It was the dreaded decision, the one I'd been putting off for years that was thrust upon me in the face of a rather sad transmission diagnosis from our Impala.
It was time for a newer car.
And my husband has always loved minivans.
I could hear the Jaws music start up:
Daaaa Dummm
The conversations began, the bargaining ensued. I wanted a nice crossover, he set the bid low with a 99 Windstar. I said a Chrysler Pacifica (any year!), he counterbid with a 2004 Freestar. The purple minivan caught my eye, but it was old...back and forth, back and forth.
Daaa Dumm
We test drove all sorts of cars, driving to the nether regions of our metropolitan region trying to find something we could agree on that wasn't completely beat to hell. I test drove exactly one van, that's how excited I was in this quest. After much searching, we saw an ad on Craigslist for a 2005 Town and Country in reasonable shape.
Daa Dum
An older couple had owned it, no small children involved, it had only been used to drive to and from Florida and was in near perfect condition.
Da Dum Da Dum
We test drove it, it was perfect. Our daughter loved it and I gave it the half 'meh' instead of vehement NO.
Da Dum Da Dum Da Dum
The stow-and-go seats were something akin to an Act of Magic which impressed both of us and seriously clouded our judgment.
Da Dum Da Dum Da Dum Da Dum
Greg looked under the hood to find all was well, and offered $300 lower than the asking price just for the heck of it.
Dadumdadumdadumdadumdadum
And the guy accpeted.
DWEEEEEDLEEEEDUMMMM!!!!!!!
And so now we own a grey 2005 Chrysler Town and Country. With that purchase, any remaining vestiges of my cool youth went flying out the very large, rolling door. I get the fact that my image shouldn't be wrapped up in my car. I have happily driven old, well-taken care of beaters without worrying about it. But those were all cars or SUV's. Not THIS.
So it's more pride swallowing and more embracing of this whole culture known as motherhood. I suppose the minivan comes with it and grudgingly admit that there ARE nice features, I could have just lived without them driving my Ford Explorer for the rest of my life.
All the while remaining 'cool'.
This is Koomala, sucking it up and signing out to hang my groceries on the little grocery-bag hangers while 'stowing and going' my seats.
P.S. Was Jaws not the scariest movie EVER? I STILL get the heebiejeebies when I'm in the water, and I live in a completely land-locked STATE!
Showing posts with label Loving Wife. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Loving Wife. Show all posts
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Good for my Ego...
I went back to work on the 7th. It was great, I was really, really happy to be back and not changing diapers, calming tantrums, or constantly breastfeeding. It was great to be valued for my thinking capabilities and not how much milk I had produced that day or how many goldfish crackers I had doled out. Still, it was a little overwhelming. The house hasn’t been the same since Garrison arrived, I like it somewhat clean and that has hardly been achieved with the constant flow of houseguests in between getting used to a colicky baby.
So, when I work, I kept thinking about how great it would be to have the house clean. One may say that I obsessed over it a bit – probably unhealthily. I trudged through the day, visiting with my fellow office-workers and wrestling with our help desk trying to get my email reconnected. Greg, who works in the same building as I do, signaled when it was time to go home; helped me pick up the kids, and off we went.
By the time we arrived at home, Garrison was crying again. Gwen was grumpy and so dinner and bathtime was a long and arduous procedure. The kids, supposed to be in bed by 7, had started to settle down by 8…a solid two-hour effort on our part. I wearily walked down the stairs, exhausted, and surveyed the toys strewn across the floor, the unfolded laundry lying in heaps on the couch, the dishes to be washed and dishwasher to be emptied…and I hit my wall.
I walked straight through the room and went down into the basement where I flopped down onto the guest bed and felt what little energy I had left leave my body. After a few minutes I thought about lifting my arms just to make sure they still worked…but decided that would require a little more effort than I had at the moment. So I just laid there and listened to the silence.
Pretty soon, I could hear Greg wandering around on our main level. I could practically hear his mind trying to figure out where I had disappeared to. I wasn’t doing dishes, wasn’t doing laundry, wasn’t picking up the room and I wasn’t upstairs with the kids…where did Christa go???
His steps meandered over towards the basement door and he thumped down the stairs. Upon seeing my prone body spread-eagled on the bed, he asked ‘You OK?’.
I gathered the energy to use my voice, ‘Yeah, just resting a minute.’
