Sir Brutus Briscoe

I've been putting it off all week because writing it will make it more real, but I can't deny him his proper memorial any longer.
On Tuesday,  July 1 my husband and I let go of our cherished and loved Brutus.  His disease, degenerative mylopathy, had progressed to his shoulders.  As such his breathing was far too labored and he could no longer pull himself to his food and water bowl. A bladder infection returned because he could no longer empty himself,  even with our help. The description of his condition may lead you to believe he was in pain and suffering on a daily basis.  On the contrary,  he did not have pain, a sadistic twist to this disease because he was more likely to injure himself trying to do what he had always done. You could see looking into his eyes that he was otherwise happy, content with being wrapped up in my arms or just sitting next to me with his head on my knee. So the decision to release him of the prison his body had become was the hardest decision we ever had to make because it was inability not pain that haunted him. We did everything we could to elongate the quality of his life, including the purchase of a wheelchair. In the end, the disease won, as we knew it would, and I refused to allow him to struggle to breathe.
Brutus was an amazing friend.  Right from puppy hood he wanted nothing more than to be with you and be touched. A hand, a foot, your head because you've turned him into a pillow,  it didn't matter, just contact would make him content.  He was well behaved,  an ambassador for the bully breeds. I would encourage everyone, especially children who were afraid of dogs to come meet him because he was guaranteed to help lift their fears. He never met hands he didn't want to be petted by. He loved little hands most.
He was my shadow and prepared me well for using the bathroom with an audience as he never liked me to be out of sight. He was afraid of the dark, prompting several nightlights all over our tiny condo. He was a gentleman,  minding his manners and keeping the sniffing to a minimum.  He didn't give many kisses, but those he did give were loving and gentle. He was a rock under that soft warm fur. He was my rock. Whether argument with the husband or bad day at work or betrayal of a friend,  it didn't matter he was there for me to cling to.
When my daughter was born he became a natural nurse and protector, just watching over her, just being near. Soon she was using him as a teething toy, then a climbing rock and then a stool. I am so grateful he was there for her first steps, having been the soft landing for so many failed attempts. 
After Arizona died, my heart broken in two, Brutus mended me and kept me moving forward.  But he never left my side. He was my balance.
Brutus was a good dog. My best friend,  one of my daughter's first words, sorta. It's not fair what the universe dealt him as his ending, he was only 9 1/2, he had a heart that should have seen 15.
My dear friend, my cherished Brutus. My 'tan', my 'tanny manny'. I was able to hold him as he left me, for that I am grateful.  I told him I loved him, that he was a good dog and a good friend.  I thanked him. I told him to dream of running. I held on tightly, and he left me so gently.  

Cleaning Trick #140525

Silly wabbit, I don't have any REAL cleaning tricks. Well, actually just one. If you spill red wine on a white carpet, quickly spill white wine on the spill and it will prevent a stain. Should you be drinking solo or are all out of white wine, get your party guests to lift your couches as you turn your area rug counterclockwise until the impending stain will be safely hidden under a sofa or table. Note: this trick is limited in how many times you can use it.
Anyway, cleaning tonight was a challenge. My wonderful mother came by today to watch my daughter as I cleaned my upstairs and my husband cleaned our basement. So naturally for the first two hours my mother was here I went grocery shopping.
So, after putting away groceries and cooking dinner in a hurry, I started to clean the kitchen. Well, kinda. I played musical countertops. You know, the game where you take everything off most of the counters and dump it on one counter, so the clutter is pile high versus spread out. Somehow, the effect is a seemingly neater house. Same amount of junk cluttered differently appears to shrink.
Now, musical countertops has long been a staple of my cleaning routine. I usually, as I did today, pile everything on the kitchen table where I can comfortably sit with my morning coffee and go through the junk mail that seems to multiply in the mail box like some sort of petri dish. And if you are being completely honest, I am sure you've played some version of musical countertops at least a couple times. Sometimes, it is all the cleaning I have energy for. I did after all vacuum this morning, grocery shop, put away the groceries, cook dinner, feed the baby several times, play with the baby and figured out how to download the program required to transfer the pictures from my cell phone to my MAC. I haven't figured out how to transfer pictures, so that is top of my to do list tomorrow. After changing diapers and nursing a hungry baby. If I am lucky, the game of musical countertops will end tomorrow night with me actually going through that pesky junk mail.

