Olive Juice

My Daughter talks her olives. One by one, black olives, pushed onto five fingertips, have a conversation with each other.

Olive 1: I'm a trash can.
Olive2: I'm an olive.
Olive 1: I'm a trash can.
Olive 2: I'm an olive.
The other olives are strangely silent. Then they all jump fingers, to the other hand. The conversation repeats. The in-utero sibling squirms for more calories. I sit still and munch my yogurt-granola, watching the olive-interactions.

Another day at lunch, 3 olives on fingers, talking.
Olive 1: oh, hello!
Olive 2: Hi!
Olive 3: *silent 'cause it's just been eaten*
Olives 1,2: Oh, No!

There are moments like these that I find myself holding breath, not wanting to disturb the imaginative thought processes, the precious expressions, memorizing, waiting to see.

Knock knock?
Who's there?
Olive.
Olive who?
OLIVE YOU.

Ambushed

In the dark of dawn, she waits. Only she knows what she does in the dark, and the consequences of the unearthly-early-rise will be felt later. One small noise, alerts her, ears perked...she drops from her crazed nest and pounds down the hallway.

"GOOD MORNING!" It's 6:30 am. I am still downstairs in bed, dreaming, but I can hear all of this. It seems she woke the babe-in-utero, also. The Man, perking the morning coffee, switched on the dispos-all---something I avoid doing if the sun isn't up. (If you ask him, I avoid it more often than that. I just don't like switching it on at every crumb that falls.) There are certain noises that must be universally forbidden in the morning, that metallic grind is one of them.
I can tell by the timber of Miss Monkey's voice, she's been awake for a while. It's about time to start working with a clock I think, talking about numbers, discussing the times of day in more detail. It's rather well known by my adoring husband that I'm not so much an instant morning person, as a post-coffee-&-workout morning person. I much prefer to start my morning in the quiet, alone for the dawn time, and watch the household wake up. Woe to the poor soul that rouses me before I'm ready, I haven't been able to get my morning ritual back---something about being pregnant, being alone when I'm not really alone? I feel ambushed, attacked. Especially considering my gestating condition right now. The Man is the only person that really knows how to wake the slumbering Ada. This is something I am admittedly working on. This morning I am particularly annoyed as I was mid-dream when I heard the first born drop from her bed. The right side of the bed, suddenly became wrong, and I am in a funk. I want to think it's sweet anytime the little person(s) climb into bed with us. The bouncing, wriggling, loud-mouth, though is just not my chosen AM catalyst over calories and coffee. (yes, I can have 1/2 cup per day right now, and no more)

So while I work on remaking my attitude this gorgeous January morning. I will share this impromptu dance video, a la Prairie Home mid-Sunday broadcast ,taken with The Man's swami new phone.

Maternity Maven

Shop here, shop there, shop everywhere.
Not a stitch to be found with reasonable wear.
Buy a few and wash over and over?
Risk resembling a bum run over?
This is too much! Frustrating it is!
Would that I were not hers and just his.
The cost is just silly for new duds with this belly.
Discount stores maybe nice,
just don't wash more than twice.
And why oh why does it always have to be
sandwiched between petite and Oh, Missus?
They don't respect the maternity.
Too posh, or too cheap, I can't shop in extreme
Is consignment the answer? I don't mind being green.

Quasi off-the-maternity-cuff poetry, leads me to fashion my very own maternity jean skirt.

Figure I'd write on this.

From a forum:

Q: Would you quit your job to be home with your newborn?

Short answer, yes. It's what I did.

I had 3 months maternity leave, and told my employer I would let them know whether I would return to work at ~6 weeks. I agonized over the decision. One day in the car, once again considering the question, "Return to work & ask someone else to take my place as a mommy for a majority of the work week? Give my tiny 6,8,12-week old baby to a stranger? Or quit my job and stay home full time, entering an arena of mommydom I was completely unfamiliar with?"

"WHY do I think I want to return to work?" I thought to myself.

"Because it would be easier," came the answer.

Going back to work would've been easier to my mind because there is always a right or wrong answer there, everything is black & white. Being a full time mom/homemaker was something completely alien to me, a big challenge, emotionally, spiritually, and skill-wise. So I chose the challenge.

There are certainly times when I see the other side and wonder about re-entering the professional workforce, and then I remember that the only thing that will outlast my professional escapades, whatever money I'd earn, is the job that I'm doing for my children right now. The effect I have on my kids now will affect future generations. If I'm teaching her that love & life are more than what I can earn, teaching her that being there to raise ones children oneself is paramount to anything else, I believe in that lies the worth.

I also remember to Keep It Simple, my life is fairly complicated with logistics, budgets, prioritizing. I see how much more complicated it might be were I still working, and I'm not willing to take on that stress or add that kind of stress to my daughter's life. I feel, in a way, that I escaped some trap. The trap in the idea that we must have two incomes, we must be able to afford that trip, that car, that house, that material object.

When I look at how far I've come, and what I've learned, though intangible, it's priceless.