Dear Self,

You know how today has sucked? How, even though it was a "day off", you've done nothing but grade old stats assignments? And how you haven't even made a dent on the quizzes and tests that need to be graded? And you haven't even STARTED entering these grades?

Right? This has sucked.

DON'T DO THIS TO YOURSELF EVER AGAIN. Asshole. This back up? This overflowing-toilet of homeworkness and looseleaf lined paper that has taken over your dining room because you needed TWO BOXES to get it home to grade over your HOLIDAY WEEKEND? YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF. Asshole. AND RUINED YOUR HOLIDAY WEEKEND. Asshole.

For the love of little green apples, DON'T LET YOURSELF GET THIS BEHIND EVER AGAIN.

Asshole.

Love,
you.

Friday Friday Friday!

It's Friday!

No new posts on single-parenting as Andrew is home now (as evidenced by the fact that it's 6:15 and I have time to sit down with coffee and type this). Today is Friday and as such might as well be the weekend, and then next week isn't even a full week of school and isn't life so much better when there's holidays to look forward to?

I fell asleep last night at 8:00. Can you tell?

Third weekday: not dead yet.

We fell asleep again. Which makes sense considering "we" were awake at 4. And "we" wouldn't go back to sleep. So "we" decided to get dressed. Then when "we" were too exhausted to continue getting ready and besides which there was still an hour until daycare was even open, "we" decided to lie down. THEN, of course, "we" fell asleep. And ONE of us stayed asleep when the other suddenly sat up and realized it was 6:15.

Thank goodness I'd packed up (almost) everything the night before.

I'm so tired my legs don't feel like they're going to work. I was up late last night doing laundry so that Howie had diaper covers for daycare. Did I remember them this morning, though? No. Nor did I remember to bring a new change of clothes for Mr. Poopy Pants, so hopefully his butt contained itself today or he's coming home in Silly Pants, my new nickname for the donated clothes that daycare has for just such an emergency.

That extra hour and a half of sleep Howie normally gets in the morning, from 6 to 7:30 (or 5:30 to 7) is apparently critical, because he's just been all off on his sleeping schedule. Normally a champion napper, he can't stay asleep at daycare and can't fall asleep on time or on his own and I need to wait until he's completely asleep before putting him down and so he's been going to bed later, waking up earlier and not napping. That sound you hear is my head exploding.

On the bright side, we survived, and I know we could long term if we had to. But--on the even brighter side--thank goodness we don't have to. Andrew gets home at midnight, and we can partner up again.

I miss my partner.

Second weekday: not a failure, but less than successful

This morning. First of all, hearing baby not-quite-crying-but-sure-getting-ready-to, the sound gets incorporated into my not-quite-asleep-but-sure-trying-to-be head and I think Andrew is in there trying Operation Reinsert Pacifier and I keep wondering what's taking so long. Until, duh, Howie starts crying more and I realize that Andrew hasn't been helping at all. So I go scoop him up and bring him into bed with me and we start nursing.

Mistake number 1. Because we both fall back asleep and suddenly it's 6:00 and I have fifteen minutes to get myself presentable and Howie dressed in clothes that he didn't wear yesterday (which he also slept in, by the way, but I wasn't going through the Sunday night "You mean I have to go BACK to sleep?" outrage by waking him up to change him--he fell asleep, let's do everything we can to keep him that way, mmmkay?) and get his food and get my food and get out the door.

Which, by the way, led to Mistake number 2: since we fell asleep while nursing, he only nursed on the one side. So by 10:00 I was gushing leaking down the side he didn't nurse on. And that was WITH wool nursing pads. SO grateful for my fleece jacket.

Which showed me Mistake number 3: I didn't bring my pumping crap. In fact, I left it in its little portable cooler on the dining room floor. Yay me! So I had to bring my pump home and guess what I'm doing as I write this? (edited to add: in fifteen minutes, got nine ounces. Yeah, I didn't plan my morning right at ALL).

Which meant Mistake number 4 was of little consequence: I forgot my lunch.