Weird Dream #140523

I have weird dreams. Like really weird dreams. Sometimes they are scary, sometimes they are funny, but almost always they are just plain strange. Like cartoon musicals strange.
Last night's dream is no exception. I had a rough night due to broken sleep all night and a too full belly from a chinese food buffet, but that's a different story. All of which most likely contributed to my crazy dream. So here goes, last night's dream......
The husband and I were at a planetarium type museum at which we were examining a 3-D diagram of the Milky Way listening to a podcast or other audio recording of Neil deGrasse Tyson explaining that we are on a collision course with our closest neighboring galaxy some millions of light years away, nearly verbatim his lecture in his "The Inexplicable Universe" series. So there we are, the husband and I, musing about just how massive these two galaxies are and how what we are seeing is actually what happened millions of years ago because that is how long it took for that light to reach us. In my dream my husband repeats his typical end of the discussion and continues that the stars we are seeing now can very easily not actually exist anymore because they are so far away that it takes millions of years for their light to reach us, so that star and that star could actually have already gone super nova and we will never know. Then Neil deGrasse Tyson comes on a tv screen that appears out of nowhere and has a conversation with my husband as if by Skype, petting the hub's ego by praising his extraordinary intelligence. Then, and this is where it gets really weird, then Neil (can I call you Neil?) Says to my husband "but can you cook?" Then Neil's image on the tv morphs into a cartoon that actually looks like the cat from Paula Abdul's half cartoon half live action video for the song "Opposites Attract". And Neil, in all his cartoon cat-self glory, begins to give my husband cooking instructions and recipe for what Neil swore was the best Thanksgiving Day Feast imaginable, which consisted mainly of pork chops - bone-in cooked with only a single frying pan.
At that point, the baby woke up looking for a mid-night snack, and thus concluded Neil's cooking lesson.
Like I said. I have weird dreams.

Mommy physics #140519

Mommy physics.  An elusive subject that despite a millennium of brilliant research cannot be fully understood or explained.  Einstein's theory of relativity should theoretically apply and work, but its as successful as applying a bandaid to a broken arm.
Our first lesson:
In every home in which resides a baby that doesn't like to sleep,  there is a pinpoint coordinates in the space-time continuum that presides outside the bedroom door of restlessly sleeping babe, at any point in time within the confines of 9pm and 9am. It is never present in the converse of 9am to 9pm. Further, its location is fluid, the pinpoint moves with ease, like an air bubble in a sippy cup, unfortunately,  it does not shift with the same predictability.  Also, the said coordinates work much like a wormhole, transporting the baby from a state of peaceful sleep to riotous commotion faster than the speed of light.  An unseen energy that swallows silence as effectively as a black hole swallows light.
If you are a sleep deprived parent you know the dreaded monster of which I speak (er, write).
The terrifying FLOOR CREAK. Its not there in the morning as the husband gets ready for work.  Its not there in the afternoon while im running around with CDD (cleaning deficit disorder). Its not there as we trapse in and out of my daughter's bedroom all day for diaper and wardrobe changes.  No, it is only there in the wee hours of the morning, lurking like a monster beneath our bed. Waiting. Waiting ever so patiently to spring forth at the exact moment to elicit the maximum amount of terror and dred. And by some cruel irony of the universe, the creak increases in volume and duration exponentially in direct relation to one's efforts to move slowly and silently.  The more gingerly you place your foot and shift your weight the louder and more obnoxious that floor announces that your pea sized bladder needs to be relieved....again. However, and this is where neither string theory,  Newton's laws or relativity apply - the creak appears even if you move differently, attempting the fast, light footed flittering of a fairy instead of the purposeful stealth of a ninja. And its just as loud, and how in the world does it continue even after you've crossed into the other room. It follows a sleep deprived, full baddered parent like a phantasm, eager to cause mischief and disturb the precariously sleeping babe behind the partially closed door. How can a mom compete against the unruly, unfair tricks of the universe?  How does that floor creak on its own? Like the gravitational pull of the moon during that exact moment of the Earth's daily rotation was just too much to resist so the hard wood had to, Just HAD TO, sqeak with pleasure. 
It leads a desperate parent to wonder if her infant is too young for earplugs. 
Advanced calculus has yet to solve this particular mystery of the universe. Any person who can solve this particular equation deserves the Nobel Prize.

Things that suck about being a mom #140511 and a Happy Mother's Day to you too!

