My mom wants me to be a food blogger, my sister thinks i should be a food critic, and my friends think i should write about being a new mom. I would like to write about all of those things, but i just feel like there are so many, and by so many i mean SO MANY blogs out there about food and being a mom that mine would just get lost in the shuffle. I think i would need a focus--some kind of point. Like when that girl cooked everything in Julia Child's cookbook and blogged about it. I could do that! Well, maybe not that cookbook--i'm not so into the buying the bird and killing it and plucking its feathers out. I'm more into the buy the bird all chopped up and bloodless and frozen and then we have something to work with! Maybe Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution? I've already made a lot of those recipes though. And they were all phenomenol. So those could work. Maybe. Then there's the mommy stuff. I don't really feel like i have much advice to give other moms. I use disposable diapers, she sleeps in our bed, and i feed her pureed foods. Pretty much all the things that will immediately, if not sooner, get me kicked out of the mommy club or mommy/baby gatherings or the mommy/baby ent-moot or whatever they call it these days. But that's just who i am. That's what works for me. That's my journey, man. So off i go to try to come up with some new, clever, eye-catching popular blog that people all over the world will rejoice to read and I will become incredibly rich.
Oh, but if you have any ideas that may work for me, tell me! Cuz that would be awsome!
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
of a Tuesday evening, sliding into Wednesday morning
My beautiful Stella is asleep. She is asleep in bed with her daddy and is cuddling up to him and flipping herself sideways so that her feet are on his shoulders and back. I go over and turn her the right way and make sure she's still breathing. She has a dastardly cold and I want to make sure that her nose has a clear path for breathing and isn't mashed down into the bed so that no air could ever get through, no matter how determined. Her breathing is labored and filled with more snot then ever should fit into such a tiny body, but she is breathing. And she is with her daddy, so i do NOT need to go check on her again......right?
Ok, so instead of opening the door to go watch her little belly rise up and down, i'm going to wash all of the various and sundry items we have been using for Stella's sneezes and coughs and watery eyes. I throw everything in the washing machine and go sit down with some oreos and milk and turn on Sex and the City, because, yes dear friends, i own the Big Pink Box. It is courtesy of the best husband ever in the history of the universe, who also will watch them with me sometimes and he knows all the characters and all about their lives and why Carrie couldn't be with Aidan, even though we really all did love him, and Big could definitely be an ass, but you just loved him and knew he had it in him all along!
The washing machine finishes its duties, and most of the items come popping out and then go flying willy-nilly into the dryer, all ready for their next adventure. But a small handful i hold onto as i shut the dryer door. I have a special place for these. I walk into the nursery/guest room (we have a very very tiny apartment) and start laying out onto my drying rack small, square, filmy pieces of my past. They are handkerchiefs that belonged to my grandmother--my father's mother--my Memom. Memom has been gone these ten years, and yet her handkerchiefs are in regular rotation. I tuck one in my purse if i know i'm going to see a very sad movie; i take one along if i'm on an outdoor excursion and i'm afraid i'll have an Attack of the Sneezes. I use them all the time, and now i'm using them for my beautiful Stella.
Her poor little runny nose was getting wiped so much that it was beginning to get raw. I decided "enough with the toilet paper and burp cloth!"--she needed something as soft and as beautiful as she is. I chose the handkerchiefs. Some are riotous with color and flowers, others are delicate with barely there embroidery. One of them has a "G" stitched in the corner--i can only assume it stands for Memom's maiden name, Grambo. If so, that is a very old handkerchief that is draped over my drying rack, blowing slightly from the heat wafting down quietly from the vents, and it could have been made by Miss Grambo herself when she worked as a seamstress. Another one has a letter on it that may be an "M" or may be a "W," which could stand for either Mary, her first name, or Wood, her married name. But it also could have belonged to my grandfather's sister, whose name was Mamie Kate Wood. There's no way to know now--Memom and Pop have been gone for a decade, Kate went a few years before them. There is no one left that could know for sure the history of these hankies, but history they have, and history they will continue to make, as i use them to wipe my beautiful Stella's face and tell her all about her wonderful ancestors who would have loved her so very much.
Ok, so instead of opening the door to go watch her little belly rise up and down, i'm going to wash all of the various and sundry items we have been using for Stella's sneezes and coughs and watery eyes. I throw everything in the washing machine and go sit down with some oreos and milk and turn on Sex and the City, because, yes dear friends, i own the Big Pink Box. It is courtesy of the best husband ever in the history of the universe, who also will watch them with me sometimes and he knows all the characters and all about their lives and why Carrie couldn't be with Aidan, even though we really all did love him, and Big could definitely be an ass, but you just loved him and knew he had it in him all along!
The washing machine finishes its duties, and most of the items come popping out and then go flying willy-nilly into the dryer, all ready for their next adventure. But a small handful i hold onto as i shut the dryer door. I have a special place for these. I walk into the nursery/guest room (we have a very very tiny apartment) and start laying out onto my drying rack small, square, filmy pieces of my past. They are handkerchiefs that belonged to my grandmother--my father's mother--my Memom. Memom has been gone these ten years, and yet her handkerchiefs are in regular rotation. I tuck one in my purse if i know i'm going to see a very sad movie; i take one along if i'm on an outdoor excursion and i'm afraid i'll have an Attack of the Sneezes. I use them all the time, and now i'm using them for my beautiful Stella.
Her poor little runny nose was getting wiped so much that it was beginning to get raw. I decided "enough with the toilet paper and burp cloth!"--she needed something as soft and as beautiful as she is. I chose the handkerchiefs. Some are riotous with color and flowers, others are delicate with barely there embroidery. One of them has a "G" stitched in the corner--i can only assume it stands for Memom's maiden name, Grambo. If so, that is a very old handkerchief that is draped over my drying rack, blowing slightly from the heat wafting down quietly from the vents, and it could have been made by Miss Grambo herself when she worked as a seamstress. Another one has a letter on it that may be an "M" or may be a "W," which could stand for either Mary, her first name, or Wood, her married name. But it also could have belonged to my grandfather's sister, whose name was Mamie Kate Wood. There's no way to know now--Memom and Pop have been gone for a decade, Kate went a few years before them. There is no one left that could know for sure the history of these hankies, but history they have, and history they will continue to make, as i use them to wipe my beautiful Stella's face and tell her all about her wonderful ancestors who would have loved her so very much.
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