When I went in to get Olivia out of her crib Sunday morning, instead of seeing little feet waving in the air, I saw two little eyes peering over the rail. “Look at you!” I exclaimed. “Holy crap!” So we lowered the crib mattress, or in about two days she’d figure out how to pull herself up, get curious about what was beyond the bumper, and fall out.
Sunday afternoon I caught up with the girls at Crowley’s. We sat at the corner of the bar, had a couple beers, and met the man himself, Bob Crowley. I was starving when I arrived and ordered a grilled chicken salad…. little ranch, little buffalo sauce, so good. I also drank fake beer—Michelob Ultra. I missed my Stella, but Mick Ultra will have to do while I am hardcore low-carbing. While I was boozing it up, Joe was at home folding laundry, going grocery shopping, and baby wrangling. I love nontraditional gender roles. Go fix me a turkey pot pie!
When I got home, Joe told me that Olivia had been crying and crying, in the grocery store, at the Mac store, and during dinner. She never does that, and when I scooped her up she looked so fragile and drained, and my heart went out to her. I cuddled her, fed her her last bottle, and tried to put her to bed. She screamed in her crib. I felt wracked with guiltguiltguiltguiltguiltGUILT. Last night she cried too, but not as long. I peeked in on her and she was sleeping soundly on her tummy, head to the side. She sleeps on her stomach all the time now. We put her down on her back and she flips over almost immediately. She must like it better. I know I do.
Speaking of low-carbing, today is Day 7 of Being Good. I hate to call it that, but that’s what I always end up saying: “None for me, I’m being good.” There is a row of greens on my food intake chart and it gives me perverse pleasure. Oh yes, didn’t you know I have an anal tracking spreadsheet? I totally do. It’s numbered, dated, and has columns for food, water, and comments. It used to have an exercise column too, but the getting to the gym is pretty much a pipe dream these days. Every day, I color the number cell green, yellow or red. The geeky part of me that loves lists and surveys finds much gratification in the process of logging and evaluating.
The fact that I’ve gone a full week bodes well. When I start out, I can never tell if I’m serious. Sometimes I get all riled up and determined and then screw it up the same day. It seems like the more halfhearted I am, the better it sticks, maybe because I accept what I have to do rather than bursting out in frustration. Joe and I have a wedding to attend in May, so that’s the milestone I’m focusing on. It’s not so far off that I feel like I’m never going to make it, but it’s long enough to see some results. After that, I’ll set another milestone. Summer is always easier, not just because of the showing skin factor, but because meat tastes so much better grilled. The long term milestone is the end of the year, when we might think about having another baby (ahh!). That, however, does feel a long way off.
Sunday afternoon I caught up with the girls at Crowley’s. We sat at the corner of the bar, had a couple beers, and met the man himself, Bob Crowley. I was starving when I arrived and ordered a grilled chicken salad…. little ranch, little buffalo sauce, so good. I also drank fake beer—Michelob Ultra. I missed my Stella, but Mick Ultra will have to do while I am hardcore low-carbing. While I was boozing it up, Joe was at home folding laundry, going grocery shopping, and baby wrangling. I love nontraditional gender roles. Go fix me a turkey pot pie!
When I got home, Joe told me that Olivia had been crying and crying, in the grocery store, at the Mac store, and during dinner. She never does that, and when I scooped her up she looked so fragile and drained, and my heart went out to her. I cuddled her, fed her her last bottle, and tried to put her to bed. She screamed in her crib. I felt wracked with guiltguiltguiltguiltguiltGUILT. Last night she cried too, but not as long. I peeked in on her and she was sleeping soundly on her tummy, head to the side. She sleeps on her stomach all the time now. We put her down on her back and she flips over almost immediately. She must like it better. I know I do.
Speaking of low-carbing, today is Day 7 of Being Good. I hate to call it that, but that’s what I always end up saying: “None for me, I’m being good.” There is a row of greens on my food intake chart and it gives me perverse pleasure. Oh yes, didn’t you know I have an anal tracking spreadsheet? I totally do. It’s numbered, dated, and has columns for food, water, and comments. It used to have an exercise column too, but the getting to the gym is pretty much a pipe dream these days. Every day, I color the number cell green, yellow or red. The geeky part of me that loves lists and surveys finds much gratification in the process of logging and evaluating.
The fact that I’ve gone a full week bodes well. When I start out, I can never tell if I’m serious. Sometimes I get all riled up and determined and then screw it up the same day. It seems like the more halfhearted I am, the better it sticks, maybe because I accept what I have to do rather than bursting out in frustration. Joe and I have a wedding to attend in May, so that’s the milestone I’m focusing on. It’s not so far off that I feel like I’m never going to make it, but it’s long enough to see some results. After that, I’ll set another milestone. Summer is always easier, not just because of the showing skin factor, but because meat tastes so much better grilled. The long term milestone is the end of the year, when we might think about having another baby (ahh!). That, however, does feel a long way off.
2 Comments:
I think people don't give enough credence to "mommy's little girl." Being selfish, I'm glad you came out to play, but someday I hope to feel that same guilt over loving a child so much. And you are good, even if you eat a crouton (not that you did).
Yay for tracking progress! The geek in me loves the geek in you. Sorry about Livs...
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