Sooo.... she slept 3 hours. I've been restless, dozing in and out. Brutus, once he's down for the night is as stationary as the couch he lays on, always has been. UNLESS, he has to go outside. Then and only then does he get up in the middle of the night. AZ used to graze on her leftovers and water, Brutus won't budge not til morning and you better be prepared to forklift him if necessary. So, now as he is ailing and has a hard time sensing his bladder and bowel, if he's moving at 2 am chances are he's already going. And he was noisy as he dragged himself by her door, which was wide open. It's only three hours later, I know she's not hungry. So now we are crying it out again, second time in one night. I know in the long run this is important, but damn, everything in me hurts about this. My heart, my head, my ears. I ache for her, crying because Brutus woke her, he's not at fault, he's a good boy. I want to go in, hold her and comfort her. I went in after I finished cleaning the little bit of mess - I caught it in time and sent daddy outside with him- so I don't know how long that was. Rubbed her back, said I loved her and that it's time to go to sleep. She's been winding down as I type, but every time I think she's calmed and is comforting herself back to sleep and is quiet she starts up again. But I know if I go in there it will only rejuvenate her efforts. This. SUCKS dirty jock straps dipped in fertilizer mud.....

'Crying-it-out' because the pediatrician recommends it for long term sleeping success, probably because at the baby's last well visit I looked like the tangled, worn and wet cloth diapers I've pulled dripping from the washing machine just the night before. 'Crying it out' sucks - BIG TIME! I'm told it is worth it in the long run because then the baby in question sleeps. And I guess 45 minutes of middle of the night crying is not AS bad as it could be. And while I know that my daughter needs to learn limits and this is only one form of her protesting her wants and me being firm and resolute is setting the stage for the future of our relationship - when she wants that toy/lollipop/sleepover/car in the future, she'll know from her own experiences that if and when I say 'no' I mean 'no', there is a small part of me, the baby within me, who wants desperately to cling to her, hold her, comfort her, tell her it will be ok and fall asleep with her cuddled in my arms. This also sucks. Doing something NEITHER of us want and not doing something that we BOTH want because it is what is good for BOTH of us - that part of being a mom sucks. 

My Hardest Lesson of Motherhood

Before one becomes a parent, you hear all sorts of cliches - "you'll learn when you become a parent" or "you never know or appreciate how much your mother/father loves you until you become a mother/father yourself" or the newest "to be a mother is to let your heart walk around outside your body" or something like that. I am paraphrasing I know, the sentiment is more important than the actual words at the moment. These are harsh and to a certain extent true. Though, I honestly work hard not to utter them to friends without kids, especially the first.
But let me share with you the first lesson I learned upon becoming a mother. It is by far the harshest, saddest, most beautiful and most hopeful lesson I have ever learned.
For me, and I say for me because I truly believe that every new parent will come into parenthood already knowing different things, thereby making the lessons they learn different than the lessons their peers learn and different than the lessons they will learn with each child. This is part of the beauty of parenthood, every new experience, like snowflakes, are wildly and subtly unique.
For me, motherhood is an incredible gift. A gift that comes with incredible responsibility that I work hard to never underestimate, shirk or trivialize. I try to show my gratitude to my daughter, to my husband, to whatever higher power that may exist. I am truly grateful for the amazing gift of a child.
And part of the package is an incredible amount of love. Now, I have felt love. Of course the love of my own mother, which I do appreciate more now just how significant that love is, the love of my brothers, my friends and of course my husband. Specifically, my husband. This may sound a bit egotistical, and that's ok, ours is the love fairy tales are made of. Or at least, that is how it feels. I have jokingly said in the past that my husband and I share a functional and healthy co-dependence. HA! Seriously, ours is a true love. Like "The Princess Bride" kind of TRUE LOVE. Now I am not saying that our storybook love negates or undermines your storybook love. I hope there are millions of fairy tale love stories out there. Ours can co-exist and they should. I hope they do. And I am so very lucky to have this love, the kind of love that inspires love stories. Prior to parenthood, we were each other's world, lifting one another up, facing the world together - us against the world. It is of that true love that my daughter is made. The love is humbling. And in it lies the heartbreaking truth, the sadness and the beauty of my experience of motherhood.
I have been loved by a most amazing man. That love generated another whole Being. Right now, I am my daughter's world. I am who, what, how and when. Her nourishment, physically through nursing;  mentally through singing the alphabet song and number song and counting and reading; emotionally through hugs, kisses, cuddles, nursing (again, its one powerful act). I can calm her, dress her, feed her, teach her faster, more completely and more easily than any other person on this planet. I am her world, she seeks me above all others, even daddy. And the heartbreak is knowing, I will love her more than she will ever love me. The sadness is knowing that one day she will go off to college and grow and learn outside of my influence. The beauty is I hope she finds a man (or woman) who will love her as her father loves me. I hope she too experiences the amazing gift of motherhood.
I've always considered myself a loving person. A little harsh, tough, and seemingly stoic, but loving all the same. I am awestruck at the sheer capacity for love my new mother's heart possesses. And I know someday that the big payout, the indication that I have been a good mother and done the job well is that my heart will be broken by the child who know holds my very breath.
You see, the hardest lesson for me was realizing that as I hold my precious baby girl in my arms, having carried her in my womb for 39 weeks, having nursed her til I chapped, nursed her to sleep, sacrificed my own comforts and sleep for her well being, cuddled her, taught her, sang to her, danced with her, loved her, and given myself to her - she is not mine. She is my daughter, she is of me, she was created by love, but she will never truly belong to me. As I never truly belonged to my mother. I belong to my daughter, and she belongs to her future - to her future children, to her future self, to her future spouse, but not to me, never to me.
For me, the hardest lesson is knowing that my most precious gift is not mine, she is only entrusted to me for a short time, to mold and protect, before her time comes to make her own discoveries. I love her more than she will ever love me. That is how it should be. For now, I will take every cuddle, every sloppy french kiss, every pinch and every giggle. I will hold these moments in my heart, knowing someday, it is these memories that will ease my broken heart as I let go and set free a love that was never quite requited. This is my hardest lesson. It is heartbreaking and beautiful. And I am so grateful for it all.