But I'm home, and we're still alive and he has food and milk and bottles at daycare and he even had socks on, so it couldn't be THAT bad, right?

First weekday: success.

It was a success today in that we're both alive, we've both eaten (thank you Emily!), one of us is asleep and the other almost is, and neither of us went naked.

That reminds me: just before first period today, one of my students snaps her phone shut and says, "Trista (ed--not her real name) just called, she's out in the parking lot and forgot her shoes. Do you mind if I go get her some shoes from my car?" and just like that, skips out of the room. Both girls return within two minutes.

Which leads to several questions--the main one of which is, how do you get all the way to school and then realize you don't have shoes?

Take me for instance. This morning, I got Howie all bundled up and we were in the car and then I realized I forgot his food. And then I realized I forgot my food. And then I realized I forgot my books. But I did all that before I left the driveway. And none of them are parts of me involved in the actual act of driving.

And now, I'm going to go put on comfy pants that have the fuzzy insides, and cuddle up under the comforter and pass out after two pages of my trashy novel.

Single Parenting

How do you do it?

How do single parents do it?

My hat off to every single one of them who has managed to bring up a happy, well-adjusted child without (a) devolving into bankruptcy (b) becoming hopelessly addicted to something or (c) running stark naked through the streets. Actually, check that: my hats off to any single parent who managed to bring up a happy, well-adjusted child. Period full stop. Because DAYUM this shit is HARD, and I've only done it for two days!

Andrew let me know about six weeks ago he'd have to go to New York for a couple days for business. Mmmm, errr, fine, I mean, what am I going to say? no? Seriously. But then suddenly the couple of days was FOUR days and then it was FIVE days and those five days? were from Saturday crack-of-my-butt early to Wednesday-might-as-well-be-Thursday late.

And now here I am, two days in, and I'm beat. I'm sitting here with a great honking glass of Smoking Loon after listening to the monitor for Way Too Long (why don't babies just know they're tired and give it up already????) and there's still the garbage to take out and the dishes to... dish and can I tell you I'm terrified about tomorrow morning?

I've never done the morning routine. That's been Andrew's bailiwick since the little man started going. I nurse at 5, because I have to be at school by 7; Andrew needs to be at work some time. By nineish. Mostly. So he gets the morning after I nurse, I get the afternoon. And going by the little daily report cards we get, Andrew rolls in to daycare any time between 7 and 8:30. Which is great. That means they have the mornings together and if some of that is planning and packing, then that's what it is.

But now I have to do it. And I don't have much time to do it. So many mornings Howie and I both fall back asleep while nursing, with the soothing tones of Steve Innskeep in the background--there's been mornings when it's only been the Morning Marketplace (comes on at 5:50) or the voice of the new OPB dude Geoff something telling me that it's 6:19 that has me tossing a sleeping infant back in his crib so that I can rush into my room to put clothes on and go. When I invariably forget something critical like MY LUNCH or MY PUMP or MY SHOES or something. And for the next three days, I don't have that luxury. Of the sleeping. I suppose I can forget something for myself (insert common family joke about HOW FORGETFUL KARI IS AND HOW FUNNY THAT IS HA HA HA! here because it is always so funny) but I don't want to forget Howie's stuff. He didn't ask for this, you know?

But also, I want to prove--to myself, to Andrew, to my family--that I can do this. I may not like it, but I can do it. So far this weekend, while exhausting--so little downtime!--has been doable, if a little lonely. We only have a faintly crazy Costco bill to show for it, and we spent some good time with Bectastic.

It's the next three days that'll really decide it.

Wish us luck.

Six months

Dear Little Man H,

I've been composing this letter to you in my head for weeks, but wouldn't you know it? I sit down to write it, and everything flies out of my head. Maybe there's something going on today...

Nah. That can't be it.

This past month has been the best so far. I realize I only have six of them to choose from in the running for The Best Month Ever, but seriously, I think that this one would win.

