1. My Ergo
2. Alcohol
3. Amazon prime streaming
4. Blackest black espresso
5. Driving aimlessly through the burbs in my minivan because I've forgotten where it is we're trying to get to. Truly.
Enough with the listing though. This week has started out on a rough note. Suspected RSV in the wee one (mercifully not, but still sleepless in Seattle.), a potentially broken finger in the medium one (x-rays on a one-year old are surprisingly do-able.), and endless amounts of willful tantrum throwing and truly horrifying behavior from the resident pre-schooler. Except he's not in preschool yet. But God knows he should be, because he asks me all day long one million and one questions about life and its intricacies, bosses his poor brother around like an indentured servant, and begs me to teach him how to read.
Honey, mommy hasn't taken a shower since Friday, phonics are not happening this winter. Or possibly ever, as the price of tuition leads me to believe.
Even now as I try to string a meager 200 words together he is at my elbow, shoving a chapter book in my face and dumping shelled pistachios in my lap in some bizarre attempt to capture my attention. I know it's all he wants, my attention, but sleeplessness and nursing and work and dishes and too many demands on a mama's time = go watch more Curious George. Except please don't, because I truly hate the sound of that monkey's voice.
(Oh good, the doctor's office just called with reports of swelling but no fracture in JP's finger. I heart American medicine.)
So just to review: little sleep, few 'wins' in the engaged parent department, and pistachio shells littering the entire main floor of our house. Also, does anyone have an opinion on relieving nighttime congestion in newborns, aside from the usual and obvious? We even bought a nose frida…we're those parents, now. I read one mommy message board advocating straight up mouth-to-nose suctioning, so I'm not feeling completely disgusting…yet.
And finally, Downton: you're dead to me. Honestly, I am in no state to entertain that kind of trauma. I'm still getting over Matthew. How can you be so cruel?
Showing posts with label sleep issues. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sleep issues. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Monday, October 7, 2013
Up All Night
Ex-utero bambino number two has been dripping with snot and sorrow for the past 3 days and seems to find comfort only in my arms - or more accurately, clawing up my back - lying in out bed at 3 am. And 4 am. And 5 am. He is a special, special boy whose universe is going to be rocked and rolled come Yuletide, when a smaller, more persistent screamer will no doubt be making her bedside appearance.
I hate co-sleeping for a million reasons, the primary being when they are in bed with me, I.don't.sleep. Oh, maybe a little bit of drunken slumber in between nurse-a-thons those first dark, hazy weeks, but I always wake up in a startle of sweat and hormone-induced panic "Omg where is baby where is baby what is that noise where am I which side is he on?" etc ad nauseum until the sun shines through the crack in the window shade and I stumble for the espresso maker. That's right, the espresso maker. Maybe you're still drinking coffee soup in the morning like the rest of America? My condolences. I need the high octane beverage equivalent of jet fuel to get my morning started. Best part of waking up is crack caffeine in your cup, and all that.
I've heard it's better to drop the wee bebe into a nearby bassinet or packnplay in your luxurious master suite, but we don't have the real estate for that kind of set up, and if I'm going to heave myself out of bed to drop someone in a crib, it might as well be located 15 more steps down the hall.
Nighttime parenting is one of the aspects of raising children that absolutely convinces me of the vocational nature of mother and fatherhood. Being a well-fed, gainfully-employed American, there is simply no other area in my life where I come face to face with actual physical suffering on a regular basis, except maybe the delivery room itself.
But at night? Waking repeatedly and frequently against my will and having to tend to the needs of an irrational bundle of joy is the most arduous aspect of this family gig, at least for my flabby soul, and God knows I need the opportunity to practice self-denial.
I go to the gym, I make decent food choices, and I tithe...but I do all these things when I feel like it. Sure, sometimes I put a workout off a couple hours or skip it completely, but I make up for it by redoubling my efforts the next time. There's no real virtue involved in it for me, though. Even in my more athletically ambitious days when I was swimming competitively and running half-marathons, I did all these things because I wanted to.
Parenting isn't like that. Sure, the initial pink-lines-on-a-stick was the direct result of something I wanted to do. But the rest of it? Not so much. At least not all the time.
Being called to physically, emotionally, and mentally put myself, my needs, my preferences, and most importantly (for me) my comfort aside day after day is literally my only shot at becoming a saint.
Some days I'm certain it's my only shot at ending up a halfway decent human being.
The way I lie in bed after the litany of complaint from down the hall has started, praying my husband will react first, or that the siren will peter out and I can roll back over and pass back out, the extra 10 or 20 seconds I keep staring at the computer screen after Joey calls to me "Mommy, look!" or even the disgust I feel toward the middle of each pregnancy, when baby is only half cooked but I already look fully inflated...all of these tendencies say far more about me any my own selfishness than they do about the "neediness" of my kids.
I've said it before and I'll say it here: thank God they need me so much. Thank God they literally need the Hell out of me day in and day out, because I'd literally be cooking happily to death in my own selfishness otherwise, watching re-runs of House Hunters and eating leisurely lunches involving cooked ingredients and green things. And maybe shopping at Pottery Barn just because I felt like it. Nothing wrong with any of those things, by the way, except for me these small, selfish pleasures would consume my entire waking hours, perhaps with the occasional charitable 'event' on the weekend to assure me of my basic decency as a human being.
God knew I was too lazy to practice any kind of asceticism, self-denial, or even good old fashioned discipline on my own. At least not where it counted, and not when I didn't "feel like it."
I can say with almost 100% certainty that I never, ever feel like getting up with a crying baby at night. But I do it. And every time it happens, maybe - just maybe - my tiny grinch heart grows a tenth of a size or something. Am I willingly taking up my Cross to follow Him? Well, still working on the first part of that directive. But every time I act "as if" and follow along anyway, I'm getting closer.
(This post sponsored by hideously ineffective Up-and-Up brand infant tylenol, some $7 homeopathic "congestion clearing" crap we bought at Target, and sheer exhaustion.)
 |
| What do you mean you're "upgrading?" |
I've heard it's better to drop the wee bebe into a nearby bassinet or packnplay in your luxurious master suite, but we don't have the real estate for that kind of set up, and if I'm going to heave myself out of bed to drop someone in a crib, it might as well be located 15 more steps down the hall.