‘You want to be left alone?’
‘Yes please, that would be great.’
His brows furrowed, ‘OK.’
But he didn’t leave. He hesitated, then went over to his office and started rummaging through papers, then looked at me, then walked around the room, then went back to meaningless rummaging. He sat on the bed and patted my hand.
I didn’t respond. I didn’t really have the energy to. I think I really wanted to cry – but didn’t even have the energy to do that.
‘Tough day at work?’ he asked.
‘No’ And it wasn’t. It was an easy day at work. Everything was just piling up on me and I wasn’t sure how I was going to do it all.
‘You sad?’ then he helpfully offered ‘should we get you on some meds?’
‘No.’ And I didn’t need meds. I hadn’t had a lick of postpartum, but figured everyone needed at least a few days when they could be completely overwhelmed without having Zoloft crammed down their throats.
‘What then?’
Ugh, I groaned and sat up. And I explained it. How everything was piling up, how I wasn’t sure how I was going to do 11 credits of school this semester, how I wished Garrison would stop crying and just be happy, that I wasn’t sure how I could give both kids equal attention with Garrison being so needy, that I had some travel coming up and I didn’t want to leave, that I couldn’t keep up on the house, and cooking and keep us on a schedule, how I was utterly, and completely….overwhelmed. Tears rolled silently down my check and I slumped forward on the bed, head buried in the comforter. I was the picture of self pity.
Greg was silent for a minute, rubbing my back in deep thought. I was sort of hoping that this little display would finally convince him to pony up and get a housekeeper. I thought that was what he was rolling around in the back of his mind. I was wrong.
My husband can be one of the most tactless people alive. After years of marriage to him I can only conclude that when faced with a situation where he needs to say something meaningful and touching, his brain completely shorts out, and goes into opposite mode; where the most insane thoughts make perfect sense. This was one of those moments.
I know what Greg meant to say. What he meant to say was that I had been doing too much and that I needed to lower my expectations of everyone else and myself. However, that is not what he said. His brain, taking over and apparently attempting to kill him, decided this was the best way to phrase that sentiment:
‘Well,’ he said thoughtfully still rubbing my back, ‘This is good for you. Good for your ego. Take you down a notch or two.’
The comment hung in the air, a pregnant pause, and Greg started to realize his error. No doubt he also started rapidly calculating ways to turn what he said around, into something a little more thoughtful at the moment.
Other women probably would have burst into hysterical tears. However, for whatever reason (and this is probably why we’ve stayed married as long as we have) the sheer ridiculousness of his comments really make me laugh. I started to chuckle. I will confess it was a bit hysterical to begin with, but that evened out and I was able to muster up the energy to solidly hit him on the arm and proclaim he was a world-class jerk.
Greg looked relieved. I heaved myself off the bed and stood up. Greg stood up next to me and took my hand. ‘Let’s go clean the kitchen together and then we’ll go to bed.’ It wasn’t terribly romantic, but that’s not the life I signed up for. I sighed and nodded. It was the thing to do. So we did. And with the kitchen clean and the rest of the house a complete wreck, we fell asleep for a few quick hours of much needed rest before Garrison woke us up to start the whole exhausting routine of newborn sleeplessness all over again.
Romantic gestures are wonderful. But when the stuff is hitting the fan and the ship is sinking…I’ll take a solid partner over candlelight dinners any day of the week. Someday, those romantic days will be back. Until then we have laundry to fold and diapers to change.
So, when I work, I kept thinking about how great it would be to have the house clean. One may say that I obsessed over it a bit – probably unhealthily. I trudged through the day, visiting with my fellow office-workers and wrestling with our help desk trying to get my email reconnected. Greg, who works in the same building as I do, signaled when it was time to go home; helped me pick up the kids, and off we went.
By the time we arrived at home, Garrison was crying again. Gwen was grumpy and so dinner and bathtime was a long and arduous procedure. The kids, supposed to be in bed by 7, had started to settle down by 8…a solid two-hour effort on our part. I wearily walked down the stairs, exhausted, and surveyed the toys strewn across the floor, the unfolded laundry lying in heaps on the couch, the dishes to be washed and dishwasher to be emptied…and I hit my wall.
I walked straight through the room and went down into the basement where I flopped down onto the guest bed and felt what little energy I had left leave my body. After a few minutes I thought about lifting my arms just to make sure they still worked…but decided that would require a little more effort than I had at the moment. So I just laid there and listened to the silence.