Last month you've discovered your feet with a flair that can only be described as gleeful. Now it's been a foot-fest (not to be confused with a foot fetish. That comes later, young man.) You can hold them! pull them! put them in your mouth! When sitting up, you can bend over and hit yourself in the head with them!

Okay, that last one you didn't enjoy so much. In fact, this whole Sitting Up thing, while kind of cool, ends in tears on a regular basis. In fact, it's pretty much guaranteed that after some absolutely fabulous arm-jerking and giggling and tag-wrangling and perhaps towel-waving, you will at one point want to look up, or sideways, or, gods forbid, BACKWARDS, at which time you will perilously begin to lose the battle with gravity. You do it slowly, oh-so-slowly, and often with a "What the FUCK?" look to me, until you pass the Point of No Return and gravity really does take hold and you weeble, you wobble, and you do indeed fall backwards. If I happened to be a caring mama at that point, you hit a boppy, but on a couple of occasions it must be said that we were overconfident and decided that we didn't need the big pillow. At those occasions, you hit the rug with a resounding thud. And after a couple seconds of shock, proceeded to let me know just how displeased you were.

Unless of course, you fall forwards, in which case you always hit with the thud-silence-scream combination. But that is happening more and more rarely.

You're starting to interact with your cousins, which is entertaining in the extreme; the Paci-pass you and your cousin Eleanor do is hilarious until one of you ends up with both paci's, somehow thinking that there is a way that if one paci is awesome, two must be AWESOMER. You do that, by the way, all the time. Paci? Awesome. Paci and fingers? AWESOMER. Nursing? awesome. Nursing AND sucking on my thumb? AWESOMER. Except it doesn't quite work that way. But whatever, we're working on it.

Speaking of nursing. You hit the big six months now, dude. You know what that means? FOOD. So far your dad and I are WAY more excited about this than you are. Not that you mind the attention, but so far, avocado and rice cereal get the tomato splat from you. Butternut squash doesn't suck, but you're still kind of meh on the whole thing.

Don't worry. I know that'll change--one day you'll be a teenage boy and I'll think back to when I couldn't get you to eat. You probably won't want to use utensils then either, but I bet you'll manage to swallow.

So today's kind of a big day here. It'll be interesting what today will be like seen ten years from now. Hopefully you'll grow up knowing a better world than you were born into. Hopefully one day you'll be in a history class and today, this date, this will be the beginning of a new chapter, like the Star Wars IV prologue but in a history book and therefore boring. Hopefully.

Hope.

If there's nothing else you deserve at six months of age, little man H, it's a big ol' barrel of hope. Well, that, and a pillow permanently behind you.

Love you,
Mama

Wherein I talk of things about which I have very little knowledge, only instinct

So, I was listening to NPR today this morning in our early-morning-nursing ritual (will that warp little minds?) and as has been traditional for the past twenty-one months, a good portion of it was political. And there were a ton of soundbites of different voters from different regions of the country. Determination, exhiliaration, consternation, all sorts of different emotions from these different voters. What they were doing to get out the vote, change the vote, support the vote.

And there was one group of voters from--well, I guess the where isn't all that important, which is good because asking me to remember details from pre-dawn nursing ether is a worthless task--from somewhere who said that they were praying, their minister told them to pray, that prayer was the only thing that worked, and what they were praying was, "Dear Lord, save our nation and make John McCain the next president."

Huh.

Leaving off my own beliefs on who the next president should be and my own beliefs of prayer, what struck me was the twist of logic that prayer denotes. Shouldn't prayer leave the method of salvation up to God? What if the best thing for the nation isn't John McCain? Is it just my--let's not say agnosticism, because my spirituality is something not-quite-agnostic--my lack of churchy-going-ness that makes me ignorant of how prayer works? Isn't it arrogant to assume that the prayer-maker needs to tell God how to save the nation? Is that how God works?

And if you're so sure that God listens to you, how can you be sure that what He's granting is to save the nation? Maybe He's doing it to teach a lesson, or to let our nation's downfall save the world. Or something. I'm certainly no god, and couldn't understand the workings of one who is. What human being could understand the workings of the infinite? Or deign to tell one how to acheive Their goals?

