Andrea's Adventures in Binkyland

Becoming a Domestic Goddess

In the past 24 hours, I have baked cookies, vacuumed my stairs, and purchased a battery-operated mop. I hung new bathroom curtains. I framed and hung family photographs. I have soy milk and whole wheat flour in my kitchen. I also have fresh brussels sprouts, two kinds of bell pepper, and tahini. I have a feather duster.

These revelations may shock and astound my parents, who know me as the girl who started cleaning her room by pulling her books out of her shelves to alphabetize them, and never got much further.

Judging by my overall neatness curve from the time I was born until today, I figure that by the time I'm 50, I'll be the next coming of Martha freakin' Stewart. Except without that whole temper issue. And the stocks.

My kitchen is: Can't you just guess? The floor is still wet from my battery-operated mop!

People Watching

This morning, I was sitting in a bank's lobby, waiting for a meeting. While I was there, I witnessed a most fascinating vignette. Through the glass, I could see the vestibule where the ATM was located. A mother and her small daughter came in. The little girl couldn't have been much past two years old. The mother went to the ATM to conduct her transaction, and left the child to her own devices.

Children being adept at entertaining themselves, the tyke toddled straightaway to the garbage can in the corner of the vestibule. Its top was an ashtray, filled with sand and cigarette butts. I watched as the little girl scooped up a handful of sand and then dropped it on the ground beside her. She did this again and again, in a Zen-like fashion.

At no point during her long interaction with the ATM did the mother look over and notice the derring-do of her offspring. When she finally turned aside from the machine and discovered her child busily dumping cigarette butts on the floor, she shot me an apologetic look, brushed the kid off thoroughly (she was obviously not pressed for time), and went on her way.

A number of things about this upset me. There was no word to the bank employees that, sorry, there's a small mess here, and can I help you clean it up? But more important, how could the woman not watch her own kid with half an eye while she's at an ATM? I mean, was it that hard for her? Required that much concentration? What if the girl had been eating those cigarette butts?

And that, my friends, in a nutshell, is What Is Wrong With America Today.

My kitchen is: On the mend. We had a frightening brush with the dishwasher not working, but it's better, now.

Light at the End of the Diaper Pail

Sasha went to the doctor this morning. The doctor admired her big, teary eyes and her slobbery wet mouth, and assured me she was plenty hydrated. She also predicted that Sasha would start feeling better by this evening. This appears to be accurate. I have high hopes she will be back in daycare in the morning.

Bonus: Nobody in my house vomited today.

My kitchen is: Still pretty clean! And I even cooked!

If the CDC Calls, It's For Me

On Saturday, everything came together for me. It was sunny, leave-your-jacket-at-home weather. Everyone was healthy. We ate at a restaurant, visited a bookstore, and in general enjoyed ourselves. It was too good to last.

I have had better days than today. Today, Sasha puked all over me. Twice. There was diaper leakage. There was crankiness. I'm starting to get a little worried about her hydration levels. She has real tears, but I'm not seeing as many wet diapers as I would like.

My plan is to observe her in the morning until about 10:30am. If she stills seems sick, she goes to the doctor. If she seems better, she goes to daycare. The doctor said yesterday not to worry until it's lasted 7 days (it's only been 5 so far), and that she probably is OK to go to daycare, but it's better to spend the $10 copay and make sure she's safe.

Over the weekend, we bought Sasha an activity table in hopes of keeping her in the same room as us. The idea would be to prevent Sasha from locking herself in the bathroom, one of her new favorite hobbies. (She scoots into the bathroom, closes the door, and then uses the door to stand up so we can't free her without knocking her over. This has not happened only once.)

This plan, while sound in theory, has "gang aft awray" and all that. First, she has discovered that she can push the table along and walk after it. Note it is meant to be stationary. It is not on wheels. It is in no way a walker.

Second, the top lifts up and flips over to be either an activity center or a block surface. She discovered she could lift it up. Unfortunately, her grasp of gravity is still pretty shaky. She lifted it and dropped it a couple of times, and then hit her arm. Since she was feeling unwell already, this brough on instant end-of-the-world tears.

Later, she resumed her table-dropping. This time, she dropped it on her head. Yep, more tears. Lest you think she had learned nothing from the experience, know this: Still later in the day, she lifted the tabletop up and dropped it yet again. It did not hit her! But she still cried. She's learning fear, like a good girl.