Nighttime parenting is one of the aspects of raising children that absolutely convinces me of the vocational nature of mother and fatherhood. Being a well-fed, gainfully-employed American, there is simply no other area in my life where I come face to face with actual physical suffering on a regular basis, except maybe the delivery room itself.
But at night? Waking repeatedly and frequently against my will and having to tend to the needs of an irrational bundle of joy is the most arduous aspect of this family gig, at least for my flabby soul, and God knows I need the opportunity to practice self-denial.
I go to the gym, I make decent food choices, and I tithe...but I do all these things when I feel like it. Sure, sometimes I put a workout off a couple hours or skip it completely, but I make up for it by redoubling my efforts the next time. There's no real virtue involved in it for me, though. Even in my more athletically ambitious days when I was swimming competitively and running half-marathons, I did all these things because I wanted to.
Parenting isn't like that. Sure, the initial pink-lines-on-a-stick was the direct result of something I wanted to do. But the rest of it? Not so much. At least not all the time.
Being called to physically, emotionally, and mentally put myself, my needs, my preferences, and most importantly (for me) my comfort aside day after day is literally my only shot at becoming a saint.
Some days I'm certain it's my only shot at ending up a halfway decent human being.
The way I lie in bed after the litany of complaint from down the hall has started, praying my husband will react first, or that the siren will peter out and I can roll back over and pass back out, the extra 10 or 20 seconds I keep staring at the computer screen after Joey calls to me "Mommy, look!" or even the disgust I feel toward the middle of each pregnancy, when baby is only half cooked but I already look fully inflated...all of these tendencies say far more about me any my own selfishness than they do about the "neediness" of my kids.
I've said it before and I'll say it here: thank God they need me so much. Thank God they literally need the Hell out of me day in and day out, because I'd literally be cooking happily to death in my own selfishness otherwise, watching re-runs of House Hunters and eating leisurely lunches involving cooked ingredients and green things. And maybe shopping at Pottery Barn just because I felt like it. Nothing wrong with any of those things, by the way, except for me these small, selfish pleasures would consume my entire waking hours, perhaps with the occasional charitable 'event' on the weekend to assure me of my basic decency as a human being.
God knew I was too lazy to practice any kind of asceticism, self-denial, or even good old fashioned discipline on my own. At least not where it counted, and not when I didn't "feel like it."
I can say with almost 100% certainty that I never, ever feel like getting up with a crying baby at night. But I do it. And every time it happens, maybe - just maybe - my tiny grinch heart grows a tenth of a size or something. Am I willingly taking up my Cross to follow Him? Well, still working on the first part of that directive. But every time I act "as if" and follow along anyway, I'm getting closer.
(This post sponsored by hideously ineffective Up-and-Up brand infant tylenol, some $7 homeopathic "congestion clearing" crap we bought at Target, and sheer exhaustion.)
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
How (not) to suffer
Been curled up in a ball of self-pity and eye twitches most of today, due to nothing more serious than a broken laptop, a country that refuses to grant me resident alien status or internet access, and a baby who screams mercilessly, whether he is actually in pain or not.
I looked up from my wallowing groove on the couch to realize, quite suddenly, that today was April 2nd. The eighth anniversary of the death of my beloved hero, Bl. John Paul II, and the day which marked the dramatic beginning to my reversion to Catholicism. How I had failed to anticipate this day's arrival, I cannot fathom, so maybe I'll point to months of sleeplessness, adjustment issues, insane working hours and plain old stress. But nevertheless, here it is, and here I am, in Rome, balancing a shrieking almost one-year-old named John Paul on my hip while trying to hit pause on Jillian Michaels for the 30th time this workout...and I realize what a strange thing it is, to be here like this. In Rome.
Living half a mile from his mortal remains, enshrined under the alter of St. Sebastian, and sitting around suffering and feeling like my life is going to end because of how very hard everything is and how much God is asking of me right now and can somebody just come and hold my hand and give me like a 20 minute break and a tropical drink?
I texted Dave a sort of 'happy conversion anniversary to me' text while he was at work, taking care to pepper it with details about how fantastically well-behaved his children weren't being. Later in the day, during a phone call update on the ongoing status of our internet-seeking saga, (I'm working from his office right now) I was moaning about how difficult Rome was and could he believe that JPII died here, and he had the sweet audacity to point out how maybe we could emulate his heroic example of suffering.
Yes, because my friendless, baby-saturated wandering in the internet desert is akin to a lifetime of self-denial and sacrifice, capped off by the painful degenerative humiliation of Parkinson's.
Obviously it isn't. And my sweet husband wasn't being facetious, if you can believe it. There really isn't room for any more of that in our marriage, and I'll let you figure out on your own whose fault that is.
JPII's suffering, though, was particularly meaningful in its example because he didn't choose the circumstances...only the response. He didn't want the papacy, and he certainly didn't ask to be crippled and nearly silenced in his old age by a hideous disease which robbed him of his elegant speech and his capable athletic physique. But he said yes. And he kept saying yes, kept submitting 'thy will be done's,' to his boss, kept acting 'as if,' even when it most assuredly felt like running the opposite direction would have better sufficed.
So what can I say? I'll keep on keeping on. And I will dance for joy when the internet gets turned back on. But I'm prepared to at least attempt to act joyfully now, while things are still hard, even if I'm crying in the shower while my kids are pretending to nap in their room next door. I don't know, it feels like what he would have done. Not the crying in the shower part, but the joyfully picking up your cross and maybe even smiling about it part.
Bl. John Paul II, pray for us...and pray for me, in particular, won't you?
I love you, old friend.
I looked up from my wallowing groove on the couch to realize, quite suddenly, that today was April 2nd. The eighth anniversary of the death of my beloved hero, Bl. John Paul II, and the day which marked the dramatic beginning to my reversion to Catholicism. How I had failed to anticipate this day's arrival, I cannot fathom, so maybe I'll point to months of sleeplessness, adjustment issues, insane working hours and plain old stress. But nevertheless, here it is, and here I am, in Rome, balancing a shrieking almost one-year-old named John Paul on my hip while trying to hit pause on Jillian Michaels for the 30th time this workout...and I realize what a strange thing it is, to be here like this. In Rome.
Living half a mile from his mortal remains, enshrined under the alter of St. Sebastian, and sitting around suffering and feeling like my life is going to end because of how very hard everything is and how much God is asking of me right now and can somebody just come and hold my hand and give me like a 20 minute break and a tropical drink?