If you believe in God and the power of prayer, of course. If you don't, then it's all the power of man. And the power of man is built on each vote. So vote your conscience, and either way it works: the power of man prevails, and let God's will fall as it may. But don't preach of salvation and tell me how to get there. You can't have both sides.

Making history.

 

This vote feels like none other. I am filled with hope and exciting excitement (...and, dude, I'm still waiting for the Democrats to screw it up because if anyone can, they can, but I'm starting to believe that maybe, truly....)

I took pictures of my ballot, y'all. Because now I'm part of history too.

I heard this on NPR today, and I think it applies no matter our race, creed or color:

Rosa sat, so Martin could walk.
Martin walked, so Barack could run.
Barack ran, so our children could fly.

Today.

among the pumpkins
Originally uploaded by karijean

Some days are just perfect.

Where'd the month go?

How can I be working part time and still have a five-inch pile of homework and quizzes to grade--a pile I worked on for (essentially) eight hours straight yesterday, and still didn't finish?

Apparently I'm still having problems juggling this part time job thing. No big, really, but I always seem to think I can do more than I can in less time than I need. Or something. And I feel like I should be putting forth more effort, always. I can always see what I'm not teaching well enough, and I have ideas on how to do it better, but those ideas take time and planning and you know what? I'm getting paid slightly less than your average first-year bus driver, so why should I be writing new lesson plans, when half of my third period class can't do eight problems of homework?

What I'm saying is, the juggling I'm having problems doing is half timing, and half motivation. And half--well, hell. I have the cutest little boy at home that I'd way rather spend time with.

Of course, last week I was gone for a very precious forty-eight hours, to the coast with a dozen pretty spectacular women. It makes me realize my Hanging Out skills are a tad rusty. I guess a eight months of depression and then 10 months of pregnancy will do that to you, you forget how to manage the ebb and flow of conversations and groupings and rhythms and tempos. But now I can feel myself starting to join back up with the human race again, and that's good. I'm still letting some tricks drop, and that's bad, but I'm giving it my best, and it'll get better as time goes on. It helps that there are some pretty awesome people round these parts.

I can't believe Halloween is on Friday. The grocery store already has their Christmas stuff on display, which--dear God, I'm old, because...where has the time gone? Also: get off my lawn!

Flickr madness

Govt. Bailout Blowout
Originally uploaded by karijean

So, I'm a flickr gal. I may use picasa to edit my photos, but I don't use their online site--I use flickr. To the endless frustration of my father. (Note to friends--if you want to copy pictures I took of, say, your children? email me through flickr and I'll make you a friend! just be sure to credit me when you do copy it...)

Anyway. where was I? Oh, yes, flickr whore. I mean fan. Whatever. I love posting my stuff to flickr. And I was just going through my pictures and checking out their stats--nothing amazing, I'm no dooce or sweet juniper, but 7 views here, 16 views there, 831 views... WHAT. The. WHAT?!?!?!?

A picture I took at the Saturday farmer's market in downtown portland. Has gotten. Eight hundred and thirty one. views.

It was a toss-off picture I'd taken of a funny sign on a box of tomatoes. One of the best results of the digital revolution is that, once I buy the camera, pictures are, essentially, free. I can take pictures of everything, as many times as I want. And I can just snap pictures of stuff that amuses me without thinking of the cost of film and developing and paper and time in a darkroom and... so I like to take the camera when I go to the farmer's market. Actually, I like to take the camera everywhere because I'm learning so much about what makes a picture good. But sometimes I just take a picture because a sign is funny and I don't worry on it being a good picture from a sort of artistry standpoint.

But eight hundred and thirty one views?

If I'd known that was going to happen, I would have taken a better picture!

08! 08! 08!