Pretty soon, I could hear Greg wandering around on our main level. I could practically hear his mind trying to figure out where I had disappeared to. I wasn’t doing dishes, wasn’t doing laundry, wasn’t picking up the room and I wasn’t upstairs with the kids…where did Christa go???
His steps meandered over towards the basement door and he thumped down the stairs. Upon seeing my prone body spread-eagled on the bed, he asked ‘You OK?’.
I gathered the energy to use my voice, ‘Yeah, just resting a minute.’
‘You want to be left alone?’
‘Yes please, that would be great.’
His brows furrowed, ‘OK.’
But he didn’t leave. He hesitated, then went over to his office and started rummaging through papers, then looked at me, then walked around the room, then went back to meaningless rummaging. He sat on the bed and patted my hand.
I didn’t respond. I didn’t really have the energy to. I think I really wanted to cry – but didn’t even have the energy to do that.
‘Tough day at work?’ he asked.
‘No’ And it wasn’t. It was an easy day at work. Everything was just piling up on me and I wasn’t sure how I was going to do it all.
‘You sad?’ then he helpfully offered ‘should we get you on some meds?’
‘No.’ And I didn’t need meds. I hadn’t had a lick of postpartum, but figured everyone needed at least a few days when they could be completely overwhelmed without having Zoloft crammed down their throats.
‘What then?’
Ugh, I groaned and sat up. And I explained it. How everything was piling up, how I wasn’t sure how I was going to do 11 credits of school this semester, how I wished Garrison would stop crying and just be happy, that I wasn’t sure how I could give both kids equal attention with Garrison being so needy, that I had some travel coming up and I didn’t want to leave, that I couldn’t keep up on the house, and cooking and keep us on a schedule, how I was utterly, and completely….overwhelmed. Tears rolled silently down my check and I slumped forward on the bed, head buried in the comforter. I was the picture of self pity.
Greg was silent for a minute, rubbing my back in deep thought. I was sort of hoping that this little display would finally convince him to pony up and get a housekeeper. I thought that was what he was rolling around in the back of his mind. I was wrong.
My husband can be one of the most tactless people alive. After years of marriage to him I can only conclude that when faced with a situation where he needs to say something meaningful and touching, his brain completely shorts out, and goes into opposite mode; where the most insane thoughts make perfect sense. This was one of those moments.
I know what Greg meant to say. What he meant to say was that I had been doing too much and that I needed to lower my expectations of everyone else and myself. However, that is not what he said. His brain, taking over and apparently attempting to kill him, decided this was the best way to phrase that sentiment:
‘Well,’ he said thoughtfully still rubbing my back, ‘This is good for you. Good for your ego. Take you down a notch or two.’
The comment hung in the air, a pregnant pause, and Greg started to realize his error. No doubt he also started rapidly calculating ways to turn what he said around, into something a little more thoughtful at the moment.
Other women probably would have burst into hysterical tears. However, for whatever reason (and this is probably why we’ve stayed married as long as we have) the sheer ridiculousness of his comments really make me laugh. I started to chuckle. I will confess it was a bit hysterical to begin with, but that evened out and I was able to muster up the energy to solidly hit him on the arm and proclaim he was a world-class jerk.
Greg looked relieved. I heaved myself off the bed and stood up. Greg stood up next to me and took my hand. ‘Let’s go clean the kitchen together and then we’ll go to bed.’ It wasn’t terribly romantic, but that’s not the life I signed up for. I sighed and nodded. It was the thing to do. So we did. And with the kitchen clean and the rest of the house a complete wreck, we fell asleep for a few quick hours of much needed rest before Garrison woke us up to start the whole exhausting routine of newborn sleeplessness all over again.
Romantic gestures are wonderful. But when the stuff is hitting the fan and the ship is sinking…I’ll take a solid partner over candlelight dinners any day of the week. Someday, those romantic days will be back. Until then we have laundry to fold and diapers to change.
Friday, July 2, 2010
How our marriage started off
I love my husband very much, however it's true that you tend to marry your opposite, and we both have a streak of crazy running through us. This wasn't a good combination when we were first married, however after 7 years things have calmed down a bit and we have a good rythym for our lives. It's not perfect, but most of the time it works.