I texted Dave a sort of 'happy conversion anniversary to me' text while he was at work, taking care to pepper it with details about how fantastically well-behaved his children weren't being. Later in the day, during a phone call update on the ongoing status of our internet-seeking saga, (I'm working from his office right now) I was moaning about how difficult Rome was and could he believe that JPII died here, and he had the sweet audacity to point out how maybe we could emulate his heroic example of suffering.
Yes, because my friendless, baby-saturated wandering in the internet desert is akin to a lifetime of self-denial and sacrifice, capped off by the painful degenerative humiliation of Parkinson's.
Obviously it isn't. And my sweet husband wasn't being facetious, if you can believe it. There really isn't room for any more of that in our marriage, and I'll let you figure out on your own whose fault that is.
JPII's suffering, though, was particularly meaningful in its example because he didn't choose the circumstances...only the response. He didn't want the papacy, and he certainly didn't ask to be crippled and nearly silenced in his old age by a hideous disease which robbed him of his elegant speech and his capable athletic physique. But he said yes. And he kept saying yes, kept submitting 'thy will be done's,' to his boss, kept acting 'as if,' even when it most assuredly felt like running the opposite direction would have better sufficed.
So what can I say? I'll keep on keeping on. And I will dance for joy when the internet gets turned back on. But I'm prepared to at least attempt to act joyfully now, while things are still hard, even if I'm crying in the shower while my kids are pretending to nap in their room next door. I don't know, it feels like what he would have done. Not the crying in the shower part, but the joyfully picking up your cross and maybe even smiling about it part.
Bl. John Paul II, pray for us...and pray for me, in particular, won't you?
I love you, old friend.
Friday, March 1, 2013
7 Quick Takes from a Crazy, Crazy Week
Alternate title: 7 places my kid's face has been on the news throughout the world. Too obnoxious? Yeah, me too.
1. But obviously this was the highlight of our little family's week, followed by write ups here and here, a phone interview here (don't read the comments, you might have a rage-induced stroke), a screenshot here and a shout out from my favoritest boss in the world here. Plus a couple of filmed broadcasts via EWTN and the Italian national news channel (but I will just send those directly to you, Mom, okay?) As for the other million or so more-than-usual-visitors who made their way to my humble corner of the internet this week: thank you! I'm sorry most of what I write is not quite so exciting, and I'm also sorry for the occasional curse word (happy, Dave?) which sneaks its way into my riveting sleep-training rants. Speaking of...
2. JP, despite his newfound celebrity, is taking it all in stride, still staunchly refusing to sleep in the daylight hours unless strapped to my chest via the Ergo-maybe-I-can-pee-while-wearing...nope-Baby carrier, though he is putting in a more acceptable 9 hours overnight. At least that's what the non-earplugged members of the household tell me.
3. Last night was so emotional. After being fully immersed for weeks in Vatican biznez, I wasn't sure I'd have a tear left to spare once Papa finally bid us all adieu. But the moment his helicopter bounced on its hydraulic helicopter wheels (technically speaking) and made off for the setting Roman sunset, I lost my composure. Luckily, a helpful and not at all creepy or disrespectful Czech cameraman was there tohand me a tissue stick his giant ass video camera in my face and proceed to film for 90 or 120 very painful and snot saturated seconds. I thought if I avoided eye contact he would cease and desist, but barring results via that tactic, I opted for plan B and blew my nose repeatedly into John Paul's fleece hoodie while studying the back of his neck.
4. I am wondering if I am doing something wrong by not responding to every single comment I get? I am super awkward in real life, I promise, and I regularly entertain thoughts like 'If I make the first phone call to arrange this playdate between our kids, does that make me seem desperate?' and 'I hope he understood that my nervous winking thing wasn't so much a come on as it was a facial tick.' So sometimes I just don't know what to say to a comment besides, 'hey, thank you so much, I can't believe you took the time to read something that I wrote AND react to it.' But that is precisely my sentiment each and every time. Seriously, comments...they make my life. Like a sale at Banana Republic + a recently-deposited paycheck in the bank. That's how good they make me feel.
(Except when they're coming from you, you Polish troll. You know who you are. And you can crawl back into your pirogi-lined troll hole.)
5. Is now a good time to admit that based largely upon recommendations from some of my most trusted arts and culture advisers, I have opted to pay $2 per episode to download and consume episodes of the Bachelor on iTunes? God bless America, land that I miss...
6. Needless to say, I'll be bringing you lots more original (though perhaps not necessarily riveting or well-written) content from Rome as the Papal Conclave gets underway. I don't claim to be much of a theologian, having completed approximately 1/4 of my theology MA (sorry, mom and dad...but hey, grandkids!), but I know enough to communicate to you fine people the basic gist of what is happening in this historic time for the Roman Catholic Church, and I couldn't be more blessed to be here in the heart of it all, so come back for updates. And advice on where to buy tequila in Italy and the very best off-brand foreign diapers.
7. Jen, thanks for the shout out. Now I've had 2 Catholic celebrity encounters this week.
1. But obviously this was the highlight of our little family's week, followed by write ups here and here, a phone interview here (don't read the comments, you might have a rage-induced stroke), a screenshot here and a shout out from my favoritest boss in the world here. Plus a couple of filmed broadcasts via EWTN and the Italian national news channel (but I will just send those directly to you, Mom, okay?) As for the other million or so more-than-usual-visitors who made their way to my humble corner of the internet this week: thank you! I'm sorry most of what I write is not quite so exciting, and I'm also sorry for the occasional curse word (happy, Dave?) which sneaks its way into my riveting sleep-training rants. Speaking of...
2. JP, despite his newfound celebrity, is taking it all in stride, still staunchly refusing to sleep in the daylight hours unless strapped to my chest via the Ergo-maybe-I-can-pee-while-wearing...nope-Baby carrier, though he is putting in a more acceptable 9 hours overnight. At least that's what the non-earplugged members of the household tell me.
3. Last night was so emotional. After being fully immersed for weeks in Vatican biznez, I wasn't sure I'd have a tear left to spare once Papa finally bid us all adieu. But the moment his helicopter bounced on its hydraulic helicopter wheels (technically speaking) and made off for the setting Roman sunset, I lost my composure. Luckily, a helpful and not at all creepy or disrespectful Czech cameraman was there to
4. I am wondering if I am doing something wrong by not responding to every single comment I get? I am super awkward in real life, I promise, and I regularly entertain thoughts like 'If I make the first phone call to arrange this playdate between our kids, does that make me seem desperate?' and 'I hope he understood that my nervous winking thing wasn't so much a come on as it was a facial tick.' So sometimes I just don't know what to say to a comment besides, 'hey, thank you so much, I can't believe you took the time to read something that I wrote AND react to it.' But that is precisely my sentiment each and every time. Seriously, comments...they make my life. Like a sale at Banana Republic + a recently-deposited paycheck in the bank. That's how good they make me feel.
