If I ever have another child I think I'd want that child to be delivered to me (via the stork, if possible) when they were 22 months old. I'm really digging 22 months.
Since the day he was born I've wanted to eat Henry's toes and bite off his nose, but now I REALLY want to eat him up. He's so funny and sweet and his morning breath intoxicates me and I want to have a spaz attack inside when he hands everyone in the family their bike helmet and then yells "Bike" until we finally load him in the Burley and take off.
Like the rest of the country and many parts of the world it's mother effing hot and Mpls reached 101 degrees this afternoon. Tonight I'm sleeping with a cold water bottle. How do you keep cool?
I'm more likely to get a second opinion about a haircut than I am a medical issue. If someone with a stethoscope around their neck diagnoses me as hypo this or enlarged that, I take it as the gospel, take my medication and be on my way. I mentioned a while back that Henry needed to have surgery again and while the news was upsetting, I didn't, at the time, think that we had a choice.
Dr. C in New York finally called me back and reminded me that Henry's testicle was in the best possible spot and that it would be a terrible mistake to operate. Dr. C didn't know where Dr. Minnesota received his medical degree, but suggested possibly out of a Cracker Jack box or Guadalajara and that if Henry were his own son this is exactly what he would do.
Ooookay. So I guess that's my second opinion. Now I have two doctors telling me two very different things and I'm supposed to choose which one I trust and believe. I am totally unqualified to make this decision.
Next week we'll visit the Mayo Clinic and get our third opinion. I assume that Dr. Mayo will agree with one of the first two opinions and then we'll have our answer. I hope so, because it's my baby's balls we're talking about. Or bubbles, as Henry would say.
Henry's current obsession is numbers. He freaks whenever he spots a 3 or 4 and he's starting to get excited about 8. It takes extra patience walking through a parking lot with him, because he wants to stop and examine every license plate for his favorite digits. I picked up some number and alphabet flash cards and they are a huge hit.
It's not yet clear whether Henry and I will ever be invited to accompany Nick on another business trip, but the two of us had a fantastic time.
Perhaps it was the patience of being a visitor or possibly delusion from the intense heat, but I had no problem schlepping around the city with a Metrocard and an umbrella stroller. Henry's intense love for the subway and the lights and sights of Times Square (we couldn't find a hotel anywhere else on such short notice) coupled with a few late nights with my sister and friends made it a wonderful trip. It was probably the middle of the night room service ordering and my business-man-trip commentary that will forfeit any future invitations.
Do you put your clothes in hotel drawers if you're only staying for 2 days? Or do you kind of think that's slightly weird?
Oh, and she didn't babysit Henry. She flaked. She bailed. I feel like a huge idiot. I'm totally losing her number.
I probably should have fired her after she was late every day for 3 months. And I probably, definitely should have fired her after the time she left Henry with another nanny and went to the check cashing place. And I should have maybe got a clue when all the other mommies forbade their nannies from hanging out with her. I couldn't fire her. I was too scared.
I have at least one friend who might believe that I,in fact, left New York just to get away from her. My ridiculous fear of confrontation was in control and I am not proud.
You've certainly read the book about the nanny who was horribly mistreated and taken advantage of by her boss. Well, I could write my own nanny diary...
But really, who wants to read about a privileged mom with too many choices, who hires a nanny who is all kinds of terrible and instead of firing her, gives her raises, bonuses and pays her cable bill. No one wants to read that book. You might be inclined to throw that book directly at my head.
You may also want to call me all kinds of crazy when I tell you that I called her and asked her to babysit tomorrow night when we're in New York.
She loved Henry. I truly believe that she did and I'm probably going to cry when I see her.
Dear New York,
We broke up some time ago, but I never really let you go. I'm writing you this letter because it's time for me to move on. We've already been through the whole "it's not you, it's me" bit and I'm pretty sure the crying and the begging part is done now too, right? That was embarrassing, but breaking up is hard to do. Gosh, I was so young when we met. Remember that awful haircut I had? It's amazing that you even wanted me. That's the thing about you though. You give everyone a chance. You were so intimidating to me and even though I thought I was totally cool, you were all, "you have GOT to stop saying excuse me on the subway" and I toughened up and we fell in love.
We've been through a lot, you and me and boy, did we have some good times. We fought a lot in the beginning, but you were so different from everything I knew. You introduced me to so many amazing people. Many who have become my best friends. At times it's hard to see those people, because they remind me so much of you.
