girlfiend

Boyfiend’s sister and her boyfriend bought a house a few blocks from us and Boyfiend’s been over there non-stop all week leaving me alone with the baby. He’s been home to put the Fiendling to sleep and he’s been around in the mornings, but he’s very conveniently missing the fussy late afternoon/early evenings.

Yesterday the temperature was in the 90s and the Fiendling refused to nap. I tried for more than an hour to get him to sleep indoors because it was way too hot for him to sleep in the stroller or the car. Then I walked him around in the stroller forever, trying to get him to sleep. He never fell asleep and by the time Boyfiend got home at 8 to put him down I really wanted a drink. I’d cooked dinner, but I was way too hot to eat it so I made a margarita. Then another. Then one more. I may have eaten something at some point, but I have no recollection of it if I did.

By the time Boyfiend got home at midnight I was passed out on the floor. He shook me awake and I told him how to properly prepare beets. Then, after seeing if I’d be up for some drunk sex and realizing I was way too drunk for that kind of activity, he tried to get me to bed and failed. He said he slept on the floor with me until 3. I woke up around 5 to the the sound of sad baby. I brought the Fiendling into bed with me and we slept until just after 8.

Surprisingly , I’m not too hungover. Standing and walking is a bit difficult, but I don’t have a headache or feel sick. Boyfiend brought me coffee and a bagel so I’ve got some food in my system. I’m hoping the nap strike is over so I can have a nap this afternoon.

The Perfect, Potent Margarita

3 oz Tequila

2 oz triple sec

1 oz fresh squeezed lime juice

1 teaspoon powdered sugar

shake with ice until the shaker is frosty. Serve in a glass with a salted rim with wedge of lime.

I recommend drinking these on a full stomach with some chips and guacamole.

Remember how I said I wasn’t going to diet*?

The next day I stepped on the scale and learned that the 5-6 pounds I gained was more like 8. It really snuck up on me. Considering I still work out 3 days a week and eat pretty well, I couldn’t figure out where it came from. Then I remembered. Like many mothers before me I’ve fallen into the trap of eating what the baby doesn’t. Sort of. I don’t finish what’s on his plate or anything, but I tend to eat what he eats for lunch and Cheddar Bunnies and various types of cheesy rice and pasta aren’t the lowest calorie foods.

I think the few bites of his meals in addition to the regularly scheduled meals have really caught up with me. My metabolism isn’t what it used to be and even though I’m still working out I’m not working out with the intensity I once did. I used to work out for two hours at a time. I was lifting 3 days, doing yoga 3 days and doing cardio 5 days a week. Now I’m lucky if I lift 3 days and fit in cardio 2 days. I went to yoga for the first time since early May yesterday.

But I’m still not going to diet. On Saturday I decided to document everything I ate. Because I was writing it down (and I wrote down the three bites of black cherry water ice) I was conscious of what went into my mouth. Instead of eating every bite the Fiendling tried to feed me, and he loves feeding other people, I said “no thanks” and kept my mouth shut. Instead of the usual bagel for breakfast I made a fruit smoothie. Instead of goat cheese and crackers for lunch I ate homemade hummus and beet greens with sauteed garlic scapes on whole wheat pita. I ate a bunch of fresh fruit and a few crackers with peanut butter for snacks. For dinner I ate most of a tofu, rice and cheese stuffed pepper with a side of swiss chard.

I stopped writing stuff down after lunch yesterday, but I’m still paying close attention to what I eat. Since I weighed myself on Friday morning I’ve lost 2 pounds. I’d like to lose a few more so my too-small shorts will button over my gut again. It will be interesting to see if I lose any more by next week when I weigh myself again.

*In that post I referenced maternity fashion. Today at Old Navy almost every fucking mannequin looked pregnant. This hoodie looks just like every maternity shirt I bought from Old Navy. And the trapeze shirt? It appears to nip in at the waist in the photo on the website, but the model in the picture in the store looked like she was wearing a tent. It’s wrong, I tell you. Though perhaps not as wrong as the maternity-like dress with a balloon sleeve.

We had a rough evening. The Fiendling was tired and cranky and throwing cans of cat food. He fought through his bath and didn’t want to get dressed afterwards. And bedtime is the worst. He goes to sleep fine for his father but all the Fiendling wants to do when I put him down is nurse and pinch and slap me around. Boyfiend’s gone for the night and I really wanted to be able to relax and enjoy rocking the Fiendling to sleep but it was painful and frustrating and I couldn’t. Why does he have to nurse with me when he goes to sleep fine with his dad? Will he ever be ready to wean? He switched sides and I thought about just putting him in his crib to cry. I mean the boy has to learn how to fall asleep on his own some time. Instead, frustrated, I rocked him some more while he fitfully nursed.