When we were first married, I didn't know how much my husband HATED change, and Greg had no idea how much I loved it. Change, money, and house-cleaning were our 'fight buttons' and we went to battle daily over these issues. Nothing had really prepared me for HIS particular streak of crazy either. We dated almost 3 years, and yet moving in with him was a big shock. The man was crazy (so was I - but I'm the one writing the blog and that's the perspective you signed up for by reading it), really, really crazy about particular things.
It had been about a month and a half since we'd said our vows, and pretty much all but the honeymoon had been rough patches. I was still in school, hadn't found a job since moving to Denver, and didn't have the same standards of cleanliness as Greg.
So one day Greg walks in the door after work in a complete funk. I asked him what was going on. I got the precursory 'nothing' response, but further pressing revealed that something big was wrong.
"I filled out the insurance, benefits and retirement account paperwork today for us..." he sighed deeply, almost tragically.
Thinking there was most likely a problem with my name-change, I thought I had this problem pegged. Not so. He continued:
"Do you know, that from now on, I will NEVER be able to check the 'Single' box again? I will always, from this point on, be either married, widowed, or divorced, but I will NEVER be single again!!!"
He glared at me, as this was clearly my fault, and then spun on his heel and stomped towards the bedroom.
Things have improved dramatically since that moment almost 7 years ago. True, they got worse there for a few hours, but eventually they got better. Greg isn't good with change, never has been and probably never will be. That was my first introduction to how much he hated change in general. At the time, the words stung a bit, but mostly they didn't make any sense. Now, it's been added to our ongoing list of 'Awesome Sayings Spoken in Moments of Pure Crazy' list.
When we were first married, I didn't know how much my husband HATED change, and Greg had no idea how much I loved it. Change, money, and house-cleaning were our 'fight buttons' and we went to battle daily over these issues. Nothing had really prepared me for HIS particular streak of crazy either. We dated almost 3 years, and yet moving in with him was a big shock. The man was crazy (so was I - but I'm the one writing the blog and that's the perspective you signed up for by reading it), really, really crazy about particular things.
It had been about a month and a half since we'd said our vows, and pretty much all but the honeymoon had been rough patches. I was still in school, hadn't found a job since moving to Denver, and didn't have the same standards of cleanliness as Greg.
So one day Greg walks in the door after work in a complete funk. I asked him what was going on. I got the precursory 'nothing' response, but further pressing revealed that something big was wrong.
"I filled out the insurance, benefits and retirement account paperwork today for us..." he sighed deeply, almost tragically.
Thinking there was most likely a problem with my name-change, I thought I had this problem pegged. Not so. He continued:
"Do you know, that from now on, I will NEVER be able to check the 'Single' box again? I will always, from this point on, be either married, widowed, or divorced, but I will NEVER be single again!!!"
He glared at me, as this was clearly my fault, and then spun on his heel and stomped towards the bedroom.
Things have improved dramatically since that moment almost 7 years ago. True, they got worse there for a few hours, but eventually they got better. Greg isn't good with change, never has been and probably never will be. That was my first introduction to how much he hated change in general. At the time, the words stung a bit, but mostly they didn't make any sense. Now, it's been added to our ongoing list of 'Awesome Sayings Spoken in Moments of Pure Crazy' list.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Laundry
Today was a big laundry day. I despise doing laundry with every cell in my body. My husband isn't much better. His laundry method is to throw all the clothes in the washer, switch them to the dryer, and then set them on the couch for days on end, or until the wrinkles become permanent fixtures in the fabric - whichever comes first.
I had, I kid you not, about nine daunting loads to do today. Greg took Gwen to daycare so I could accomplish this task without the constant 'help' of little hands overturning neatly folded baskets of freshly laundered clothes, leaving me home with just Garrison. And his colic hasn't improved much.
Still, he naps a lot, and in the first couple hours of the day I cleaned a bathroom, changed the sheets in two rooms, finished four of the laundry loads and reorganized my linen closet. After these amazing accomplishments, Garrison decided to start the day, and from then on it was quick 30 minute bursts of activity followed by soothing, nursing, changing and rocking while listening to a cacophony of ear-piercing shrieks (I like to pretend we're in a constant state of Opposite Day and they're really enthusiastic THANK YOU!!!!s. Usually this doesn't work at all to improve my mood)
So by the time hubby came home, I had done all of the above PLUS learned how to effectively fold fitted sheets (thanks Grandma!) completed 3 more loads (including putting away all the clothes I had folded) and only had a load and a half left. But, Garrison had reached critical mass, my grandparents had shown up for dinner, and I had to leave the last bits of clothes on the bed to be folded later on that evening.