(Except when they're coming from you, you Polish troll. You know who you are. And you can crawl back into your pirogi-lined troll hole.)
5. Is now a good time to admit that based largely upon recommendations from some of my most trusted arts and culture advisers, I have opted to pay $2 per episode to download and consume episodes of the Bachelor on iTunes? God bless America, land that I miss...
6. Needless to say, I'll be bringing you lots more original (though perhaps not necessarily riveting or well-written) content from Rome as the Papal Conclave gets underway. I don't claim to be much of a theologian, having completed approximately 1/4 of my theology MA (sorry, mom and dad...but hey, grandkids!), but I know enough to communicate to you fine people the basic gist of what is happening in this historic time for the Roman Catholic Church, and I couldn't be more blessed to be here in the heart of it all, so come back for updates. And advice on where to buy tequila in Italy and the very best off-brand foreign diapers.
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| Not a bad view of a not-bad view. |
Friday, February 22, 2013
Dear Diary
What is the number one easiest way to ensure that some recently 'mastered' parenting trick or technique fails spectacularly?
Oh, oh, I know...talk about it!
(See yesterday's post.)
Last night was hell. Hell, I tell you. I honestly am beginning to question my competency, not just as a mother, but as a card-carrying adult member of society.
JP is not sleeping still. And that's hardly the point. The real issue is, I can't say no to my kids. Rather, I can't say 'that's not good for you, so I'm going to enforce something that is' so long as it causes me discomfort.
What could this possibly mean for the teenage years? Hell, for the kindergarten years?
I'm sitting here at 2 something in the afternoon watching 'Real Time' tv, Italy's version of 'TLC' (my guilty fave) and listening to JP sca-reaaaaaam for the third nap attempt of the day. He has been nursed. He has been dosed with Tylenol. He has been read to (in 2 languages). He has eaten and drank his fill of delicious, nutritious foods and beverages. He has had lots of one-on-one Mommy cuddle time. He has even been sprung from his earlier screamfest by my suspicious Romanian cleaning lady who informed me, in no uncertain Italian terms, that he wanted to be picked up. Oh, do you think?
At this point, I just have to ask myself, what the hell am I doing wrong?
Besides wanting to throw myself under one of the passing tiny trash trucks that lumber past our apartment building all night long, I'm not sure quite how to go about this entire 'sleep training' business...or any other difficult aspects of motherhood, it would seem. My fuse is thisshort, my energy is absolutely nonexistent, and my kids are probably suffering long term damage from my ham-handed attempts to raise them keep them alive.
I guess this too shall pass, but God help me, what terrifying developmental phase is looming after this one? I will gladly take in toddlers for a group potty training session which lasts a fortnight, and I'll even use sugar free treats for positive reinforcement, if only someone could make this child sleep. Any takers?
Over and out. A happy weekend to you and yours, I guess. I'll just be here drinking lukewarm and unsatisfying Italian beer and trying not to burst into tears while JP howls from the back bedroom.
Arrividerci.
Oh, and here are some unrelated and largely irrelevant pictures of Italy. Because, you know, at least I'm in Italy.
Oh, oh, I know...talk about it!
(See yesterday's post.)
Last night was hell. Hell, I tell you. I honestly am beginning to question my competency, not just as a mother, but as a card-carrying adult member of society.
JP is not sleeping still. And that's hardly the point. The real issue is, I can't say no to my kids. Rather, I can't say 'that's not good for you, so I'm going to enforce something that is' so long as it causes me discomfort.
What could this possibly mean for the teenage years? Hell, for the kindergarten years?
I'm sitting here at 2 something in the afternoon watching 'Real Time' tv, Italy's version of 'TLC' (my guilty fave) and listening to JP sca-reaaaaaam for the third nap attempt of the day. He has been nursed. He has been dosed with Tylenol. He has been read to (in 2 languages). He has eaten and drank his fill of delicious, nutritious foods and beverages. He has had lots of one-on-one Mommy cuddle time. He has even been sprung from his earlier screamfest by my suspicious Romanian cleaning lady who informed me, in no uncertain Italian terms, that he wanted to be picked up. Oh, do you think?
At this point, I just have to ask myself, what the hell am I doing wrong?
Besides wanting to throw myself under one of the passing tiny trash trucks that lumber past our apartment building all night long, I'm not sure quite how to go about this entire 'sleep training' business...or any other difficult aspects of motherhood, it would seem. My fuse is thisshort, my energy is absolutely nonexistent, and my kids are probably suffering long term damage from my ham-handed attempts to
I guess this too shall pass, but God help me, what terrifying developmental phase is looming after this one? I will gladly take in toddlers for a group potty training session which lasts a fortnight, and I'll even use sugar free treats for positive reinforcement, if only someone could make this child sleep. Any takers?
Over and out. A happy weekend to you and yours, I guess. I'll just be here drinking lukewarm and unsatisfying Italian beer and trying not to burst into tears while JP howls from the back bedroom.
Arrividerci.
Oh, and here are some unrelated and largely irrelevant pictures of Italy. Because, you know, at least I'm in Italy.
 |
| Dressing for the season. Nailed it. |
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| Wait, your kids aren't leashed? |
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| Lovely Tia. |
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| Some old ruin. |
Thursday, February 21, 2013
He Sleeps!
And so do I! 2 nights in a row now, I've gotten 7+ hours. Fricking fracking miracle, I tell you. Evidenced by a frenetic mopping of both the kitchen and bathroom yesterday, and daily Mass and a 7 mile trek to and fro Villa Borghese this morning, pushing the million pound limo stroller and dragging various purchases collected along the way.
This is working. It's really working!
Some stats to consider: (I'm talking to you, future self, when the next little person comes along one day. Do not - I repeat, do not - wait until said child is a toddler before ever thinking to say 'no' to them. Idiot.)