In other news: She is mostly over her bath thing. She won't lay down in it, but she will sit. She says "Hi" and waves, now. Despite her sickness, she is sleeping pretty well from 8pm until 5am, again, just like when she was 3 months old.

My kitchen is: Still clean, not quite as lemony, but dotted with Cheerios. I just might be back on track for the week.

On War

Since the media has worked itself into a euphoric frenzy, and since there is so much I have to say on the topic, I thought I would say a few very choice words on this war we find ourselves in.

First off: Congress has not passed an Articles of War declaration, nor have they been asked to. This is not, technically, a war. Nonetheless, real people are really dying. This quibble says very little about our current situation, but it says a whole lot about what's become of our Constitution over the last few decades.

I did not support this invasion. There were too many obstacles. We could not get agreement from the United Nations, we could not conclusively prove that Iraq had those notorious Weapons of Mass Destruction we kept hearing about, and our national budget, already in a deficit, simply cannot support the added cost of this nasty little affair.

Neither am I now protesting the war. The die is cast, the Rubicon is crossed. We can't go back, now. The one good thing that might come of this is that the Iraqi people may be freed. There are some problems with that, too, but if we're very lucky, the U.N. will handle the reconstruction for us. We're no good at nation-building, anyhow. (At least not since the early 1940s.) If, as some protestors want, we pulled out of Iraq now, the country would be left poorer than ever, our international reputation will be left irreparably damaged (if it isn't, now!) and the people of Iraq will still not be free.

At this point, we have no choice but to follow through. It's the right thing to do, considering the choices we have already made.

I am ashamed at the behavior of our media, however. Our reporters are covering this grave series of events with the enthusiasm you might find more commonly along with the SuperBowl. I half-expect to see a green line tracing along in the video footage to show me where the missiles are. I keep waiting for the score to pop up in the corner of the screen, and the clock, so that I know how much time is left.

Is there not an introvert among them? Every soldier fighting on either side is somebody's child or parent or friend, or all of these. I rock my daughter to sleep at night, and I think there must be a family just like mine in Iraq, who are sitting in a bomb shelter, sleeping during the day because the night and its explosions and terror are not made for rest. They are waiting, helplessly, to find out if the everyday fear of the last thirty years will continue, or if the Americans will follow through and put in an equally hatable puppet government. They are waiting for the day that the power grid goes out, the water supply is tainted with cholera and typhus, every home and shop is looted for a scrap of food in an already starving nation.

President Bush says diplomacy has failed. Indeed, diplomacy has failed. It has failed every Marine who dies patrolling an oil field. It has failed the family of every serviceman whose family is now glued to CNN, balanced on the razor's edge of wishing and hoping to see their loved one on air, but please, God, let it be while he's alive. It has failed every Iraqi child who dies because even a week's disruption in food aid meant the difference between life and starvation. It has failed every terrified citizen of Iraq who has labored under an unjust government, and who must now endure the destruction of his homeland because of it. It has failed the French, the Germans, the Canadians, who thought the United States was a respectful part of the international community, and not just the biggest bully on the playground. It has failed every single one of us.

My kitchen is: Sparkling, neat, and smelling of lemons. When the world is spinning madly around us, we must tighten the reins of control over our own lives.

Plague House

My little nuclear family has been rocked by disease the last three weeks. First, Sasha catches a bad cold at daycare. Then, of course, she gives it to me, because she can't be sick without bringing me along for the ride. It trickles on to Matt, who develops the same cold plus an ear infection, poor guy.

Last week was all about trying to get the chaos of our lives back in order. I bought groceries. The weather turned warmer. Then, last Friday, Matt came down with the horrible plague a co-worker's family had just endured. It was the worst variety of stomach ailment, and it was hard on all of us: Matt, because he was sick; me, because I was left tending to Sasha by myself pretty much all weekend; and Sasha, because I was a bit short-tempered trying to take care of everyone and everything by myself.

Come Monday, poor Matt was still very sick. I started feeling a touch unwell, and Sasha seemed cranky, so the three of us all stayed home together. Tuesday, Sasha and I went about our usual routine, she to daycare and I into Manhattan, while Matt continued to fight the pox virulens.

Wednesday, for one beautiful, shining day, it looked like we might all be better. Sasha was in a good mood, Matt felt great (if very hungry) and went to work, and I had a day in my home office.

This morning, all started well; Matt went off to work, I fed Sasha some Cheerios and got ready for the day. To my surprise, even after sleeping well last night, she still seemed tired in the morning. After breakfast, I snuggled up with her for a few minutes, and she fell fast asleep.