Words I'm beyond ready to never hear again:

"Battle ground states"
"Maverick"
anything to do with lipstick, pitbulls, hockey moms, or soccer moms

And can I just say? Whatever else anyone says about a certain lipstick-wearing hockey mom... her voice makes me want to jump out a window.

This is weird. It's like we're developing a routine, a pattern. Things happen, and then they happen that way again. And then they happen that way again again.

Sometimes it's really good. Like when I go to pick you up in the afternoons and you see me and do a little body wiggle--like your whole body goes stiff, your arms go out, and you'd jump if you could, you know, stand--and the best, best! part is after I pick you up.
You grin that grin with your tongue hanging out, and one hand spastically reaches out to find my cheek. And then the other hand finds my other cheek. And there you are patting my cheeks as if to say, "It's good, Mama! It's good that you're here and that I'm here and today! It was good!"

And then you lean in and eat my chin.

You do that in the semi-dark pre-dawn grey of your room, as we snuggle in the glider and listen to NPR muster on about bank failures and plunging stocks (which would totally matter if we had any savings... in case you were wondering about why you are supporting us in our retirement? I blame the banks. Not our own ineptitude. It's all W's fault.) and you decide you don't need to sleep and you rear back and do the hands on cheeks thing and the chin nibble and I think, who needs the Dow anyway? Other mornings we just both fall back asleep together, and it's like your first months when we would kick back in the recliner and sleep until lunchtime. Only this is at five a.m. and I do have to put you back down eventually and haul my ass in to teach some teenagers. But for about fifty minutes each morning I can forget that, forget investment plans, forget anything, because you have my cheeks in your hands.

Speaking of which, do you remember that time I fell out of the glider? No? Good, because it totally didn't happen.

Other repetitions aren't so fun. Your grandma and grandpa have graciously taken to watching you on Thursdays which is awesome--I am so excited for you to have your own relationship with them and your own patterns and habits and in-jokes. Right now your only pattern with them is not eating. I'm not worried, exactly. I mean, you're five months old, so it's not like you have weight worries or anything. You'll eat when you feel like it, and eventually you will, but it worries your grandma so I really wish you'd eat for her. Maybe it'll just take solid foods for that to happen.

And really, her cooking is so good, it is worth waiting for. Maybe that's what you're doing.

You've started rolling over, but so far you only have half of it down. And then you get caught on your belly and that is Not. Okay. Or you reach for something (like paper! OMG paper! You want! Paper!) and plop! you've landed on your belly and that is Not. Okay. So clearly your next step is to figure out how to get yourself out of that predicament. When that happens, I have a feeling, nothing in the house is safe. Because right now we put you down and flip! you're turned over. We turn you back and flip! you're turned over.

In the mornings I wake up with you and we have our hour that's just us. Then Daddy takes you in to daycare. You do your thing there (which apparently involves two or three wardrobe changes a day. Is this how Elton John got started?) and then I get you in the afternoon. And then we cuddle and play and roll over and then suddenly it's bedtime and time for a new day to start and one day slips into another. Next thing I know you'll be asking me for the car and I'll say you didn't fill it up with gas last time and you'll say it was empty when I lent it to you and that'll probably be true.

But as patterns go? This doesn't suck.

Love Mama.

Asking for ideas

So, I'm thinking of setting up a blog just for the H man. Not to say I wouldn't write about him here if I wanted, but someplace to post a picture that's all, look at me! I'm sitting up!

What do you think? Should I do it? If so, do you have any ideas, O internet, for a good name?

I keep coming up with cute captions in my head, like "Tasting toes is less fun than I thought it would be"


but if they're going to be in Howie's voice, it should really be in Howie's blog, don't you think?

Part Time Teacher

I am constantly baffled by teachers who never take work home, who leave right at 2:30, who look far more relaxed than I ever have.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still grateful I've changed professions and that I teach now. Days that were endlessly the same, that went into ten and twelve hours, that had me at a desk all day long, they ground me down. And teaching, whatever else there is about it, isn't like that.

But it's also not well paying. I know, news flash.