Night one: Down to bed by 9:30 pm, he cried for 90 minutes, fell asleep around 10:45, woke at 2 am, cried for another hour, took 3 oz of formula from Daddy at 3 am, fell back asleep until 7 am. I had mild panic attacks all night long from the sound of shrieking baby, which even worked its way into some truly bizarre dream narratives. Would not wish this experience on my worst enemy. Total cry time: 2.5 hours
Night two: Down to bed by 9:00 pm. Cried for 45 minutes, on an off, but less rabidly than on night one. Did not wake until 7 am. Total cry time: 45 minutes
Needless to say, I'm super optimistic about night three. Thank you times a million to infinity for the supportive, non-judgmental, and just truly helpful comments. Sleep training is hell. But it's worth the price for the sweet, sweet reward of higher levels of cognitive functioning and a baby without bags under his eyes who actually giggles at me again. Praise the Lord.
This is working. It's really working!
Some stats to consider: (I'm talking to you, future self, when the next little person comes along one day. Do not - I repeat, do not - wait until said child is a toddler before ever thinking to say 'no' to them. Idiot.)
Night one: Down to bed by 9:30 pm, he cried for 90 minutes, fell asleep around 10:45, woke at 2 am, cried for another hour, took 3 oz of formula from Daddy at 3 am, fell back asleep until 7 am. I had mild panic attacks all night long from the sound of shrieking baby, which even worked its way into some truly bizarre dream narratives. Would not wish this experience on my worst enemy. Total cry time: 2.5 hours
Night two: Down to bed by 9:00 pm. Cried for 45 minutes, on an off, but less rabidly than on night one. Did not wake until 7 am. Total cry time: 45 minutes
Needless to say, I'm super optimistic about night three. Thank you times a million to infinity for the supportive, non-judgmental, and just truly helpful comments. Sleep training is hell. But it's worth the price for the sweet, sweet reward of higher levels of cognitive functioning and a baby without bags under his eyes who actually giggles at me again. Praise the Lord.
a.jpg) |
| What's that you say? I can remove my extra-utero pregnancy suit, JP? Thank you sweet baby Jesus. |
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Cry Me Out
I am awfully afraid of sleep training. In my past life as an idiot without any children, I judged many a parent in my heart for their seeming incompetence/obsession with their children's sleep habits, and I even went so far as to make some vom vom vomitous predictions while pregnant (yes, you heard me, pregnant, not even with a child in my freaking arms yet) about which 'method' we would 'do' with our extra special offspring. Slap me. Slap me across my damn face.
Anywho, JP the monster baby is screaming his 10-months-old-today head off in the other bedroom right now, because I had the audacity to hope (see what I did there? You're welcome) that he might go to sleep without being nursed into unconscious bliss, then tentatively and oh-so-gingerly transferred onto a fluffy pillow of dreams and unicorns, where he would lightly slumber whilst the entire rest of the household would tiptoe around and scream silent curses at each other for the remainder of the evening should anyone have the misfortune to close a cabinet door too enthusiastically. End scene.
I can't for the life of me figure out why this kid doesn't sleep.
Admittedly, we were a tad more schedule-driven with Joey. in face, we did Babywise fairly hardcore, and feedings, nappings, and the like were all more or less fixed in place. With John Paul...I feel like we've been in emergency triage for his entire life. From ca-razy post-partum depression to a surgery at 6 months old to our recent move to Italy, we've always had 'something' major going on, pressing down, a foot crushing our throats and demanding we fix our attention elsewhere. But now, it's time.
John Paul, you're a big strapping 10 month old, and I can't nurse you to sleep twice a day and wake up 1-4 times per night to top up your gas tank anymore. I also can't handle not ever knowing, on a given day, if you're going to nap. Not when, but if. I have become my formerly childless self's worst nightmare.
Pass me a drink.
Last night was our first official 'cry it out' venture in Italy. It was more or less successful, if by successful you mean 3+ hours of varied intensity of bloodcurdling screams, punctuated by deep philosophical pillow talk peppered with 'will he need counseling?' and 'does this seem like something the neighbors might call the cops for?' queries. Riveting stuff, I know.
The upshot is that he did, technically, cry it out to put his sad self to bed, and he didn't nurse last night....though he did get a conciliatory bottle of actual formula around 3 am from Daddy dearest, which seemed to satiate him until the godly hour of 7 am.
So why do I feel so awful|?
I don't know, maybe it's the prolonged sleep deprivation, maybe it's the lingering uncertainty over reading too many entries at BabyCenter.com, or maybe it's just the straight up wicked hormonal cocktail that floods mah brain courtesy of my endocrine system whenever his crying sessions begin.
Whatever the case may be, I hate hate hate hearing my babies cry. And I hate being so sleep deprived I press the same button in our building's elevator 5 times before Dave nudges me and points out that I'm pressing the floor we're already on. Awesome.
The moral of this story is, we're on night two of cry it the frick out, and God help us if he wakes soon...
Anywho, JP the monster baby is screaming his 10-months-old-today head off in the other bedroom right now, because I had the audacity to hope (see what I did there? You're welcome) that he might go to sleep without being nursed into unconscious bliss, then tentatively and oh-so-gingerly transferred onto a fluffy pillow of dreams and unicorns, where he would lightly slumber whilst the entire rest of the household would tiptoe around and scream silent curses at each other for the remainder of the evening should anyone have the misfortune to close a cabinet door too enthusiastically. End scene.
I can't for the life of me figure out why this kid doesn't sleep.
Admittedly, we were a tad more schedule-driven with Joey. in face, we did Babywise fairly hardcore, and feedings, nappings, and the like were all more or less fixed in place. With John Paul...I feel like we've been in emergency triage for his entire life. From ca-razy post-partum depression to a surgery at 6 months old to our recent move to Italy, we've always had 'something' major going on, pressing down, a foot crushing our throats and demanding we fix our attention elsewhere. But now, it's time.
John Paul, you're a big strapping 10 month old, and I can't nurse you to sleep twice a day and wake up 1-4 times per night to top up your gas tank anymore. I also can't handle not ever knowing, on a given day, if you're going to nap. Not when, but if. I have become my formerly childless self's worst nightmare.
Pass me a drink.
Last night was our first official 'cry it out' venture in Italy. It was more or less successful, if by successful you mean 3+ hours of varied intensity of bloodcurdling screams, punctuated by deep philosophical pillow talk peppered with 'will he need counseling?' and 'does this seem like something the neighbors might call the cops for?' queries. Riveting stuff, I know.