About an hour later, she woke up by vomiting all over me. No more healthy weekend gleaming in the future like a bright, golden grail. I kept her home with me all day, and she slept and slept and slept. In fact, I fell asleep in the afternoon, too! And now, I feel achy and cranky and tired, and I'm very afraid I will be next in this new round of illness. Honestly, how can you avoid catching a virus once one of its victims has thrown up on you? Twice? Not to mention the diapers.

And next Wednesday, I have a meeting with a client who's been near-hospitalized with pneumonia the last couple of weeks. Anyone placing odds on whether I bring that home, too?

It seems like the past two months (and especially the last three weeks) have been marked by illness upon illness at my house. If anyone has any ideas on how to stop it, I'd love to hear from you.

My kitchen is: Not so bad, really. I got a load through the dishwasher today. It's been worse.

New Hairstyle Redux

A picture is worth a thousand words.

My kitchen is: Much better now, thank you. Still some sweeping and such to be done, but at least the dishwasher is running even as I write this.

New Hairstyle

I have been harboring thoughts of cutting Sasha's bangs in her sleep. But lo, when I picked her up from daycare last week, they had come up with their own solution.

I hadn't thought anything would stay in her hair, so I'm just thrilled to pieces.

My kitchen is: cluttered with dirty glasses. Poor Matt has been very unwell, so I've been busy with Sasha. Hopefully I'll get it sorted out soon.

Baby Update

The life and times of little Sasha have become very, very exciting. She stands constantly. She crawls like a big, four-legged millipede. She can toss around a well-ordered stack of DVDs like nobody's business. We're just very, very lucky she has not found the CD racks yet. Or the kitty litter, for that matter.

Daycare has turned into one of the best decisions I've ever made, and not a moment too soon. The last two weeks have been killer, for me; I've been in Manhattan every day, except for, well, today. I've put in long hours, and it's been wonderful to know that Sasha was someplace safe and happy.

She naps, she eats better than at home, she takes bottles. She loves being around other children. The last week, when I've dropped her off in the morning, she's pouted and thought about crying. This morning, she looked at me, endured her good-bye kiss, and then ignored me as I walked out. I guess we can say she's adjusted.

She's sleeping better at night, quite possibly because she's zooming around so much during the day, like some kind of hopped-up electron. She's been sleeping pretty well from 10pm until close to 5am, and then again until a quarter after 7. Bliss!

There is one unfortunate new chapter in her life, though. Sasha has a newfound fear of the bath. I think she stood up and fell a few baths back, and her simple brain doesn't quite get that if she doesn't stand up, why, she won't fall down again! But no, remaining seated in the bath is not an option. So far, she's taken a bath with me in there with her, nursing the whole time, and even so she was close to crying. She's taken a shower with me. Tonight, she took the whole bath standing up at the edge, clinging to my shoulder so I wouldn't abandon her in the big, slippery, scary bathtub.

There's been progress. She can be briefly distracted out of her fear with a fun toy. At the end of her bath, I got her to lie down for just a minute, though she made it clear that she was worried and that I'd better not go anywhere. It's amazing how much a preverbal human being can convey with a few choice noises and facial expressions. I've read about kids her age being afraid of baths for three and four months, but I maintain that Sasha is a smart kid and will have it all sorted out in two weeks or thereabouts.

My kitchen is: TOTALLY FREAKIN' SPOTLESS SHINY. My kitchen (and the rest of my house) was cleaned by two very competent people, today, and the best part is, neither one of them was me! Hooray!

Have Any ID?

A couple of weeks ago, I had a dentist appointment. The dentist came in, looked at my chart, looked at me, and asked how old I am. "I'm... 28?" I answered. I admit to being a little baffled, since my birthday was there on the chart.

"Oh my gosh!" she said, "You look 18!"

Flattering, right? So zip to yesterday morning. I stop by 7-11 for a cup of coffee on my way to the train station. At the counter, I see the scratch-off lottery tickets, and decide I have one dollar too many, so why not.

"Do you have any ID?" asks the guy behind the counter. Yes, folks, I got carded to buy a lottery ticket yesterday. Now, I certainly don't look like a wizened crone or anything, but I thought my days of passing for a high schooler were well behind me. I'm wondering what gives.

My kitchen is: Cluttered. Papers on the table, a million dirty glasses, knives in the sink since last week. I suppose I should feel guilty.