Some teachers compensate for that by having a hard limit on how much they'll do: what the contract stipulates and not an iota more. Other teachers say screw it, and stay as long as they feel they need to stay to get the job done (there are some there til 9 at night!). I've always wanted to strike some sort of happy medium between the two--I'm crazy that way--but it's hard. There's always--ALWAYS--more work than there is time for. Here it is, after five days of classes, and I'm behind on grading, I haven't been able to research my special-needs students, I want to be able to recommend some students for extra support but I don't know who they are yet, AND I don't have the online status updated for my AP students.

Planning? Ha! Improving lesson plans? PUH LEEZE. Organizing my room, cleaning my office, and planning for the clubs I advise. All are gone by the wayside.

Last year, I was looking ahead to this year and I knew I didn't want to be grading over dinner like I have been. With this tiny little human in my life now, I didn't want to have the two hours we have together tainted by a dark cloud of work. So I chose to reduce my load--I'm now a part time teacher. I'm getting paid 60% of what I used to get paid (remember, I'm a math teacher, so 60% of Not Much is... Even Less), but I'm also, now, finally, after three years of teaching the same two classes, getting time to improve where I wanted to improve. Take chances where I wanted to take chances.

Grade what I wanted to grade.

There's a lot more work I do now that I'm not getting paid for. But I'm considering it an investment at this point. Whereas I was getting paid for a fulltime job before but clearly working a job and a half, now I'm getting paid for 0.6 of a job--and I have a chance at only working full time. And still coming out with better lessons to use in the future. For someone who puts a lot of pressure on herself (me? naaaah) it's a huge relief to feel like I can do a good job without sacrificing my family.

Except, of course, financially. I'm lucky lucky lucky we're at a time and place and stage where I can do this--for my sanity. For my pocketbook, it's not so healthy.

What kind of world is it where we ask teachers, theoretically the ones who get our children ready for the world, to make this kind of tradeoff? You can work yourself into the ground, you can always feel inadequate, or you can skimp on what you teach our children--that's it, them's your choices. And none of them involve getting paid for the work you do.

In the meantime, though, it's really nice to not feel half-crazed and underprepared. Now, ask me again about Christmas time when my gift-list is a lot of hand-made "it's the thought that counts" type of gifts, my answer may change.

4 months. A few days late.

Yeah, kid, your birthday (is it a birthday if it isn't your annual birthday? can I still call it a birthday? there's nothing inherent in the word "birthday" implying annual celebration, right? so I can call four months from the day you were born your birthday as well, right? but then where would it end? could I celebrate every tuesday as your birthday? Every day at 8:22?)

Ahem. Howie, if you're reading this, you're probably used to that geekout tangent right there, and you're probably rolling your eyes if you're a teenager, or smiling fondly if this is, like, 2057--or pointing accusingly if this is court (or therapy)--but I do apologize. On with the four-month-letter.

Yeah, I know your birthday was Friday. And I thought about writing this on Friday--I did! I had it planned! But then we went to the cabin and that involved lots of chores, lots of cabin-planning chores and... and did you know that lately you've decided that you don't need naps? Not so much, really? You just... napping has apparently become some form of esoteric torture that is somewhat akin to bamboo under the nails. And, according to the Republicans, makes you a worthy candidate for president--because that gives you character. So when you're doing that, that not-napping thing, I'm not so productive on the to-do list in my head. So while, in a way, it is my fault for not getting the letter written (and talk to your Aunt Lee, she's used to me letting important dates like birthdays slip--call it an eccentric quirk, please?) it's not like you made it easy.

Which is weird because in so many ways, you are the easiest kid in the everest of evers. This past month your smile has graduated to full-on beam, and even given way to the occasional belly laugh. We had a whole photo shoot the day before your birthday wherein the phrase "Oooga Booga!" delighted you to no end (how we discovered that was the Open Sesame of hilarity, I have no idea, but once we did, it was thoroughly exploited). You came to work with me, and after a short period of contemplation, gave a wide and toothless grin to every coworker who paused to admire your complete adorableness (except one, one particular coworker, but that just shows that you are a supremely good judge of character).

