in other songs. I heard poems — new ones and old favorites.

There are parts of one’s history and background that remain dormant for long stretches of time. My Scottish heritage just doesn’t come up often anymore. I mean, my last name is now IRISH! (The horrors!) It was remarkably refreshing to uncover this particular aspect of who I am!

Some strings attached

I just got an unsolicited package of baby formula. I thought there were ethical rules they agreed to abide by NOT to do that to nursing mothers. I have to guess that the timing (you know, about the time most women have to return to work) is not coincidental.

Do you wonder why I’m mad at getting free baby formula?

1) Breastfeeding has been shown to generally be the best option for babies. (Note: it’s not always possible and isn’t ALWAYS the best option)
2) Studies have shown that women who are given free formula are less likely to continue successfully breastfeeding (http://www.breastfeedingonline.com/free.shtml)
3) Even using a little formula can affect milk production. Milk is a “use it or lose it” proposition — mom’s make as much as their baby’s drink, so if their baby’s drink some formula instead of milk, the mother creates less milk. This is a very difficult cycle to break.

So sending a mother about to reenter work free formula (two whole cans!) might tempt her to use some of them (for a good night’s sleep, or to do that instead of pumping at work — assuming that’s an option). That will create a dependency for the child for the rest of their time nursing, which is usually until about 12 months.

Oh well. I’ll donate them to a food bank. There are moms who can’t nurse, shouldn’t nurse (if they are doing drugs, for example), or can’t pump at work. Formula isn’t evil. But this method of marketing it is, I think, underhanded.

I like my milk pre-caffeinated
I like my milk pre-caffeinated

24 Notes

I play trumpet. I’ve played in symphony orchestras, brass quintets, pep bands, pit orchestras, regular bands, church… pretty much everything but jazz (I have no swing). At some point during my early playing life, I was asked to play taps at a funeral. I’m not really sure what my first funeral was. Was it Heath’s? That boy who thought he could beat a logging truck on his 4 wheeler? Was it Grandma Finley’s? Some other misty memory of standing on a hillside in sunlight? I’m no longer sure.

For a while in high school, I thought I could make a little extra money on the side by playing taps for veteran’s funerals. I contacted the funeral home to let them know I was available, and read the obituaries to see if any veterans had died lately.

Then I actually got called upon to play a funeral. Maybe it was Heath’s. I remember his best. I don’t recall if he was actually in the army. I think so. He got drunk and drove his truck into a lake and didn’t make it back out again. This couldn’t have been more than a year or so after graduation. He was, I think, in my sister’s class. It took them a while to find his body. I stood across the grave from his brother and girlfriend, and watched their faces during the service.

Taps always comes last.

I hate getting paid for funerals. I remember that they paid me $40 for that funeral. Two crisp twenties. It seemed like blood money.

During my youth I played mostly in the funerals of those I knew. My great-grandmother. My grandfather. The old codger at the American Legion. Heath. I still volunteer my services when folks I know die. Vickie — so young. Theron Lemly — not young at all.

When I moved to Massachusetts, I signed up with an organization called Bugles Across America. The basic idea is this: any service person who has served their country deserves a real live bugler at their funeral — not a CD player or MP3 player. We get requests to play taps at graveside services, and we show up and play. It has been a fascinating and rewarding way of volunteering.

One of the remarkable things to me about this is just how DIFFERENT each service is. Many of the services I have played have been for aged WWII vets. Those feel different. There is sadness and loss, but the grief is muted. At the service I played yesterday, the family seemed to be having a grand time getting together and chatting. I remember distinctly the service of a greatly decorated Chinese-American veteran, in the Mt. Auburn cemetery in spring. They turned away from the casket when it was lowered, so as not to watch. His grandson stood tall and strong with fierce tears in his eyes. They gave me a red envelope with money and a piece of candy — so I would take away good luck from the funeral.

I remember a service on one of the most glorious days of early summer with a stunningly blue sky. I was playing hookie from work to make it. I hung out with the grave diggers and testosterone-laden, big-truck-driving Marine color guard for nearly an hour in the bright sunlight. The transformation when the hearse pulled in and the grave diggers disappear (I always think of how little they have changed since Shakespeare portrayed them) and the color guard goes all rigid is amazing.