Later on, I had just finished bathing Garrison, put him down to bed, and was grabbing a quick drink of water before tackling our daughter's bedtime ritual when Mr. Immagetyoufurious goes upstairs.
"What did you think of the linen closet?" I called up to him happily, expecting a few nice compliments.
"Ehhh. What's with all the towels on the floor?"
"Huh? Oh, I'm bringing those downstairs - they're the kitchen towels"
"Oh...." *moving on to other important things*
Not quite the response I was looking for...but whatever. I had the last load drying and was getting ready to bring it upstairs.
Greg went to his energy meter (It's a monitor of how many kilowatts we're using at any given moment - another post for another time) and looks at our current energy load.
"Leave it to you!" He exclaims "Hottest day of the year and you're running the AC AND the dryer. Have you SEEN how much energy we're consuming right now?!"
I'm fairly certain Greg meant this as a casual point of conversation. I also think he was genuinely interested in how much energy we were using and didn't quite mean it to sound the way it did. However, he followed it up with a fatal:
"So...I was really hoping to go to bed soon. Should we start putting those clothes away?" With a clear "You did nothing you said you'd do today and I view you as a complete failure in life" tone of voice.
There are moments (admittedly a lot more lately than there used to be) when that whole 'Loving Wife' plan goes completely to pieces. It's about the same time that I turn into a scary, fire-breathing dragon and am capable of roasting people to crisp marshmallows with a torrent of well-placed verbiage.
The good news is that I can really channel that energy and fold clothes at like, quadruple time, AND clean the kitchen AND move the towels AND write a blog.
...If I were angry a lot more I imagine that my house would be a lot cleaner...
The bad news is I eventually have to apologize for the epic ass-chewing.
Blogging about it was a bit easier at the moment.
I had, I kid you not, about nine daunting loads to do today. Greg took Gwen to daycare so I could accomplish this task without the constant 'help' of little hands overturning neatly folded baskets of freshly laundered clothes, leaving me home with just Garrison. And his colic hasn't improved much.
Still, he naps a lot, and in the first couple hours of the day I cleaned a bathroom, changed the sheets in two rooms, finished four of the laundry loads and reorganized my linen closet. After these amazing accomplishments, Garrison decided to start the day, and from then on it was quick 30 minute bursts of activity followed by soothing, nursing, changing and rocking while listening to a cacophony of ear-piercing shrieks (I like to pretend we're in a constant state of Opposite Day and they're really enthusiastic THANK YOU!!!!s. Usually this doesn't work at all to improve my mood)
So by the time hubby came home, I had done all of the above PLUS learned how to effectively fold fitted sheets (thanks Grandma!) completed 3 more loads (including putting away all the clothes I had folded) and only had a load and a half left. But, Garrison had reached critical mass, my grandparents had shown up for dinner, and I had to leave the last bits of clothes on the bed to be folded later on that evening.
Later on, I had just finished bathing Garrison, put him down to bed, and was grabbing a quick drink of water before tackling our daughter's bedtime ritual when Mr. Immagetyoufurious goes upstairs.
"What did you think of the linen closet?" I called up to him happily, expecting a few nice compliments.
"Ehhh. What's with all the towels on the floor?"
"Huh? Oh, I'm bringing those downstairs - they're the kitchen towels"
"Oh...." *moving on to other important things*
Not quite the response I was looking for...but whatever. I had the last load drying and was getting ready to bring it upstairs.
Greg went to his energy meter (It's a monitor of how many kilowatts we're using at any given moment - another post for another time) and looks at our current energy load.
"Leave it to you!" He exclaims "Hottest day of the year and you're running the AC AND the dryer. Have you SEEN how much energy we're consuming right now?!"
I'm fairly certain Greg meant this as a casual point of conversation. I also think he was genuinely interested in how much energy we were using and didn't quite mean it to sound the way it did. However, he followed it up with a fatal:
"So...I was really hoping to go to bed soon. Should we start putting those clothes away?" With a clear "You did nothing you said you'd do today and I view you as a complete failure in life" tone of voice.