Then he sat up, looked around and signed for more milk. I said, “No, sweet pea. No more. It’s all gone. It’s time to go to sleep.” He shook his head no and tugged at my shirt. I said, “All gone. Time to sleep.” He shook his head no some more, flopped over, looked up at me and smiled. I kissed his forehead, whispered the words to the book Counting Kisses, and listened to him babble as we rocked. He said cat a few times and hot and I agreed that yes, he was a little bit sweaty and it was hot. I listened to his sweet voice say cat a few more times. He was quiet for a while but his eyes were still open and I tried to put him down. He whimpered and shook his head no. I sat back down and rocked him a few minutes longer. I stood and he didn’t protest. I put him down in his crib, eyes open, told him I love him, turned his music on and left the room.

I’m glad I didn’t let my frustration get the best of me. I’m glad I stayed.

I feel sort of pathetic for being so obsessed with this, but I’m at my mom’s shore house and shore means bathing suit so it’s on my mind.

After the great stomach flu incidents I’ve gained back some of the weight I lost. Not a lot. Just 5 or 6 pounds. But those pounds mean that two pairs of shorts don’t fit comfortably and I have a rule that I absolutely refuse to even attempt to wear something that doesn’t fit comfortably. So for shorts I’m down to two pairs I bought from Target on a whim (that fit okay, but not well by any stretch of the imagination) and last year’s way too big post-pregnancy shorts. I have one casual, flowy (yet totally see through) skirt, one long linen way-too wrinkly skirt, and a denim skirt that’s not flattering so I won’t wear it any more. I have one pair of denim capris that are way too hot, but I wear them almost every day and one pair of khaki stretch capris from Old Navy that still fit, but are super-low rise so I only wear them when a shirt of the appropriate length is clean. And almost none of my shirts are long enough. All of the pre-pregnancy stuff is still way too small on top and I’m beginning to think I just wore a lot of belly shirts because my belly was once toned and flat. Now? It’s not toned and flat enough for me to be okay with belly shirts. I have three new t-shirts of appropriate lengths, a couple of nicer t-shirts to wear out, and four long tank tops.

Now that I’ve listed it it’s not a terrible selection, but it’s tough to go to playgroup once a week and think, oh shit, I wore this exact outfit last week.

And the extra weight? I’ve decided not to lose. I thought about it and even stopped eating carbs after noon one day. But then I figured that I may try to get pregnant again at some point and what’s the point of suffering when I’m still nursing? So I’m not buying any new clothes. And I’m not dieting. And let’s hope I do decide to get pregnant soon because tell me internet, what’s up with the maternity clothes? Seriously. The fashion, yes, I said fashion, is maternity. I went to a college graduation party and I was very worried that EVERY WOMAN THERE was pregnant until I realized that they were all just wearing shirts or dresses with empire waists. Look at this. And this. And this. Because, really, they all look like they could be maternity clothes and that’s not right, because when I was pregnant I would have killed for cute, regular, non-maternity clothes that were forgiving enough to be warn as maternity. So if you’re pregnant, you’re really lucky. And if you’re not, wear something that doesn’t make people wonder if that’s a bump you’re hiding.

If you ever decide to make a labor intensive Moroccan recipe using phyllo dough, don’t pick the easier recipe. Go directly to the complex, more authentic one. I made a b’stilla again last night, and oh my god, it was delicious.

Chicken simmered with onion, garlic, ginger, pepper and ras el hanout is shredded and combined with egg, parsley(fresh from Junkiegirl’s garden), cilantro (fresh from my garden) and lemon juice and layered with almond sugar then baked in phyllo dough. It was amazing. Even the Fiendling ate it.

and one more just because

The Fiendling’s 15th month was a tough one with the cast and it’s hard to tell what’s a new development and what’s not, but here are a few notes so I don’t forget

He’s getting to be neurotic like me. He doesn’t like when his hands get dirty and he wipes them on the nearest shirt, usually mine. He also picks up crumbs from the floor and hands them to me. His favorite new toys include a small broom, the dustbuster, a dustpan and brush, and a swiffer I’ve modified so it’s his height. He’s not so good at cleaning yet, but I love that he’s trying.

His vocabulary has really stalled, but he’s babbling constantly these days. He sings to himself and talks to himself and correctly calls Boyfiend and I “daddy” and “mom” when he sees us.

He loves splashing in the baby pool and even though he was freezing and his lips had turned blue he cried when I took him out of it the other day.

He’s getting good at figuring things out, like gate latches and doorknobs and bottle caps. He knows how to unscrew, how to latch and unlatch our front gate, our side gate and our neighbor’s gate and is working on figuring out the baby gates.  I’m not encouraging that one.

He just started really climbing yesterday. The cast really slowed him down on that one. He climbed up on the couch several times and got himself down without injury.

He understands everything, and shakes his head yes or no (usually no) when you ask him questions.