Holidays - Easter 2014

Ah, Holidays. 

I normally have a love / hate relationship with holidays. The rushing; the anticipation; the worrying about where, who, when and what; and the food. Food is good. Holiday food is better. Holiday food holds memories, traditions, and that certain specialness of being a once in a while food. It has that rare ability of tasting as good as you remember.

And then there is the meat stuffing. The meat stuffing has history. As in a hundred years of history. The recipe was brought here from Italy by my mother's father's mother, who learned it from her grandmother, and so on and so on. This stuffing, the recipe, is my inheritance, in many ways, my birthright. It is the dish that everyone looks forward to at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

This stuffing stole my childhood as well. You see, for twenty some-odd years I would be in the kitchen, as the only granddaughter for my grandmother, having learned the recipe from her mother-in-law, to teach the recipe to. Every. Single. Year. Every year when my brothers would be occupied by football, whether playing or watching, I was in the kitchen working. I learned how to add the ingredients - how much of this, when to add that. And I wasn't taught the exact recipe and allowed to repeat it every year. No, my grandmother would send me out of the kitchen to go grab something else to put on the table - corn, bread rolls, soda, etc., and add ingredients unknown to the pot. Ingredients that I was not privy to until the year after and the year after that, slowly unfolding the magic of this recipe like a pirate's map that would only reveal its treasures after years of patience and perseverance in search of 'x' marks the spot. When I was 9, it was torture. Now, at 34, it is a treasure. It is a gift. One that was mine alone, entrusted to me to prepare every year with love for my family so that they can, through our heirloom dish, connect with our heritage. It took me over twenty years to learn and master this recipe. Is it no wonder I refuse to give it away? I have been asked for the recipe by well meaning sisters-in-law. I realize that they only want to prepare a dish for my brothers that will make them happy. But you see, my brothers were given a different gift. They were given football games and lazy mornings and exciting afternoons and lazy after dinner evenings. I was given the gift of knowledge. I do not hoard the recipe, I have invited my sisters-in-law to learn as I did, year after year. No note taking, no cheat cards, just doing, and they have not accepted my invitation. While I understand their point of view - "its just a recipe, just write it down so I can make it for your brother, it will make him happy"; what I have not been able to articulate properly is that the acting of cooking this stuffing is a way for me to reconnect with my grandmother, my great-grandmother and all the women from whom I come. This is my direct line to my ancestry, my brothers may enjoy it as they always did, and I get to remember those long days in the kitchen as a child, as a teenager and as a young woman, learning how to make the meat stuffing that I would one day learn to cherish for ever so much more than the ingredients I throw into the pan. 

