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3 kittens

Back In Ballet

Posted on 2014.09.06 at 20:47
Now, most of the world lives in pretty tight quarters. Our house is about 1900 square feet. During the renovations, we were living in about 1200 square feet. Which is plenty of room, by many standards. People actually live in apartments in New York City. (People actually live in New Delhi slums, too, but let's not pretend they wouldn't prefer a 1200 square foot apartment in New York.)(Probably they'd prefer a 1200 square foot apartment in New Delhi, not New York, given the choice.)

I wish I could recieve sympathy while saying something completely un-sympathetic: boy was that renovation period awful. It is so nice to have our whole house back. With our TWO living areas. I like to sit in one, quietly by myself, and look down the hallway at the commotion at the other end of the house. My head feels clear and glorious.  Tra-la-la.

Having a kitchen back is the best. (That part at least doesn't sound particularly privileged.) I can chop vegetables on a cutting board at countertop height, instead of lowish table height. I am no longer using a camping stove. There's an oven, instead of merely a toaster oven. (I'm kind of sold on steaming things in the microwave, though. Maybe I'll stick with that.) There's counter space and a dishwasher. Ain't life grand.


Hawaii said, "I'd like to play soccer" when asked to pick one extracurricular activity. We were pleased and surprised: she loved her ballet teacher last year. We said, "That's great!" but also "how come?" and she answered, "Well, I know what ballet is like. I don't know what soccer is like yet. So I want to try it, and then I can go back to ballet if I want."

We were buoyed by her maturity and planning.  (She did play kiddie indoor soccer last year, but this is considered big kid outdoor soccer.)

Then: at back-to-school night, the beloved ballet teacher had a sign-up table in the cafeteria. Hawaii saw her and ran over to give her a hug. Jammies sighed with forboding.

When Hawaii returned, I mentally counted 'One - one thousand. Two - one thousand. Three - one thousand--' "Mama," Hawaii interrupted me, "I think I changed my mind about soccer. I want to do ballet instead." And so that was that. We're back in ballet.

(Later Jammies admitted that he nearly steered Hawaii away from the ballet teacher, when he first spotted her, so as to preserve the tenuous commitment to soccer. Ah, well. Ballet is nice, too.)

Ballet is not her only extracurricular activity - just the only one she gets to choose. She's still in piano, but the Hairy Gru-like Italian moved away to get his PhD, and we've located an elderly-seeming instructor who I think is actually in her 40s. Her demeanor is ridiculously grandmotherly, a visual mismatch, in a way that I find endearing. She's also a much better instructor than Gru.

Finally, both Hawaii and Pokey are going to stay in swim lessons. Because next summer, we'll have two babies under two years old; the older two have got to be safe-ish in the water. So Hawaii, in kindergarten, has extracurricular activities three days a week.  That is possibly excessive, but I want them all in her life.


For my sabbatical self-imposed structure, I made myself email my old graduate advisor with three possible research ideas. He and I are tentatively collaborating, so this isn't completely out of the blue.

As the week went on, I knew how dumb my ideas were, but I also saw all kinds of risk-taking encouragement on Pinterest. Great things never came from comfort zones! Successful people take big risks, knowing that they might fail hard. So I went ahead and emailed him on Friday. (To compensate, I liberally used words like "I know these ideas are terrible" and "this is just an exercise" and so on. Also "feedback is welcome but not expected." I know he's super busy at the beginning of the semester.)

Anyway: radio silence, and I'm climbing the walls. (The beautifully wallpapered walls.) I know he's busy and I explicitly said he shouldn't feel obligated to respond. And yet, emotionally WHERE'S MY VALIDATION PLEASE TELL ME I'M OKAY.  I'm wringing my hands and concluding that these ideas must have been embarrassingly awful. Secretly, of course, I'm hoping he's thrilled, but that is nine kinds of unlikely.

I don't very often feel this kind of insecurity anymore. I guess that's nice?


A regular fight that Hokey Pokey has with either parent:
[Sobbing] "I can't wear these socks. They're too tiiiiight."
Either parent: "I don't know what you mean. They're the right size. They're thin socks. You wear them all the time."
Repeat for ten minutes.
Usually I end up forcing him to put them on, and saying "If they're still too tight when it's time to leave, we'll change your socks."
(He never does. Even when I ask him if he'd like to change his socks, he still declines.)

A gross/funny thing Pokey said:
"One time I had diarrhea like water. It came out of my butt like raindrops. Except it was brown."

He said this while having more diarrhea, from the toilet, with the door open.  Last night he had a dramatic black eye, diarrhea, and was frothing at the mouth and crying from the taste of the bitter nail polish we put on his nails, since he bites them down to the quick.

The frothing was the worst. He'd nibble his nails, and then just start drooling and spitting and, well, frothing. And tearfully sad. It was a rough night to be Hokey Pokey.


Here I am, sticking with Crossfit in month seven of pregnancy. Because I am obedient, I record all of my significant occurances in lifting weights. And my lack of progress. The trainer who gave me the introduction classes told me to, and hey, I'm obedient.

In July, my one rep max strict press 65 lbs. (That is pathetic, by the way.) That's about the same as I could strict press in January. On Friday, I did three reps of five at 65 lbs. Aren't I ever so fluent in the lingo? Anyway, that's ridiculous progress. In the last month, I'm suddenly much stronger and more awesome.

Here is my theory: I'm in the human growth hormone phase of pregnancy. My hair is thick and luxurious and I do not lose a single strand in the shower. I think I'm sort of on steroids. Packing on muscle.


Here is a horrifying thing that happened: I went to hang up this photo of my dear, sainted mother:

September 6, 2014 (1)

She is fourteen years old in that photo. Isn't she cute?

This pus-stuff ran down the wall, starting from behind the picture:

September 1, 2014 (1)

Then this ran up the wall, starting from the top edge of the picture:

September 1, 2014 (2)

I popped a spider. Isn't that the grossest thing that's ever grossed? I was super nauseated but I feel the need to preserve this moment for posterity. 


mistersmearcase at 2014-09-08 02:41 (UTC) (Link)
I lived in I think ~200 sqft in NYC. There was a family of four in the (identical) apartment above mine. Now we have ~1125 and it's like a palace and D keeps saying he's freaked out by having this much space.

Also ARGH I never clicked through to see those pictures elsewhere and now here they are HI GROSS SPIDER PICTURE.
heebie_geebie at 2014-09-14 17:22 (UTC) (Link)
Obviously you inspired a post over at Unfogged, and then I never remembered to tie up loose ends here with my amazement over 200 square feet. That is super tiny. (Then that other person mentioned having 65 square feet for a year in Japan, so.)

(Also I literally paused for a moment and felt bad that I was subjecting you, personally, to the same gross spider story for the third time in so many days. But I wanted to preserve it for posterity, so you were collateral damage.)
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