He’s getting better about eating. He’s suddenly developed a bit of an appetite and eats more than he ever has before.

Most nights he goes to sleep without nursing, but he still nurses (sometimes for hours) in the morning and cries if he sees Boyfiend instead of me first thing.

He has a very good memory. He knows where things go, and where to find things in places we visit. For example, the library has a cat shaped door stop which he seeks out every time we go.

He loves Doodlebug and Baby Doodle and would rather sit them than me when we’re just about anyplace.

He’s still very stingy with his kisses, but he hugs often.

Opening and closing doors is still a favorite pastime.

He’s still a Cheddar Bunny addict.

Ever since I took a free composting class last month  I’ve been a little bit out of control with the recycling. I’ve always tried to be conscious about waste, but the city of Philadelphia only picks up glass, cans and newspapers for recycling and it never occurred to me that I could just bring cardboard and plastics to the monthly recycling drop off point until this past first Saturday of the month. So now in addition to the too many bottles and cans (yes, perhaps we do drink too much, or at least entertain too much) I’m now hanging on to cardboard boxes, junk mail and the recyclable plastics the city will accept.

I used to just save most of my vegetable scraps for stock, now I’m saving them for compost along with coffee grinds and yard clippings. That doesn’t sound too bad until you factor in that I’ve started saving kitchen water for watering the garden. Every time I steam vegetables, wash dishes, soak greens or boil potatoes I pour the water into a big empty cat litter container and use it to water the plants indoors and out. Now there’s one more thing in the kitchen for the Fiendling to get his hands into, as though the trash can and compost bin weren’t bad enough.

I am such a dork. I somehow got sucked into Yahoo answers. My answer, since I obviously know EVERYTHING, has been picked for best answer twice. I rule.

It was bike race weekend which means after a graduation party on Saturday we came home, put the Fiendling to bed, mixed up a couple of margaritas and sat on the front porch to watch the drunken hordes. We live near “the wall” and every year the Saturday night before the race is the suicide run where drunks bring any vehicle on wheels to the top of the hill and race to the bottom. I’ve never witnessed the actual downhill race as the police presence has made it just about impossible for anyone to get down the hill, but it’s fun to watch the people head over and even more fun to watch them head back.

The most interesting person to pass our yard was an Irish boy. This poor kid was walking by the house and stopped to chat when he saw Boyfiend and I outside. In an Irish sounding brogue he asked what there was to do around here. Surprised that he didn’t notice all of the activity we mentioned the bike race. He admitted he knew about the race, but he didn’t see what was so exciting about a bunch of men in spandex. We conceded his point, but told him that the race was a good time not just for the actual biking, but because of the spectacle. It’s basically just an enormous block party and the people watching is just as much fun as the race watching. He still thought it sounded boring though and again asked what there was to in Philadelphia.

The kid was dressed in camouflage and army boots with long hair in a ponytail and a goofy little mustache that just kind of looked dirty. We asked where he was from (County Claire) and what he was doing here (visiting a friend for a while.) He said he was too young to drink and everything else was boring and no one will talk to him and there’s nothing to do. We asked where he’d been and he told us he was attending the local high school and he’d gone to a few diners and the McDon@ld’s at Broad and Arch. Well of course there was no one to talk to. Instead of going out and meeting people in the city he’s been slumming it in our practically suburban neighborhood where most of the boys (and girls) his age are too busy cursing in the streets, smoking cigarettes, harassing people and spraying the walls with crappy graffiti to make conversation.

We gave him the names of a couple of places to check out and sections of the city where he’d be more likely to meet people who like to talk and told him that he was wasting his time with us. He should be stopping in places where there were girls with red cups. Boyfiend stressed that girls with red cups, especially the really drunk looking ones would be much better company than a lame married couple and I added that chicks love guys with accents. He laughed and continued down the street. Boyfiend went back in the house to make another drink and I watched the boy walk off. Instead of heading towards the noise he stopped in the crappy corner store.

When Boyfiend came back out of the house I asked, “What was up with the fake Irish accent?” Boyfiend laughed and said he was wondering the same thing. The next day, bike race day proper,  I saw him again. He said hello and stopped at a party and chatted with a few people at least ten years older than he is. One of the girls turned to me after he left and asked, “Why was he faking an Irish accent?”

Sadly, I’m sure the kid is just out of place in the neighborhood and doesn’t know how to make friends. Rather than expand his social scene by leaving the neighborhood he fakes an Irish accent to make himself seem more interesting to adults. I feel sorry for him and wish there was something I could do, but I’m not his teacher and who knows if I’ll see him again.  I have the feeling I may see more of him.  It seems like he was grateful to have someone to talk to and might show up again. Or not. It’s just sad to see a misfit. I’m sure the kids around here mock him mercilessly, especially kids at the high school. It’s not a good place to be different.