I remember a service where I played up on a hill and never actually spoke to any member of the funeral party.

The saddest of the funerals I have played for them was for an active duty army officer on leave from Iraq. He committed suicide. It was last winter around this time. The snow was thick and deep and the world was caught in iron bars. The army folks vetted me about 3000% more than usual. (Apparently the last active duty funeral they had, their MP3 player malfunctioned to the displeasure of an attending general.) They were afraid I was a protester sneaking in to screw up the funeral. The patriot guard (the intimidating folks with motorcycles who fend off the nutjobs from that Baptist church) was there in full intimidation mode. They had actually plowed a path for me to the flagpole where I stood to play. I was too far away to hear the service, but not so far I couldn’t see the destitution on the faces of his family. I was afraid that one person would throw themselves into the grave with him. He had a 21 gun salute, too.

Taps is 24 notes. Not hard to play. It’s very simple. It’s also the part of every funeral where the stoics start crying. As the last part of the funeral, it truly marks the end. If that space between death and interment is a halfway point between life and death, the tape on the very last space of being runs out with the 24th note. The hardest part of taps is not crying yourself.

I do not volunteer as often as I might wish. Most of the requests are a bit far for me to get to. I have a full time job and two little boys. There’s often not a ton of warning. But when I do play, it is an honor and a privilege.

The Oliphant
The Oliphant

I miss work

So. Grey is EXHAUSTED. Falling asleep in the car. Pitching fits over, well, everything. He had to be physically carried out of my husband’s office. (Today’s adventure was “Let’s go see where daddy works!”) SO TIRED. We come home. I feed him lunch (which he promptly feeds to his glass of milk). He pitches a fit about going to bed. I strong arm him into his diaper and into his bed.

Half an hour later I change his poopy diaper. He totally knows when he has to poop and lies about it. Then glibly repeats what he should have done. Oh well, at least it’s in the diaper.

I go back down about an hour ago to tell him to GO TO SLEEP ALREADY.

Quiet ensues. I’m on the third floor. He’s on the second. I no longer use a baby monitor for his room, so I measure sleepiness by thumps and times he comes to find me.

Due to an unusual pattern of noise, I get suspicious.

I go down.

He is now wearing underwear. (Where the hell is his diaper?) He is carrying a bottle of Purell that had been on his (theoretically unreachable) top of his dresser — in the middle. It has been filled with water and emptied — I see a patch in his room.

He is put back to bed in BIG TROUBLE.

Then I go downstairs, following a trail of droplets. There is a fine spray of water EVERYWHERE, as if he sanitized every one of his forbidden steps, leading to a large cache of illegally obtained dice.

I go back upstairs and give him the what-for, including an open-ended ban on all dice, including his private stash. I think this ban will be lifted when he is capable of reading the entire Dungeon Master’s Manual by himself and calculating an appropriate challenge rating for a band of four fifth-level characters.

Then I find out he has poured this brew over the antique teak chest his great grandfather smuggled back in a submarine in WWII, carrying his great grandmother’s wedding silks in it.

I cry.

I contemplate what I can possible do to communicate the enormity of his crime.

I install the baby monitor in his room. His little brother is a piece of cake by comparison.

I wonder if I can ground him until kindergarten.

(UPDATE: Fortunately for him, the chest appears to be ok. Maybe I’ll only ground him for 2009.)

Of all the things I’ve lost I miss my concentration the most

I’ve started this post about 12 times — not because I have something incredibly delicate or important to say, but because each post has gotten to about the second paragraph and petered out into incoherence. I think I’m starting to show mental symptoms due to the social isolation, interrupted sleep, insufficient mental stimulation (I am coming to believe I have a high need for mental stimulation), and overdose of quality time with my kids.

My mom said that these last few weeks of maternity leave would propel me back into the workforce with a right good will. I think she’s right. I am a perfectly adequate full time mother. But I don’t think it’s where I’m best suited.