I would teach my sisters-in-law or my brothers, happily. Though, this recipe no longer belongs to me. Now, it belongs to my niece and my daughter, should they choose to learn how to prepare it. You see, this knowledge is on loan to the current cook from future generations. It is a treasure, but one that is not easily won. It requires work, dedication and perseverance. The secret and beauty of this recipe is time. It is time in the kitchen with grandmothers, mothers and daughters, sharing secrets, sharing knowledge, revealing hopes and dreams, hugs, and yelling too (we're Italian, sometimes the most passionate of love can only be expressed at the top of our lungs!). I hope if my sisters-in-law or my brothers read this, it better explains why there is no way to jot down the ingredients and recipe to share. The meat stuffing is so much more than that. So, when my younger brother's wife requested the stuffing for Easter dinner (which we celebrated on Palm Sunday - don't ask) I was more than happy to oblige her request. Though completely off season as it is a harvest stuffing, it didn't matter, I was happy to provide a link to our ancestry. I made a few adjustments to make it more 'seasonal', but they aren't permanent. While I will not divulge any ingredients, I will however share a picture. Because as my grandmother would say and my mother always says "doesn't that look pretty!" 

Have a wonderful Easter if you celebrate. Happy Springtime!!! Green grass is upon us at last!

Dinner: travesty or triumph # 140206

So, we've established that my housekeeping skills are sub-par. What we haven't discussed of late are my cooking skills. 
It took me a long time to not hate cooking. I had to change my perception of what cooking meant. I had to undo the association of housewifery and exchange it with a more fundamental approach before I could begin to undo the loathing I would feel towards my stove and oven.
A most un-housewife occupation.  I began to look at cooking at its most stripped down self. I chose to be a novice chemist, versus a hack housewife with crappy cooking. Chemistry.  Cooking is nothing more than chemistry.  Knowing which spices will interact well with others and how their properties change when heat is applied and even how heat is applied and how much heat is applied - it is all chemistry.  It's like knowing that CO is going to kill you but CO2 is what we exhale.
It can be subtle,  rosemary and thyme on chicken,  but only rosemary on beef or, mustard powder for deviled eggs but not scrambled eggs. Or huge, always chop your veggies before cutting any meat with the same knife or cutting board unless there's a cute doctor in the ER who's number you think you can win while exploding from both ends simultaneously.  
Cooking = chemistry.
There have been the culinary equivalents of toxic chemicals to have been ladled onto our plates, many of which my loving husband has at least tried to swallow and just as many that even our dogs wouldn't eat... an Asian inspired ginger pork roast comes to mind. But each and every one of those culinary disasters were hard won lessons in chemistry (vinegar is not the best marinade,  contrary to popular belief as proven by that poor catastrophe of ginger pork).
So, despite my ineptitude at consistently dusting the blades on our ceiling fans, I've become a pretty good cook. I mean culinary chemist. On tonight's menu, lightly breaded baked chicken breast with sautéed mushrooms and broken lasagna with peppers and capers in a lemon garlic and olive oil sauce. It. Was. Good. Yum.
Chemistry can be so yummy.
Just don't ask me to bake, that kind of advanced molecular chemistry continues to elude me unless it comes from a box.

Superbowl XLVIII

Superbowl Sunday.  When the grocery store is a ghost town,  fried cheese laden food is the cuisine and many people all over won't be grateful for anything.  A night where a coin toss can win you money. A night that comes with so much heraldry and pomp and circumstance you'd think we were celebrating our nation's birthday,  the anniversary of our independence and freedom,  or some other historical magnificence.  But no, we are watching grown men throw around an oblong ball made of pig skin, chasing each other up and down a field.  Don't get me wrong, I love a great football game.  But, our only TV is in our basement living room and as I am a deplorable housewife the room is so unkempt there is only one place to sit. Being the otherwise amazing wife that I am, I surrender the one and only seat to my husband and find satisfaction with his periodic runs upstairs to tell me how the game is going. In the meantime,  I'm spending Superbowl 48 nursing a baby who likes to kick me while breastfeeding and watching season 8 of 'how I met your mother' on Netflix.  It's all good.