The upshot is that he did, technically, cry it out to put his sad self to bed, and he didn't nurse last night....though he did get a conciliatory bottle of actual formula around 3 am from Daddy dearest, which seemed to satiate him until the godly hour of 7 am.
So why do I feel so awful|?
I don't know, maybe it's the prolonged sleep deprivation, maybe it's the lingering uncertainty over reading too many entries at BabyCenter.com, or maybe it's just the straight up wicked hormonal cocktail that floods mah brain courtesy of my endocrine system whenever his crying sessions begin.
Whatever the case may be, I hate hate hate hearing my babies cry. And I hate being so sleep deprived I press the same button in our building's elevator 5 times before Dave nudges me and points out that I'm pressing the floor we're already on. Awesome.
The moral of this story is, we're on night two of cry it the frick out, and God help us if he wakes soon...
Friday, February 15, 2013
7 Quick Takes
1. These kids are killing me. Killing me, I tell you. I am literally considering enrolling Joey in a half-day, thrice weekly preschool program - okay, fine, daycare - to the monthly tune of roughly what tuition cost per month my freshman year of college. But, but, he'll learn Italian! And they have a gymnastics class on Mondays! And visiting hamsters! (Compelling, persuasive, and sad, all bundled into one, am I right?)
2. They don't sleep. Or rather, Joey sleeps, but not if John Paul is in the room. In fact, when I want to severely threaten him at nap/bedtimes, I drop my voice an octave lower and warn him "Joey, JP is going to sleep in your room if you don't lie down now."
"No Mommy, no JP, no no NO! JP go away, no JP please Mommy please!!"
Works every time.
3. Speaking of bleeding ear drums, while recovering from their respective ear infections, both boys managed to scrape together a cough/cold combo, no doubt 1 part torce cuolla and 1 part traipsing around St. Peter's mugging for photographers and staring forlornly up at the windows of the Papal apartment. What can I say? We're still in shock, and wandering around and creepily eavesdropping on other English-speaking pilgrims has been our favorite pastime this week.
4. Which brings me to Valentine's day, which was something to behold in a city which takes its flowers verrrrry seriously. A florist stand or shop on every block, and then maybe one more in between, I tell you. Florists are the new Starbucks, McDonald's, and medical MJ shop all rolled into one. (Which may have something to do with Romans being about 40% slimmer than the average American.) Anyway, I scored these bad boys and a very interesting literal interpretation of the term 'hamburger' (think on that for a while) at our local Irish pub, which may not sound romantic to you, but then, you aren't a frat boy hiding in the body of a 30 year-old woman, are you?
5. Can we revisit number 2? JP literally sleeps 9 hours in a 24 hour cycle. I'll let you speculate how many of those are at night, but it isn't nearly enough, considering the meat on his almost 19 lb frame. He isn't quite 10 months old, and he has the sleeping patterns of a colicky 10 week old. Which he was, at one point, so, in sum, f word. Thank you for your time. Any suggestions are welcome, though we've tried everything at least once, and are currently rocking a really healthy combination of CIO/co-sleeping/baby-wearing/threatening abandonment/daily happy hour. Can't imagine why he isn't better adjusted...
6. This week's 'When in Rome' highlights included Carnivale (mardi gras) fireworks in Piazzo del Popolo (awesome), Ash Wednesday Mass outside of St. Peter's, for 20 minutes, in front of a jumbo-tron screen, after being glared out of Santa Ana, a charming little church inside the Vatican walls that isn't overly keen on small humans, and watching the first tide of pilgrims, Vaticanista, and spring tourists roll through the city. Overnight, the Vatican area has gone from tepid foot traffic to surging crowds across the square at all hours of the day. Also noteworthy: the dozens and dozens of white-lit media tents springing up all along Via Della Concilliazione and on rooftops of apartment buildings with a line of sight to the Basilica. White smoke is coming...
7. Please pray we make some friends. Gosh, how hard up does that make me sound? Terribly, I'm sure. But we have a great friend in Dave's co-worker and his wife, a lovely couple with baby #2 on the way and a Nebraska heritage, to boot. But besides them...friend desert. And all the wine and pastries in the world can't replace something like that. Trust me, I've been attempting it.
Now off to Jen with you.
2. They don't sleep. Or rather, Joey sleeps, but not if John Paul is in the room. In fact, when I want to severely threaten him at nap/bedtimes, I drop my voice an octave lower and warn him "Joey, JP is going to sleep in your room if you don't lie down now."
"No Mommy, no JP, no no NO! JP go away, no JP please Mommy please!!"
Et cetera et cetera, in an increasingly frantic tone and with his hands clapped over his ears, until I back slowly out of the room brandishing Mr. Piercing Decibels Only Dogs Should Be Able to Hit.
Works every time.
3. Speaking of bleeding ear drums, while recovering from their respective ear infections, both boys managed to scrape together a cough/cold combo, no doubt 1 part torce cuolla and 1 part traipsing around St. Peter's mugging for photographers and staring forlornly up at the windows of the Papal apartment. What can I say? We're still in shock, and wandering around and creepily eavesdropping on other English-speaking pilgrims has been our favorite pastime this week.
 |
| Fr. Lombardi, spokesman for the papal household, addressing the Vatican newscorp, stolen from husband. |
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| Big baby, my love, (slightly) smaller baby, and a human-sized bouquet |
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| "I'll sleep when you're dead." |
 |
| Sister date at the Spanish steps. I tried to get her to smooch me, but she declined. |
7. Please pray we make some friends. Gosh, how hard up does that make me sound? Terribly, I'm sure. But we have a great friend in Dave's co-worker and his wife, a lovely couple with baby #2 on the way and a Nebraska heritage, to boot. But besides them...friend desert. And all the wine and pastries in the world can't replace something like that. Trust me, I've been attempting it.
Now off to Jen with you.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Pushed from the Nest
Guess who's holding his own bottle of powdered poison and not even pretending to like it a little bit?
We found an obliging pharmacist who sold us the goods - stashed behind the counter, naturally, being a controlled substance and all - and he is presently screaming 6 inches from Joey's ear while they lie in side-by-side baby cages, pretending to take naps, with a fatty bottle of the good stuff clutched in his inefficient little paws. (Any tips on teaching a baby to hold his own bottle would be welcome here, this is a safe place.)
I was only a little bit confused and a whole lot relieved to find the magic powder hidden safely in the back of the shop, and I only blinked slightly rapidly whilst whisking past the condom and cigarette vending machines (what?) to make my dirty little purchase.