There are moments (admittedly a lot more lately than there used to be) when that whole 'Loving Wife' plan goes completely to pieces. It's about the same time that I turn into a scary, fire-breathing dragon and am capable of roasting people to crisp marshmallows with a torrent of well-placed verbiage.
The good news is that I can really channel that energy and fold clothes at like, quadruple time, AND clean the kitchen AND move the towels AND write a blog.
...If I were angry a lot more I imagine that my house would be a lot cleaner...
The bad news is I eventually have to apologize for the epic ass-chewing.
Blogging about it was a bit easier at the moment.
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Rumbling Stroller
Yesterday was Father's Day. I could post something sappy about how wonderful a father my husband is (and he is) but I feel that wouldn't be in keeping with the spirit of this blog. So I'll share a real-life harrowing dad story of when our daughter was first born.
We were still on maternity leave, and Greg was with me, so our little girl, Gwen, couldn't have been more than a week old at the time. Wanting to get out of the house, we decided to go to the swanky mall down the road a ways.
We were in Williams Sonoma (another testimony to how great Greg actually is - he was willing to tag along and do this shopping with me) Greg, me and Gwen with a friend of ours. I was pushing the stroller with Greg behind me and our friend, Danny, behind Greg; all navigating through the narrow aisles housing unique and completely overpriced items that I would love to own but would, in actuality, rarely use.
Then something strange happened. The whole stroller started rumbling, as if an isolated earthquake was right in that local, accompanied by a rather rude growling-trumpety noise.
This went on for longer than you'd think.
Bewildered, I stared at Gwen, who looked back at me with a strange, newborn look on her face. Greg looked at me and asked, with a smirk on his face "What was THAT?!"
"I think it was Gwen!" I replied. This promoted grade-school snickering from Greg and a polite look-away from Danny.
"No really, I think it was her!"
"Honey, that was QUITE a noise for a newborn..."
But then Gwen, bless her, vindicated me in a way that I would soon regret: light brown liquid had begun seeping up her waist, had soaked through her blanket and was quickly on her way up to her chest. Danny, Greg and I all stared down with increasing horror at what was turning into an epic mess.
"What do we DO?!" I hissed at Greg. "We are in Williams-Freakin'-Sonoma. These things don't happen here!"
Greg, panic in his eyes, thought quickly and pointed heroically out towards the door. "TO THE BATHROOMS! QUICK!"
You know that scene in Lord of the Rings where the party is running through the Mines of Moria in an attempt to escape the Balrog? That was us. We flew through the mall, pushing Gwen faster than was probably safe, watching the brown stain ooze up her onsie well on its way to her neck at this point.
There was a family bathroom, thank God, and we rushed into it with our faithful friend, Danny, standing guard outside ("You, shall not... PASS!!!!").
But this presented another problem. We had to get Gwen out of the stroller. This meant peeling away the blankets to reveal the damage underneath.
It was worse than you are probably capable of imagining.
I had no idea that much of anything could come out of Gwen's 7-pound little body. As a new mother, I was also slightly surprised it hadn't killed her.
However, these thoughts were brief as my amazingly sensitive gag-reflex decided to kick in and I started retching violently. My gags, hacks and coughs echoed impressively around the tiled walls.
Greg, assessing the situation, quickly sprang into action. He unclipped Gwen, and removed her gently from the stroller. I set to work cleaning up the actual seat while Greg began the rather complicated task of removing Gwen's onesie, trying to pull it over her head without contaminating her face too badly. While sitting on the toilet, balancing her floppy little body. Once she was naked, I removed the diaper and set to trying to use wipes to clean her up.
It was as futile as using bubble wands to clean up the BP Oil Spill.
We eyed Gwen, dangling from Greg's arms.
We eyed the sink.
We calculated whether or not we would still be good parents if we rinsed our newborn daughter in the sink. We decided no one needed to know.
(Except, of course you, almost 2 years later)
And, we rinsed her off.
It wasn't pretty, she wasn't happy, but the Parenting Police didn't show up so I guess it turned out all right.
We dried her off with bathroom paper towels and quickly dressed her in a backup outfit. Flipping the blanket over and folding it strategically, we covered her back up in the fairly-clean stroller.
If Danny wondered why Gwen smelled so strongly of bathroom anti-bacterial soap, he never did say. But we did decide it was time to head home. Gwen was stressed, I was stressed, Greg was stressed and Danny needed a beer.