New, new mom multitasking trick #140201

There are so many adjustments to consider in motherhood.  Not the least of which is you have no time, or privacy,  to do the things that need to get done.  No matter how physiological or 'housekeepical' (yes, I know there is no such word, but it's my blog I can make up words if I want) those NEEDS are you now have a little person whose needs constantly trump your own.
Or at least that's how it works in my house because my baby is the toughest boss I've ever had. So I've learned to multitask.
Well, truthfully,  before I was cast out to fend for myself among the jungle I call housekeeping,  I had a few good, grown-up jobs that required long attention span and the ability to multitask. As in, telephone call about one project while emailing a different colleague about a different project while sorting the filing kind of multitasking.
I was pretty good at it so multitasking became my solution to a very serious problem.  How do I continue to maintain the housekeeping,  even at the mediocre level to which I've learned, and trained the husband,  to accept as passable and good-enough-because-why-does-the-floor-need-to-be-clean-enough-to-eat-off-of-if-we-would-Never-eat-off-of-the-floor-anyway? So, I multitask. 
Of all the wonderful things they teach and prepare you for those first days in the hospital post baby they don't tell you that you have committed to an unspoken agreement that you forfeit any once sacred alone time you took for granted pre-baby.
So, during a time I would have once relaxed and perhaps read a book or a magazine (seriously,  who doesn't) I have had to utilize in other ways.
My sacred time is no longer sacred. Because I need to multitask if anything is going to get done.
My new reality is constantly expanding.  And, yes, my new new mom multitasking trick is folding laundry while on the potty. Because,  well,  because, it's two things I can do at the same time.  These are the things they don't tell you about... so I might as well will.

The stuff no one tells you about # 140128

Trying to get my daughter to go to sleep and on the fifth round of nursing I lifted her to my shoulder to burp her. She is learning how to 'kiss', so when she leaned in to my face mouth open I relished the idea of her wet kiss. But then she grabbed my face with both hands,  and with expert precision,  inserted my nose into her mouth.... and burped.

You haven't lived until...toes

There are many delightful surprises in motherhood.  I expected joy,  but the all encompassing blissfulness that fills every atom of my being is so wonderfully,  well, surprising that I could not possibly anticipate just how happy happy can be.
There are definitely sad moments,  moments that have reduced me to tears. Like when my baby is crying and I have tried everything I can think of to soothe her and the only thing that seems to work is crying with her. And there are moments when I hear a story of a sick or hurt child and I experience joy, gratitude,  sorrow, empathy,  fear and sometimes wrath all at the same time,  which is really confusing the first time it happens. 
There is unmistakable beauty in parenthood,  in motherhood. 
There are an abundance of breathtaking moments, and just as many fill me with love.
Then there are the unabashedly fun moments.  Moments where my own youth is restored and I can't imagine life without giggles and smiles and nursing and burping and rolling over and discovering what a body can do! All the amazing things our hands and fingers and feet and legs and arms can do! All these beautiful things.
I don't even mind diaper changes, and I cloth diaper. (We won't discuss the irony or idiocy of a self proclaimed hack of a housekeeper adding more laundry to the never shrinking pile. I will just say I wash diapers every other day, the hubs can wear the same pair of work pants two days in a row,  no one will notice. ) There is even joy in changing a diaper. It was on the changing station my daughter first discovered her toes and first figured out that they reach and fit into her mouth.
And it is where I kiss those toes. And sometimes,  they find themselves in my mouth. Like today. We were both in a fit of giggles when I put her toes in my mouth. And it was glorious,  until, I ended up with baby toe jam on my tongue. I have been vomited on, pooped on, and peed on. I have been the meal du jour, the teething ring, the toy and the cradle. And that was before motherhood.
But I realize now, I hadn't truly lived until I had baby toe jam on my tongue.

It's not me.

I have long admitted to being a horrible housewife.  I can ignore the dust that is so thick my black bookshelves look grey. I can ignore the cobwebs that gracefully link one wall to the next. I can ignore the gobs of dust on the fan blades that look like little caterpillars from my short vantage point. And I can ignore the basket of clothes at the foot of the bed that have sat there so long I will have forgotten I owned those articles of clothing.  The only part of my house I can't ignore is the kitchen,  because that's where I bathe the baby.
But for all my ignoring of one chore or another, it's really not my fault the condo is as bad as it is. You see, my husband,  despite all his wonderful qualities, is also a slob.
How can I be expected to pick up after my overgrown teenager of a husband and then CLEAN MORE? Seriously,  I deserve a parade and a medal for what I do manage to accomplish daily given that my husband has no care or thought of what he does. When he puts AN EMPTY juice bottle in the Bathroom linen cabinet, instead of in the recycling bags in the kitchen,  how can I possibly keep our home neat and clean.  He undermines my efforts so effortlessly.  I can't freaking win.

