September 27, 2012
It used to be that when something disappeared, it might be due to my own forgetfulness, or maybe miscommunication with my husband. Then there was that time a mouse kept moving things around the kitchen, as I documented way back during IVF #2.
Now, I have an easy explanation for anything that is missing; one of Burrito’s favorite hobbies is moving objects to places that they do not belong. Why are there choo-choo trains behind the toilet? Why are there 5 (note the odd number) dirty socks in the couch cushions? Why is there a spatula in my bed? The answer to all of these questions: Burrito.
Why isn’t my credit card in my wallet? Burrito, of course. But where is my credit card? I haven’t been able to answer that for the past three weeks.
At least he reliably puts the car keys inside the same puppet.
When something disappears in your house, who/what do you suspect?
September 20, 2012
A few days ago, my husband announced that a friend from another city would be in town and would be coming over the next day. Immediately I tried to clear my work schedule so that I could come home an hour or two early and tidy up. The cleaning lady had been to the house two days earlier, but messes develop quickly thanks to Tropical Storm Tamale and Hurricane Burrito. With some visitors who are chaotic themselves I wouldn’t put in as much effort, but I know this guy to be a tidy fellow. It’s not about impressing him or anything, just about being respectable, about not being embarrassed.
Way back when, in the 90s, DH was on his way to a company softball game and stopped by our apartment to grab some clothes. He was giving a coworker a ride to the game and brought the guy upstairs. The place was a disaster. It was not a big apartment, but every one of those 700 square feet was messy. Beyond embarrassing. Since that day, my general goal has always been to keep the house in decent enough shape that if someone showed up at our door unexpectedly, I wouldn’t be embarrassed. Most of the time we don’t meet that threshold, but a good percentage of the time it’s decent enough that with an hour notice it could be fine. Things are usually pretty clean, which helps. Not dirty, just messy. Out of place.
You know the saying “A place for everything and everything in its place”? I’m great at the former. I strive, with varying degrees of success, for the latter.
If someone dropped by your house today, would you be embarrassed?
September 13, 2012
Welcome to the (belated) September Intelligentsia.
#35: Elana from Elana’s Musings
#30: A from Are You Kidding Me?
#29: Lost in Translation from We Say IVF, They Say FIV
#27: Strongblonde from Strong Blonde
#20: Ernessa from Fierce and Nerdy
#17: St. Elsewhere
#15: Lori from Write Mind Open Heart
#13: Ana from Ana Begins
#10: Sara from Aryanhwy
Before Burrito and Tamale came along, I liked to get 8 1/2 hours of sleep, and I almost always did. I felt that I didn’t function at maximum mental capacity with less than 8.
Now, 8 would be amazing.
8 is unimaginable. 7 is usually the best I can hope for; I can function fine on 7 hours. I can’t ever get myself to bed before midnight, both because of all of the things I have to do and because of my internal clock. Burrito and Tamale wake up around 7. So, that works out to 7 hours.
In actuality, I’m almost never in bed by midnight. Last night, I was up working until 1:40. Then Tamale woke up at 6:10. I definitely cannot function fine on 4 1/2 hours. With 6, I’m either not fully there mentally, or cranky, or I fall asleep in undesirable places like the bathroom floor or the bus — not usually all 3 problems on 6 hours, but at least one. Less than 6 and you’ll probably find me spacey and cranky until I eventually pass out on the kitchen floor. Last week I snuggled up with Burrito in his crib and then woke up 20 minutes later. My body does not fit in his crib.
But on the weekends? Oh, glorious glorious naptime. This past weekend for one of the naps, the twins and I all slept for more than 4 hours. 4 beautiful hours. And then at night I wasn’t sleepy and didn’t go to sleep until almost 2. And then the cycle continues — sleepy/nap, sleepy/nap, sleepy sleepy sleepy sleepy sleepy, sleepy/nap, sleepy/nap…
How much sleep do you need? How much sleep would you want? How much sleep do you get?
September 6, 2012
While we’re on the topic of old clothes…
What is your tolerance for holes?
Remember the late 80s/early 90s? Not only did we keep wearing jeans that had big rips in the knee, sometimes we actually cut giant holes into new jeans. Oh what our parents must have thought.
Nowadays, I’d never wear clothes with holes… except when I do. I try to present myself decently, so it’s quite surprising how many clothes with holes I continue to wear. When it comes to pajamas, I have no problem with holes as long as the shirt is comfortable enough and the holes not too big or egregious. I have a few lounge pants with holes or wear at the hem. For clothes I wear outside the house, I’d normally never wear anything with holes. But, for the past few months many of my shirts have ended up developing tiny holes, all in the exact same spot at the waist. It turns out that the zipper of my work bag has been poking holes into my shirts. I can’t very well throw out more than half of my wardrobe, so I wear them despite the little holes.
I don’t ever tolerate holes in socks, or underpants, or seats of pants, or knees of pants, etc. I do retain some standards.
I don’t tolerate any holes in my husband’s clothes, though. Those get thrown out as soon as I (or he) see them.
For the children, normally I don’t tolerate holes at all. But, when they’re in phases that ensure messiness (coming home from nursery school with their shirts covered in paint, potty accidents in pants…) and when the item of clothing is particularly cute, I tolerate tiny holes. But when we’re done with them, I throw them out — I’d never pass along something with holes as a hand-me-down.
What is your tolerance for holes?