My mother never wanted us to be together, but thank you for always being so nice to her and showing her a good time when she came to visit. Sometimes I think she wished that she'd met someone like you when she was young. I know I complained and nagged too much and for that, I'm sorry. I'm also sorry that I left you after that awful day in September. I was scared. When I came back home I really felt close to you and even though you were hurting, you helped me be brave.
I'm sorry that I took you for granted. It's awful how I never fully appreciated your diversity, your ability to party all night and how you always let me read a book on my way to work. You didn't even care if I drank before noon. We were good together and I swear, I never cheated on you with San Francisco.
Things were not perfect though. You were incredibly impatient, smelled bad and it was so annoying how you always needed money. I couldn't leave the house without spending $20. My future is somewhere else now and so this is goodbye. Thank you for the memories. I know you were probably just trying to get with my sister anyway.
I hope we will always be friends.
P.S. I made you a scrapbook of our love.
As a child I gave my pets really horrible names. A dog named Holly Jolly Christmas, an unfortunate cat called Casperitty and a male cat named Belle. I really have no business naming anyone anything.
When it was time to name a boy child, I knew from the first moment that I wanted to call him Henry. (A character from my favorite book) Such a nice, civilized, normal name. The perfect name for my perfect child. Nick disagreed.
To say that he hated my choice is not an exaggeration. We fought endlessly about it and if I remember correctly Nick left me in a restaurant one night when the name
battle got particularly out of hand. I'm not an easy person to fight with. I often say ridiculous things such as, "I can't be married to someone who thinks that lamp looks good on that table". My opponent is often left exasperated and unable to deal with me.
Towards the end of my pregnancy I started getting desperate. Every other boy name sounded like mud to my ears and I was beginning to panic. My great-grandfather's name was Henry, but since I didn't know that before my frantic search of the family tree, the namesake didn't count. I enlisted the help of our friends, "You like the name Henry, don't you?" I'd corner them awkwardly at parties. "Could you even possibly think of a better choice? Huh? Could you??" "You should tell Nick that you think it's the best name". I scrawled H E N R Y on scraps of paper and left them lying around the apartment. Nick still wouldn't agree. My baby would have no name.
My last hope was that Nick would be so traumatized by the actual birth he would pass out and I could fill out the birth certificate quickly on my own.
When the blessed event arrived Nick didn't pass out, but we named him Henry and we don't have that lamp anymore.
This morning I asked Henry what his name was. At first he just pointed to himself and then, with a big smile on his face, said "Wee". Aww, Henwee! Perfect.
Yes, I'm that big of a dork.
Henry is thrilled to the gills over his new big boy chair. He wasn't necessarily too large for his highchair, but since we finally purchased chairs for our dining table I wanted Henry to be close and comfortable during family meals. I researched the heck out it and there seems to be nothing but raves for the Tripp Trapp, formerly known as the KinderZeat. Those funny Swedes!
It was easy as pie to assemble (I love an allen wrench) and the only difficulty was choosing a color.
At times it was a surreal trip down memory lane, but our weekend in Delano was so much fun and a little bit, just what the therapist ordered.
Nick thinks I brag, but the 2 mile parade lasts just over two and half hours and is the largest in all of Minnesota. While there is always talk of how it's "not as good as it used to be", it's even better now to me now, through Henry's eyes. Henry loved nearly every minute of it and I was shocked that he stayed seated on the curb, clapping as the marching bands went by and catching oodles of candy that was thrown from the floats. (Henry not quite understanding the concept just threw the candy back.)
We had the privilege of attending a Breast Cancer Benefit in honor of a dear friend's wife who is a survivor. The number of people who came in loving support of this family was amazing and very telling of the caring and kindness that exists in a small community.
Such a beautiful weekend.
More holiday pictures are here.
And yes, there was public urination. My husband fulfilled that prediction.
“The worst feeling in the world is the homesickness that comes over a man occasionally when he is at home”
-Edgar Watson Howe
I believe that I'm at the height of my despair and I feel so awful that it's sometimes hard to raise my head. It really can't get any worse and it absolutely has to get better, so I kind of feel like i'm in an okay place.
(There used to be a big, long entry here about my feelings and my thoughts and more of my feelings and then some more thoughts, but as I was writing it I grew tired of myself and erased it. I imagined you reading it and then wanting to erase me.)
Tomorrow we are packing up and heading to the small town where I grew up. I'm going to show Nick and Henry what it's like to celebrate the 4th of July, Delano style. Parade, carnival, beer gardens, public urination, it's going to be AWESOME.
Happy Independence Day!