Your grandparents came for a visit, with your aunt and uncle and your cousin, and they adored you too.

You had a special bond with your grandma, telling her secrets all weekend long. She had you figured out before she left, too. So if I were you, I wouldn't plan on being let alone much when we go there for Christmas. Don't worry, you'll find out what Christmas is. I have a sneaking suspicion you'll like it.

You've started daycare this month, too. I can't tell whether you like it or hate it, but the lovely ladies there having nothing but lovely things to say about you. I can never tell whether they are saying you're beautiful and smart because that's what they say to all the mamas (and papas) that come through the door (speaking of which, I am pleasantly surprised at the number of fathers I have seen picking up and dropping off at this facility, making me all the more pleased with our choice--I don't know if it's the residential location of the daycare, or what, but lots of parents walk their children in, and lots of those parents are fathers, which makes me really happy. Of course, I have no idea if this is the norm for daycare, this being our only daycare experience. But, I digress. Obviously.) And! tomorrow will be the second! time you've stayed at your grandparents' house (the other grandparents, the ones who live here now) all day while your parents were at work. The first time was a rousing success, what with you taking a nap on your grandma in the rocking chair on the front porch for a significant length of time. Who could hate that?

I will miss our naps in the recliner, you and I. Even now, when you fall asleep nursing, I have to force myself to put you to bed, (knowing that if I don't, you'll wake up if I cough or have to pee and what should be a long nap or even an overnight sleep will turn into a catnap) but I hate it, every time, giving up your sleepy body and your fists that rest lightly on my ribs. Each time I try to soak it in and memorize every sensory input because that will end soon.

So it's on to month five, Buster Brown. You're holding things now (mostly) and soooo ready to roll over. You've developed this habit of holding your legs up at a right angle, waiting, maybe contemplating those odd shaped things at the end of them (we call them feet, I keep telling you) and then WHAM! slamming them down to the ground.

Occasionally that has given you an unfortunate surprise as you are not in your crib or a nice carpet, but mostly you just use it to rotate yourself like the hand on a clock. I figure that's only until you learn the magic of rolling over, and then it's Log Roll 24/7, yeah! I did capture one roll on film, but that was more shock and surprise (and then tears) than intent to move, I think.

Please, just roll over for us at home, will you? If you roll over first at daycare, will you lie about it to us and make us feel like we saw it first? I'd appreciate it. You're growing too fast as it is, anyway.

So, happy birthday, or whatever this is (or rather, whatever Friday was), my Ooga Booga baby.

Love, me.

Another year begins, and I need a brain dump.

So, another year is beginning. Things are different, but they're not, and I find myself oddly anxious. I can't quite put my finger on why, though. I mean, I'm going back to work part time (yay!) so you'd think I wouldn't be as anxious, but I am. I can't imagine how stressed I'd be if I weren't part time. Just the thought of being able to finish all my work--to stay caught up in my work this year!--without working past a nine hour day is exciting. Of course, I'm only being paid for a four hour day, but there you go. Such is teaching--always with unpaid hours.

With that in mind, things are getting ever more precarious in our contract negotiations. Big union meeting on Wednesday. Before I was a teacher, I was all, "unions! Pfeh!" but let me tell anyone who may think unions have outlived their usefulness: they haven't. More on that in a future installment.

Howie had his four month checkup this afternoon, and he's off the charts in height.

Leaving him at daycare hasn't been a problem, and I feel oddly guilty that it's not. Yes, that means I'm feeling guilty that I don't feel guilty. Shut up. But he's laughing and smiling more than ever, so either he's the happiest baby ever born just, y'know, genetically, or daycare really is okay for him. Or, hopefully, both.