Sufficiently shamed and very much optimistic about this evening, I bid you a fond farewell as I prepare to grit my teeth for a dueling banjo screamfest for the next 90 minutes of' 'quiet time.'
 | ||
| This guy. And screaming (his satisfaction? approval?) for all the world to hear. |
I was only a little bit confused and a whole lot relieved to find the magic powder hidden safely in the back of the shop, and I only blinked slightly rapidly whilst whisking past the condom and cigarette vending machines (what?) to make my dirty little purchase.
Sufficiently shamed and very much optimistic about this evening, I bid you a fond farewell as I prepare to grit my teeth for a dueling banjo screamfest for the next 90 minutes of' 'quiet time.'
Friday, February 1, 2013
Language Barriers
So I have this incredibly weird relationship with breastfeeding. (Pulitzer prize material, that opening line.) On the one hand, I'm so thankful I can feed my babies this way, and completely in awe of the way my body works.
On the other hand, I'm sick of being 10 lbs overweight, waking up at all hours of the night, and being on call 24/7 for an almost-20-lb 'newborn' who can't seem to self soothe because, wait for it...he has never had to. Idiots, we are.
Yesterday, after a lengthy facebook chat with my best friend, and the 23rd consecutive night of broken sleep in Italy, I made the heart-wrenching (Really? wtf is wrong with me, seriously?) decision to (gasp) buy formula and (shudder) put it into a freaking bottle and let Daddy go on night duty.
It should be noted, I actually have a rocking breastpump, a perfectly willing husband who has offered multiple times to take over night feedings, and an apparent complete inability to relinquish control of this area of child-rearing, but for whatever reason, last night was the night to pull the trigger.
I think it maybe had a little something to do with the 9.6% ABV of the Scotch Pub Ale I consumed with dinner at our (our) very own little Irish pub downstairs from our apartment. I swoon. But I also digress.
Fortified by strong drink and terrible, terrible salad topped with fennel, raw salmon, and radicchio, I made my way down the block to a nearby Farmacia (highly confusing to this Colorado girl, as they are marked by neon-lit green crosses, which mean something a bit different in my mind) where I stared stupidly up at a shelf of overpriced baby goodies for something like 15 minutes.
As I scanned the shelves, looking for something that looked like formula, the internal debate raged:
Am I a terrible mother? Is this admitting defeat? Will this actually help me sleep at night? Will I get pregnant in 11 minutes when my cycle comes back after feeding JP one bottle? Are the store workers talking about me right now?
I finally settled on a can of what looked to be promising powder, and read it while walking home, trying in vain to decipher the Italian.
Dave, whose schooling has continued and who is much more fluent already than I can ever hope to be, was equally puzzled by the stuff, but I consulted my memory banks from years of babysitting adventures and scooped 4 tbs into a bottle of sterile water (actually, flat mineral water, which probably tasted absolutely delicious.)
I went to bed after nursing the little beast last night, filled with a mixture of hope and guilt, and much to my delighted surprise, he woke only once last night. ONCE. And he drank some of the bottle Dave offered him, only to demand a top-up from yours truly around 2 am. But still....going from 3 or more wakings to one was a dream come true.
I faced this morning with a strong cup of espresso and a new gleam in my eye, and I examined the bottle from the night before, noticing something rather odd, something that seemed quite out of character for formula to do.
The bottle had completely settled out in solution, so that it looked like on of those Jello desserts from the early 90s, with 3 different layers of something special, each a different shade of taupe.
Um, ew.
Being the fantastic mother that I am, I bravely lifted the bottle to my lips to sample what my youngest wolf had been feasting on in the night.
Powdered biscotti is the answer. I shit you not.
I gagged on a mouthful of chalky, biscuit-y mineral water, feeling a mixture of disgust and relief. I mean, technically, I hadn't given him formula after all...he had sucked down a bottle of gruel last night, and he slept! Hallelujah.
Still, after tasting that stuff, I think I have a better idea of why the Italian birthrate is so low.
On the other hand, I'm sick of being 10 lbs overweight, waking up at all hours of the night, and being on call 24/7 for an almost-20-lb 'newborn' who can't seem to self soothe because, wait for it...he has never had to. Idiots, we are.
 |
| "I own you, Mother." |
It should be noted, I actually have a rocking breastpump, a perfectly willing husband who has offered multiple times to take over night feedings, and an apparent complete inability to relinquish control of this area of child-rearing, but for whatever reason, last night was the night to pull the trigger.
I think it maybe had a little something to do with the 9.6% ABV of the Scotch Pub Ale I consumed with dinner at our (our) very own little Irish pub downstairs from our apartment. I swoon. But I also digress.
Fortified by strong drink and terrible, terrible salad topped with fennel, raw salmon, and radicchio, I made my way down the block to a nearby Farmacia (highly confusing to this Colorado girl, as they are marked by neon-lit green crosses, which mean something a bit different in my mind) where I stared stupidly up at a shelf of overpriced baby goodies for something like 15 minutes.
As I scanned the shelves, looking for something that looked like formula, the internal debate raged:
Am I a terrible mother? Is this admitting defeat? Will this actually help me sleep at night? Will I get pregnant in 11 minutes when my cycle comes back after feeding JP one bottle? Are the store workers talking about me right now?
I finally settled on a can of what looked to be promising powder, and read it while walking home, trying in vain to decipher the Italian.
Dave, whose schooling has continued and who is much more fluent already than I can ever hope to be, was equally puzzled by the stuff, but I consulted my memory banks from years of babysitting adventures and scooped 4 tbs into a bottle of sterile water (actually, flat mineral water, which probably tasted absolutely delicious.)
I went to bed after nursing the little beast last night, filled with a mixture of hope and guilt, and much to my delighted surprise, he woke only once last night. ONCE. And he drank some of the bottle Dave offered him, only to demand a top-up from yours truly around 2 am. But still....going from 3 or more wakings to one was a dream come true.
I faced this morning with a strong cup of espresso and a new gleam in my eye, and I examined the bottle from the night before, noticing something rather odd, something that seemed quite out of character for formula to do.
 |
| Breakfast of champions. |
Um, ew.
Being the fantastic mother that I am, I bravely lifted the bottle to my lips to sample what my youngest wolf had been feasting on in the night.
