Well, Ron hurt his back. He is back to work, but he can barely walk and sit. I have to tie his shoes. He spent three hours at work, then three hours stretched out at home. Now he's at work until 7.
I've been trying to take care of him and Ben and the house. Ben decided to quit sleeping through the night. He's on a growth spurt and I can't feed him fast enough. Andy helped me install our air conditioner last Wednesday. Greg came over Friday to watch over Ron while I drove to Stevensville. My friend Judy watched Ben and Ron while I went to a movie rehearsal Saturday.
The excessive rain produced wet spots in our basement and a musty smell through half the house. So I spent last week mopping up dampness and changing dehumidifier pans. It's fine now -- no smell or anything -- but now it's raining again. The grout around our bathtub is leaking so Ron's coaching me on how to fix that.
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Saturday, June 12, 2004
Monday, June 07, 2004
Tornado Alley
We’re trucking right along here in Michigan. (State Motto: "We Have Tornado Warnings Three Days in a Row!")
Ron, Benny and I spent much of last Thursday night in the basement bathroom, sitting on a comforter. Winds topped 95 mph.
The next morning I went to the eye doctor and had my pupils dilated, which sentenced me to a day of blurry vision. Which wouldn't have been so bad, except we had another frightening storm that afternoon, which sent Ben and me underground again. I couldn't see a thing. Branches were crashing against the house. The cat went ballistic.
Since then, we've had a steady diet of thunderstorms marching through here; parts of the Detroit area are totally flooded.
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Ron, Benny and I spent much of last Thursday night in the basement bathroom, sitting on a comforter. Winds topped 95 mph.
The next morning I went to the eye doctor and had my pupils dilated, which sentenced me to a day of blurry vision. Which wouldn't have been so bad, except we had another frightening storm that afternoon, which sent Ben and me underground again. I couldn't see a thing. Branches were crashing against the house. The cat went ballistic.
Since then, we've had a steady diet of thunderstorms marching through here; parts of the Detroit area are totally flooded.
##
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Benny's First Portrait Sitting
Well, I have survived what must be one of motherhood’s most harrowing experiences: the first portrait sitting.
I wasn’t looking forward to it. I know many mothers were sticking garters on their girls’ heads and baseball caps on their boys at 2 weeks and carting them out to the nearest Sears Portrait Studio.
Then they trot out these faintly strange pictures of newborns in odd poses (“Gee, that picture of Katylynn sitting on a princess throne would be really cute if she could sit, or hold her head up, or even keep her eyes open.”) One common pose is to lay the giant head on some sort of podium, with the poor little tadpole body dangling off to the side like an afterthought.
But now Ben is 4 months and it’s time to get with the program. I’d been warned by B. against JC Penney, so we went to Sears. The whole experience was nerve-wracking. I’m led into the “studio” (which looks like somebody’s dusty basement with photographic equipment lurking darkly in one corner). My guide is Tammy, she with the perky, faintly psycho voice that women who work with kids sometimes develop.
She coos over Benjamin, who is, admittedly, a handsome chap. But she keeps calling me “Mom,” which is a small thing, but grating. I tell her my name is Christine, but she still doesn’t stop. I don’t thinks she’s even aware she does it anymore. It’s an unconcious thing, a verbal tic. I think it’s disrespectful.
Babbling at a pitch that only dogs could appreciate, she promptly buried Ben in a pile of props. Throw in some crazy backgrounds and you could barely see the baby. After 30 minutes of her maniacal behavior (which included freaky hand puppets, various stilted poses and three costume changes), Ben finally started crying. I was ready to bawl after 5 minutes.
##
I wasn’t looking forward to it. I know many mothers were sticking garters on their girls’ heads and baseball caps on their boys at 2 weeks and carting them out to the nearest Sears Portrait Studio.
Then they trot out these faintly strange pictures of newborns in odd poses (“Gee, that picture of Katylynn sitting on a princess throne would be really cute if she could sit, or hold her head up, or even keep her eyes open.”) One common pose is to lay the giant head on some sort of podium, with the poor little tadpole body dangling off to the side like an afterthought.
But now Ben is 4 months and it’s time to get with the program. I’d been warned by B. against JC Penney, so we went to Sears. The whole experience was nerve-wracking. I’m led into the “studio” (which looks like somebody’s dusty basement with photographic equipment lurking darkly in one corner). My guide is Tammy, she with the perky, faintly psycho voice that women who work with kids sometimes develop.
She coos over Benjamin, who is, admittedly, a handsome chap. But she keeps calling me “Mom,” which is a small thing, but grating. I tell her my name is Christine, but she still doesn’t stop. I don’t thinks she’s even aware she does it anymore. It’s an unconcious thing, a verbal tic. I think it’s disrespectful.
Babbling at a pitch that only dogs could appreciate, she promptly buried Ben in a pile of props. Throw in some crazy backgrounds and you could barely see the baby. After 30 minutes of her maniacal behavior (which included freaky hand puppets, various stilted poses and three costume changes), Ben finally started crying. I was ready to bawl after 5 minutes.
##
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