Henry's room

Here's a few pictures of Henry's room.  I'd still like to paint another picture for behind the crib, but that will have to wait for just the right weekend when I can spare a few hours and be covered in paint for a while.

I got the idea for the bird mobile from this site, and was pleased to find I could make it without using the eyehooks they suggested.  Both Chris and I have done well in not yet poking out our eyes, but we don't want to move it up because we like how it looks.  We'll raise it up quite a bit when Henry can sit up on his own, and then when he's too old for it, we may just move it elsewhere in the house.  It represents many, many evening hours on the couch, handsewing stupid little birds.

16 June -- Bloomsday once again.

And someday, someday I'll make it back to Dublin on this day.  I first read Ulysses ten years ago* during a cold January trip to Dublin -- armed with the Cliff's Notes to help me through the nasty bits (and there are many), I sat on a bench in St. Stephen's Green for a while each day, watching the ducks slide across the frozen pond and trying to figure out what in God's holy name Joyce was getting at.  Then, when it got too cold to sit still, I'd walk somewhere else and read some more. It's a thick read, to be sure.  But it was terrific fun for a dork like me to walk the same streets and know that not much had changed in 80 years.

Today is Bloomsday.  The whole baffling entirety of Ulysses takes place on the 16th of June, so every year on this day Leopold Bloom's steps are traced through Dublin city, with readings and costumes galore.  Davy Byrne's pub probably does more business that day than the rest of the year combined, and can likely charge whatever the hell they want for a gorgonzola sandwich and a glass of burgundy.

At any rate, I was leafing through my backpack-worn, strawberry yogurt-stained** copy of my book, looking for bits to post on Facebook so I could class the place up a bit.  To my delight, I found the following:

• A brochure for Big Pit National Mining Museum of Wales -- presumably picked up only for use as a bookmark, because not only did I not visit Wales on that trip, but I reckon the BPNMMW would factor in kind of low on my Welsh must-see list.
• A piece of paper, written on in pencil in my handwriting: "'Be humble, for you are made of earth; be noble, for you are made of stars.' -- Serbian proverb." A lovely sentiment. I'm glad I saved it for myself.
• A ticket stub for Cast Away at the Savoy Cinema on January 12, 2001.  I seem to remember we were quite a large group that night.  Very, very good times. 

* Wow.
**I don't know if Avalon House still serves the best hostel breakfast in town, but back then it was enough food to stash away some for snack later. Note -- delicate yogurt cups should be stored in a different bag pocket than hardcover books.

Solidarity! And at least one liar.

I've been home now with this little monkey for just about three months, and the long-term effects are beginning to settle in.  For example, I have a really hard time talking to adults.  It's not that I use baby talk with Henry, because I don't, but more that I've forgotten how to regulate both rate and length of conversation coming out of my mouth.  It's probably because I don't get to go outside very much.

If I go to the post office, the clerk might have to repeat a question a couple of times because I've forgotten how to do "post office" things in favor of reprogramming my brain to be able to change a baby's clothes in the middle of the night without either party falling to the floor crying.  It's a skill.  Alternatively, I'll find myself at a house party, talking to someone and suddenly, inside my head, I'll hear myself and say, "Self, shut the hell up. Even I am tired of listening to you."  So on the outside, it looks like me talking a whole bunch, then stopping and apologizing, then realizing I have nothing else to say.  I am now the awkward person at your party, trying desperately to apply mustard to a bratwurst while holding a squirmy baby. Nobody wants to talk to that person. I don't blame them.

See, even now I've forgotten where the hell I was going with all this.  Oh, right. Okay, so I'm really excited to start going to a new group tomorrow that's all first-time, stay-at-home moms.  It's 8 or 9 ladies and their babies, all getting together at someone's house every Wednesday for three weeks. I'm far too excited for my own good, because 1) it's something to go to that is not inside my house and 2) everyone else will be just about as clinically retarded as I am.

It feels like the first day of classes at a new school, wondering if I'll make any friends and whether I'll fit in. The host emailed everyone, asking us to reply and say a little bit about ourselves and the kids, etc.  I was afraid I was going to have to read emails from a bunch of Mommybots -- you know, the ones that go, "Little MycKyhnzyie is the greatest gift I've ever been given.  From the moment I saw her, we just fell in love with each other and every waking second since her birth has been indescribably precious and joyful." For those of you who haven't had any children, I am here to tell you that that's the fattest line of horseshit ever. Ever. And for those of you who have had children and been deceitful enough to say anything like this in hopes of making yourselves sound like a better person, I hope you're ashamed of yourself.

That whole last paragraph goes better if you read it out loud in the voice of Lewis Black, featured in the "Back in Black" segments on The Daily Show. Wait, I'll go put in a picture.  There.  Now, if you've read it out loud with the right amount of vitriol, I'll give you a second to wipe the rage-induced spittle from your screen.

The good news, if it can be called that, is that everyone else seems just about as overwhelmed, bitter, and lonely as I am, with the exception of one woman whose email approached Mommybot status. I shall not judge her quite yet, and shall assume that she'll be more honest in person. But really, I'm so very excited to meet people just like me.  It must be what kids at the Special Olympics feel like.

How far away does it have to be to count?

On the side of the Stoned Wheat Thins box, it says, in big letters, "IMPORTED." Curious to find the source of my mid-morning whole grain fix, I turned the box over to find out what country they came from.

Canada.

What a letdown.  That's like saying that come Thanksgiving or so, you'll import your Christmas decorations up from the basement.