Here are some of the disjointed truths that have emerged:

1) Thane has the auburn hair of his great-grandfather Virgil. I saw it in the sunlight this morning and was awed by the realization. There is a hand-tinted wedding picture of my grandparents, shortly after the end of WWII. Thane’s hair is just that color.

2) Grey’s vocabulary has exploded while being at home with me. I’m pretty sure that the extensive time we’ve spent together has just pushed that forward, not made it happen at all. He’s started listening to the radio when I have it on and asking me questions. “What’s “stand up for” mean? What’s a “podcast”? Why are they saying “dangerous”?” You try to explain Hilary Clinton’s Senate testimony, the intricacies of new media, and a discussion of Guantanamo to a three year old.

3) I had been thinking that Grey wasn’t really doing the three year old “why” thing to the level I expected. To some extent, that’s actually true. But then I realized that he often asks “what” when he means “why”. He’s using many more words than three months ago, but not all of them correctly.

4) I would rather be on maternity leave in, say, July. The house is clausterphobic (and cold) in 10 degree weather.

5) I am starting to be concerned about how much sleep I’m needing. I go to sleep with my husband, and wake up 2 to 3 hours after he does. I’m still tired and have trouble concentrating throughout the day. Not all of that can be blamed upon my moonlight wakings. Am I secretly depressed? Do I have mono? Am I paying back a serious sleep debt? Am I opportunistic? Might it be related to the calorie restriction of my diet?

6) Speaking of diet, I lost about 5 pounds last week. I’m debating whether that’s a fluke (water weight, etc.), a problem, or a really effective diet. Part of me is excited about prepregnancy weight in a month. Part of me thinks this is a bad idea.

7) I’m not a very good disciplinarian when I have to do it full time, all the time.

8) Thank heaven for books. As they have been through my life, they’ve been my escape and sanity. I hate it when I remember my dreams and they’re boring.

9) My husband and I have an actual date on Friday, with a babysitter and all. We’re going DANCING. In 0 degree weather. Isn’t insanity grand?

10) Grey begs for a Ninetendo DS several times a day. Both Jordan and Pablito at daycare have one (brothers) and they don’t share. I have no idea what to do. Make it a potty training reward? Buy one for our planned July 4th trip to DC? Resist peer pressure and prove that begging has no effect? We are entering the next stage of parenting with him, and I, for one, am not ready.

11) I have fewer friends than I thought I did. Or rather, I have many fewer people who I can see in real life than I thought — especially on short notice. I know I am socially isolated. It’s not good for me. Compounding that is that I’m not online as often as usual (one of my typical sources of socialization) and that I really, truly have trouble getting out. I’m still nursing Thane like every 2 hours during the day, and every 4 at night. I miss getting to hang out with real live people and chat. On the flip side, I feel depressed by the realization I have little to talk about but parenting and my latest adventure into novels.

12) I’m making good progress on the whole “back” issue. I have an appointment set up with the Spine Center associated with the big health services conglomerate in the area to Figure Out What’s Wrong. I’m guessing that I’ll get some imaging and physical therapy — that sounds just right for me. I also have my first general physical in years scheduled. I have done my pap smear with my midwife for the last several years. I don’t even remember when my last true physical was.

13) I tried acupuncture this week, in my big push to Get Out of the House. It was interesting. Most profoundly, the room was nice and warm and dark and quiet. Mmmmmm…. warmanddarkandquiet. The acupuncturist said I was the healthiest person she’d seen all day. I do better when I don’t have work stress — at least physically.

14) It has been fascinating to see separate parts of my life merge on Facebook. My high school English teacher, my Sunday School kids, friends from my high school youth symphony (mostly the strings — where are the winds?!), a coworker, my long-term friends, my mom… I usually think that I have one self and that self is presented to the whole world. While not untrue, there is a bit of vertigo that comes from having your social circles collide.

15) I miss writing, but feel like I have both little to say and insufficient time in which to say it. Perhaps it is not so much time which is missing, but concentration. Even in bullets, I’m having trouble.

16) I have only a fortnight to go. I have no idea how everything that needs doing will get done when I go back to work. I take it on faith that it will.