To nap or not to nap. That is the question.

Ah, yes. Nap time.  It arrives everyday,  about the same time.  Sometimes it's easy going. Sometimes you'd think I was dragging the baby in to be splinched from her shadow animal.  But either way,  when the angel goes down,  I am faced with the question,  should I nap too? I have more than my fair share of chores to get accomplished,  I am also trying to organize the launch of my own business.  So there is plenty of important work to be done. 
But she looks so comfy and inviting,  lying there in my bed, breathing her gentle snore. If I lay down it will clear my head and recharge me. I can stay awake and trudge through,  but tired as I am I may make a dire mistake.  Besides, they say to sleep when the baby sleeps, right?

Why not for me?

My beautiful 5 month old daughter is the apple of my eye. The sunshine in my day, the moonlight of my night. But she will not nap for me. EVER. Day after day we dance the pas de deux consisting of nursing, burping, diaper changing, putting down, picking up, kick ball change, and repeat. It is a paso doble in which I can not tell which of us is the stubborn bull. In the end, I surrender as often as I triumph, still learning her cues.
But today, she slept. It was rather easy. I nursed her, the husband changed her wet diaper, I nursed her some more until she fell asleep. Then the husband fell asleep. I left them cuddled on the bed (yes I know, dangerous for a myriad of reasons, including bad habits) to get done at least one nagging chore - take down the Christmas Tree when it was still a tasteful amount of time to have it up, as history has shown that sucker can still be up come Valentine's Day. So I took down the tree, forgave myself for not vacuuming yet so as not to wake the duo, and somehow tetris'ed the decorations back into the storage containers. Then sat here. Watching the clock.
TWO HOURS! TWO WHOLE HOURS!!! They slept - SHE slept - my little twinkle star slept for two hours. I guess the secret is to sleep with her, as she has slept for two hours in the past if I napped with her. So, I guess I must surrender to napping. One more excuse for having dust on my shelves, dishes in my sink and dog hair - everywhere. She needs to sleep, and apparently, she needs us to do it. So, I am going to err on the side of excellent mothering, even if it perpetuates my subpar housewifery. I was never very good at the cleaning bit anyway.

2014, but let's remember the best of 2013

So, it is New Year's Day. As I type this, my kitchen is cleaned. A new skill I learned because the baby is bathed in the sink, and you never know when a blow out diaper is going to require a quick bath to remedy the mess. But, as usual, the rest of my home is a disaster that inspires my mother to down some tylenol and begin cleaning like our lives depend upon it. And, as usual, rather that use the last of my energy cleaning, I have decided to do something I WANT to do, rather than something I SHOULD do. I did lots of 'should' things today, including folding three loads of laundry and putting them away, cooking and cleaning the kitchen, and, well, that's it. For those who know me well, you know these were huge accomplishments and demonstrative of enormous personal growth. So, I am making good on my promise to myself and I am trying to blog more regularly than the once or twice a year that I have previously done.
Being New Year's Day, I would like to reflect on the past year. It was a tough year. My bathroom and basement were flooded by a neighbor's handyman. My beloved dog became very sick and made a rapid decline into death, that devastated me. My second beloved dog, Brutus, has become more and more ill himself. I went through a ridiculous battle with my condo association because they do not know how to properly interpret our bylaws and choose to change the rules on a whim. Through all this I was pregnant. Very, Very pregnant. Mine was a difficult pregnancy in some ways and pure joy in others. But I will touch on that another time. Then, there was her birth, which was - weird. Wonderful! but weird. Then, I lost my grandfather. The man for whom I am named. Which has still not quite sunk in. I miss him very much. I remember him fondly.
It is the first day of a new year. A day full of memories and a day full of promise. A new year. A new start. My resolutions: to continue to improve my health for me, for my husband, for my daughter; to be the best mother I can possibly be; to be the best wife possible; to be more 'housewifey' and clean more; to write more often; to pursue, with the hunger for it that I once possessed, my career, including launching my businesses. There. My resolutions for the world, or my three followers, to see.
2013 was a really hard year. In the middle of many tragedies was nestled the birth of my daughter. The most beautiful and miraculous gift of my life. And it is that promise, the promise of her that I will focus on as I start this new year. She is my everything. She is my miracle. She is my breath and my inspiration for hope. My inspiration to make 2014 a great year.
Happy New Year to all! May we all enjoy a beautiful year, a year full of prosperity, success, love and hope.