Parenting is very much a dual effort. When one of you is heaving violently, the other one needs to kick it up a notch and deal with something that the books didn't have the heart to address.
Eventually, you too, may have to deal with something like this (or you have already dealt with something like this) and all I can say is I hope you have a partner like mine who can step it up when needed and surprise you both.
Happy Father's Day Babe.
We were still on maternity leave, and Greg was with me, so our little girl, Gwen, couldn't have been more than a week old at the time. Wanting to get out of the house, we decided to go to the swanky mall down the road a ways.
We were in Williams Sonoma (another testimony to how great Greg actually is - he was willing to tag along and do this shopping with me) Greg, me and Gwen with a friend of ours. I was pushing the stroller with Greg behind me and our friend, Danny, behind Greg; all navigating through the narrow aisles housing unique and completely overpriced items that I would love to own but would, in actuality, rarely use.
Then something strange happened. The whole stroller started rumbling, as if an isolated earthquake was right in that local, accompanied by a rather rude growling-trumpety noise.
This went on for longer than you'd think.
Bewildered, I stared at Gwen, who looked back at me with a strange, newborn look on her face. Greg looked at me and asked, with a smirk on his face "What was THAT?!"
"I think it was Gwen!" I replied. This promoted grade-school snickering from Greg and a polite look-away from Danny.
"No really, I think it was her!"
"Honey, that was QUITE a noise for a newborn..."
But then Gwen, bless her, vindicated me in a way that I would soon regret: light brown liquid had begun seeping up her waist, had soaked through her blanket and was quickly on her way up to her chest. Danny, Greg and I all stared down with increasing horror at what was turning into an epic mess.
"What do we DO?!" I hissed at Greg. "We are in Williams-Freakin'-Sonoma. These things don't happen here!"
Greg, panic in his eyes, thought quickly and pointed heroically out towards the door. "TO THE BATHROOMS! QUICK!"
You know that scene in Lord of the Rings where the party is running through the Mines of Moria in an attempt to escape the Balrog? That was us. We flew through the mall, pushing Gwen faster than was probably safe, watching the brown stain ooze up her onsie well on its way to her neck at this point.
There was a family bathroom, thank God, and we rushed into it with our faithful friend, Danny, standing guard outside ("You, shall not... PASS!!!!").
But this presented another problem. We had to get Gwen out of the stroller. This meant peeling away the blankets to reveal the damage underneath.
It was worse than you are probably capable of imagining.
I had no idea that much of anything could come out of Gwen's 7-pound little body. As a new mother, I was also slightly surprised it hadn't killed her.
However, these thoughts were brief as my amazingly sensitive gag-reflex decided to kick in and I started retching violently. My gags, hacks and coughs echoed impressively around the tiled walls.
Greg, assessing the situation, quickly sprang into action. He unclipped Gwen, and removed her gently from the stroller. I set to work cleaning up the actual seat while Greg began the rather complicated task of removing Gwen's onesie, trying to pull it over her head without contaminating her face too badly. While sitting on the toilet, balancing her floppy little body. Once she was naked, I removed the diaper and set to trying to use wipes to clean her up.
It was as futile as using bubble wands to clean up the BP Oil Spill.
We eyed Gwen, dangling from Greg's arms.
We eyed the sink.
We calculated whether or not we would still be good parents if we rinsed our newborn daughter in the sink. We decided no one needed to know.
(Except, of course you, almost 2 years later)
And, we rinsed her off.
It wasn't pretty, she wasn't happy, but the Parenting Police didn't show up so I guess it turned out all right.
We dried her off with bathroom paper towels and quickly dressed her in a backup outfit. Flipping the blanket over and folding it strategically, we covered her back up in the fairly-clean stroller.
If Danny wondered why Gwen smelled so strongly of bathroom anti-bacterial soap, he never did say. But we did decide it was time to head home. Gwen was stressed, I was stressed, Greg was stressed and Danny needed a beer.
Parenting is very much a dual effort. When one of you is heaving violently, the other one needs to kick it up a notch and deal with something that the books didn't have the heart to address.
Eventually, you too, may have to deal with something like this (or you have already dealt with something like this) and all I can say is I hope you have a partner like mine who can step it up when needed and surprise you both.
Happy Father's Day Babe.
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