Powdered biscotti is the answer. I shit you not.
 |
| I don't know, it felt right at the time of purchase. |
Still, after tasting that stuff, I think I have a better idea of why the Italian birthrate is so low.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Super Target, Italian Style
This morning, we decided to take the boys to the park around the corner before doing anything else. This proved immensely helpful in tempering the 2-year-old's tantrums, and allowed Christina to become the fancy of a young, Peruvian Justin Bieber who was escorting his little sister. After some swing time and a quick tank up on cornetti (pastries) and cappucini (obvious), we dusted powdered sugar off our slimming hips and made our way into the open-air market where we've come to do most of our daily grocery shopping.
Oh, I almost forgot, we also ducked into the Italian equivalent of Dollar Tree in search of canvas storage bins (fail), where Joey immediately became enamored of an 15 Euro (about $23) plastic shopping cart. Being at the point in my endless supply of motherly patience where any outing with him has become a near occasion of sin, I happily slid my plastic for what turned out to be thee best purchase we've made in Rome, so far.
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| 'I effing love you, Mommy' |
The market is set up like kind of a flea market, with each stall selling a different product or type of product. The stalls on the very end of the row seem to change their content daily, but there are a few dedicated spots for the butchers, the fishmonger (really?), the bakers and the fruit and veggie vendors. It sounds magical, because it is. But, but...everyone is smoking. Like, smoking over your cut of meat, smoking as they slice your (amazing!stupendous!) cheese off the wheel, smoking as they bend to tousle your child's blonde hair. So, there's that. Cultural difference for sure.
I don't mind a good puff every now and then, but call me Mother Prudence as I hesitate to light up in front of my children. Nevertheless, I've gotten many a stink-eye for trotting my wee ones out in freezing rain with only hooded coats on (no mittens! no scarves! no leg-warmers!) ... only to realize the affronted Italian mama/grandmama glaring at me was clutching a Camel in her leather-gloved fingers, the other hand pushing her stroller.
Okay.
Back to grocery day. We're hosting a kind of housewarming party tonight, and our extensive guest list includes Dave's co-worker and his wife and child, and an older gentleman and his, um, lady friend? (we're not quite sure) who has befriended us after renting us our first apartment when we arrived. His name is Giuseppe (of course it is), and he has been like a surrogate father/grandfather figure to us. He has helped us with everything from negotiating the parameters of our lease contract to moving into our new apartment to finding bedsheets. Oh, and he lives on a farm outside of Rome and presses his own olive oil. Can't make this stuff up.
So, party for 8. Per Sig. Giuseppe's request, I am making 'American ahmburgers' because he loves them, in addition to strawberry and spinach salad, twice-baked potatoes, and tomato and basil bruschetta. Plus some fabulous Roman white wine, and gelato for dessert.
For this, I did 90% of the shopping at our lovely market, and I spent about 45 Euro, which is around $60, I think. Not bad for dinner for 8!
Some evidence of our efforts:
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| The whole haul. |
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| Sunflower Market was cleaner, but their strawberries never tasted this good. |
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| I love cheese. |
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| breakfast of champions |
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| vino, acete balsamico, and acqua frizzante |
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| My trusty front-kick. Nothing more fun than a 9-month old infant who won't be put down. |
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| I can't imagine why people stare when we go out in public... |
I'd love to tell you aaaaall about a couple other fun adventures we've had this week, but I have to step outside and smoke or drink something, while the dynamic duo continue their satanic pterodactyl imitation contest from the comforts of their cages.
Parenting toddlers is not for the faint of heart or the abstinent from alcohol, I tell you.
And don't forget to cast your e-ballot for yours truly. It would be truly Sheenazing to win.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Checking In
Still alive, and still Stateside for the moment. We had a bit of a setback in visa land last week, but after examining all our options and talking to wiser and more seasoned world citizens than ourselves, we've decided to through caution and American order/efficiency to the wind and forge on ahead, sans documentation, to the land flowing with cheese and pasta.
Dave has his work visa, but the boys and I are essentially illegal aliens once 90 days elapse from our arrival in Rome. According to various and conflicting sources, what this means on a practical level is either an arduous return flight for me and the boys to Chicago or NYC sometime before March 9th to procure our stubborn papers, or nothing at all, because Italians couldn't care less about your papers. Except when they do.
Clear as broken crystal.
Meanwhile, I've been drowning my anxieties by packing and repacking our remaining worldly goods into 8 suitcases and watching season 3 of Downton on a newly (illegally?) obtained british DVD which can only be played on a Mac. Weird?
Anyway, just wanted to drop the internet a line and let you fine people know we're alive, mostly well, and suffering sleep deprivation at the hands of baby Mussolini who is sleeping inches from my head at my family's house. Night waking is a bitch in the best of circumstances, but night waking in a house crammed with 9 people and 2 animals is an even surlier canine. I spent the hours between 2 and 4 am this morning alternating between nursing and letting my 20 lb 'newborn' sleep in a sweaty heap on my neck, trying and failing to not feel sorry for myself and thinking of someone whose suffering is so much more intense. I personally like this list for a schedule of Jen's foreseeable future.
Hopefully the next time I post, I'll be in a verrry different time zone.
Ciao!
Dave has his work visa, but the boys and I are essentially illegal aliens once 90 days elapse from our arrival in Rome. According to various and conflicting sources, what this means on a practical level is either an arduous return flight for me and the boys to Chicago or NYC sometime before March 9th to procure our stubborn papers, or nothing at all, because Italians couldn't care less about your papers. Except when they do.
Clear as broken crystal.
Meanwhile, I've been drowning my anxieties by packing and repacking our remaining worldly goods into 8 suitcases and watching season 3 of Downton on a newly (illegally?) obtained british DVD which can only be played on a Mac. Weird?
Anyway, just wanted to drop the internet a line and let you fine people know we're alive, mostly well, and suffering sleep deprivation at the hands of baby Mussolini who is sleeping inches from my head at my family's house. Night waking is a bitch in the best of circumstances, but night waking in a house crammed with 9 people and 2 animals is an even surlier canine. I spent the hours between 2 and 4 am this morning alternating between nursing and letting my 20 lb 'newborn' sleep in a sweaty heap on my neck, trying and failing to not feel sorry for myself and thinking of someone whose suffering is so much more intense. I personally like this list for a schedule of Jen's foreseeable future.
Hopefully the next time I post, I'll be in a verrry different time zone.
Ciao!
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