So this is the only week where I"ll be working past lunch. Figuring out pumping schedules is stressful and uncomfortable--today I pumped in the nurses' office with a coworker also pumping there. Is there a polite way to say, I really don't want to see your nipples? and more importantly, I don't really want you to see mine? I couldn't think of one in time, and pumping doesn't really work on a staggered timetable--it's midday, we have 60 minutes for lunch, we've both not pumped since leaving home, and it's 11:30 now so...so I saw her boobs waaaay more than I want to see a coworker's boobs. Friend Boobs and Family Boobs are different. Coworker Boobs? Just. Different.

Anyway. I'm twittering now, so if anyone wants to find me, I'm karijean. I've been trying to figure out how to get a twitter badge on the blog here, but that may be a day or two away.

Bleargh. This is clearly an inadequate (inadequite?) blog post, but it'll have to do. I'm already feeling stressed about tomorrow. Good night.

Why

Portland's a funny town. Ninety percent of the people you met have moved here--most aren't "from" Portland. They'll still ask me why we moved here, when our reasons are probably similar to their own.

The logical reasons were these: we were in Chicago, but knew we didn't want to live the kind of lives we'd have to live to live the kind of lives we wanted to live. If you know what I mean. We didn't want to commute for an hour, or work seven-to-seven, or climb corporate ladders. We wanted a home with a yard, and weekends to do stuff.

So that meant we'd leave Chicago. And having grown up in the suburbs, I pretty much knew that... well, let's just say I'd rather chew off my arm than go back. No offense to suburbanites--it just wasn't for me.

So that opened up the whole country. Where should we go?

We didn't want hot, so that ruled out the southwest, and the south east, and... well, the south. And I'd had it with snow, so that ruled out the Northeast. And the Midwest. And we wanted an airport, and museums, and public transportation. And affordable homes.

That left Portland.

So, that's the logical reasons we had for moving here. It was all--we knew what kind of life we wanted to live, so we had to find a way to live it. We occasionally have to remind ourselves to actually live in the city, though. I mean, if all we do is go to work, maybe go to the movies, and shop at big-box stores and stripmalls... we might as well live in a suburb. Any suburb. So I make it a point to make it to farmer's markets, and Saturday Market, and the library, and walk to the coffeeshop (not a coffeeshop that rhymes with Blarbucks) and the movie theater and the grocery store.

Even, better, though--if a picture is worth a thousand words, then I have lots and lots of words about why I moved here. Because Portland puts on (free) events like this.

That? That's proof that Portland and us is a good match. Any city that has that as a free event is my kind of burg.

Pay it Forward.

You know what's awesome about being at the end of a parade of eight baby boys?

(that reminds me of the joke about the guy who worked shoveling elephant poop in the circus parades*.)

Seriously, our local friends and family have had, in the past four years, eight boys. It might be nine before 2009, but the latest couple is waiting to find out. Well, one of them is. The other sneaked a look at the ultrasound and then emailed me, "What did boy's goodies look like on the ultrasound?" I couldn't help her, because Howie's goodies? all but had a giant neon arrow proclaiming "I AM A BOY AND BOY AM I EVER A BOY!!!" So I'm not sure what questionable goodies might look like, I only know what obvious goodies look like.

Anyway, one of the best parts of having all these older boys around (besides the fact that in a decade, none of us will be mowing our own yards or washing our own cars) is that I am getting piles of hand-me-down clothes for Howie. And since all of our friends have SMASHING good taste, they are cuteness personified.

Lee's son is just between the two boys of Emily, so Emily was able to lend her clothes until her youngest is big enough to wear them. I don't know what Lee was expecting, but her jaw dropped when she saw the giant container Emily had in her basement. "I, um," she said later, "I about crapped my pants. I was kind of panicking about all the stuff I'd have to buy and now? Not so much."

Lee's passing it on too, because she just dropped off the stuff the Te man just outgrew. So now I have pj's and jeans and jackets and the cutest stripey union suits for Howie to grow into.

This spirit of Pass It On is fantastic.
___
* someone says, "that's an awful job! you're smart, why don't you get a better job?" and the guys says, "and leave show business?!?!?!" Okay, lame. But one of the first jokes I remember my dad telling me.