Drops of Awesome

Personal Blog of Author Kathryn Thompson

About Me

The Librarian of the Apocalypse

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My house is filled with books. Like Elizabeth Bennet fictionally before me, I do not consider myself a “great reader.” I just love books. I love to buy them, check them out from the library, smell them, attempt to write them, touch them, look at them and occasionally dive in and read them. My house is filled with books.

My house is filled with books and there are over a hundred I have yet to read. I will find myself at a bookstore, online, at a garage sale, in the grocery store, staring at a book and it will pull me in with its tractor beam of knowledge. “I will be so much smarter, more interesting, happier, taller if I own that book,” my self says to myself. I then purchase the book and hold it and pet it and love it and put it on the shelf or in a pile by my bed where books go to die. My house is filled with books.

My house is filled with books and every so often I think it’s time to part ways with a few of them. Some have been sent to me to review and once I started to skim them, I realized that I was not interested in reading them. I don’t feel right selling a book that was sent to me for a review but went unreviewed because I did not think it would interest my readers. I don’t want to make money on that kind of booty so I keep the books. Some I think might be interesting to someone, somewhere, sometime and deep down in my heart I want to be the one to provide that perfect book to the person who wants it. In my pre-child bearing life I was a librarian. My house is filled with books.

My house is filled with books and I have truly convinced myself that I need to keep the collection going so that in post-apocalyptic Washington, my house can become the town library. I will sort and label and catalog all the books, even the ones I don’t like, because others on my street might like them. Should I keep the book on animal anatomy? Well. There’s a vet on my street and he might be post-apocalyptically interested in my animal anatomy book, especially if his books are all destroyed in the blast. My house is filled with books.

Today I made a decision.

Any book that I am only keeping around IN CASE I find myself in the position of being The Librarian of the Apocalypse is no longer welcome in my home. Today my house became filled with about 60 fewer books. When the apocalypse comes, you’d better have your own copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting because mine’s heading out the door. And also, what you can actually expect when you’re expecting during the apocalypse will probably not be covered in the edition I currently have on tap.

Shopping in Juniors

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Although we are far from “junior,” my sister and I made a run through the gauntlet of the Juniors department at Kohl’s recently. We were looking for shirts and sweaters and started in the Misses department but found that Vera Wang discriminates against women who have butts and whose breasts do not resemble those of an emaciated teenage boy. We found Vera Wangs, granny sweaters and everything in between but nothing was just right so we headed to the weird department.

In general, my size precludes me from shopping there at all but every once in a while I find an XL with my name on it. Pants are completely out of the question. Not only am I unable to fit my rear into any of the pants in juniors, NO ONE is able to fit their rear into any of the pants in juniors, not their whole rear anyway.

All of the clothes in Juniors seem to be made for a person with a 4 foot long torso, a 3 inch tall butt, and legs with the circumference of spaghetti sticks. The person must also be averse to consuming anything but unsweetened lemon juice. The current designs are mostly made up of faux vintage 80s rock star attire and pink and black items with skulls and crossbones on them. I am not a pirate, an 80s rock star, a misshapen freak of nature, or a 65 lb anorexic runway model interested in displaying plumber bum. So the pickins were slim.

We did however each find a normalish sweater we liked if we were willing to tolerate the brand names “Say What?!” and “It’s Our Time.” It struck me that each of these brands could also work in a senior citizens’ department, as in, “Say what, Sonny?! I can’t hear a word that’s coming out of your mouth.” Or perhaps a slogan for Depends, as in, “It’s our time. Why let embarrassing leaks stop us from doing the activities that are important to us?”

Tired, Sore and Hungry… for Babies

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I’ve been feelin’ a wee bit tired of late but I really shouldn’t be.

Wanda sleeps beautifully. She eats beautifully. Most nights she sleeps around 14 hours with only one feeding in the middle. The problem is scheduling. She goes to sleep at about seven. I then stay up until around ten…er… eleven… er… twelvish? (If you thought you caught a niner in there as I was trailing off, you were correct) So I go to sleep after she’s been down for about 5 hours. Then she wakes up a couple of hours later to eat and it takes about an hour to feed and change her and put her down. “Put her down” sounds gruesome. Put her to sleep? Also very dire. Put her to bed? So then I get back to sleep at 3 or 4 AM and have to wake up at 7:30 if I’m being a very good mommy to get Laylee and Magoo ready for school while Wanda continues to sleep. I’m just not maximizing her sleeping hours so I end up averaging 5-6 hours of sleep each night with a 1 hour break in the middle. I’m tired.

I find that I am also sore. You may remember Magoo’s hugeness and the number he did on my body. I healed physically within a few months of his birth and expected the same or better this time. Wanda was normal-sized. My body was more fit. The delivery was easy. But here we sit at 4 months postpartum and I’m still in pain. My hips and pelvis aren’t doing so well. I have pain when I lie on my side or lift my leg to put on pants. Stepping over toys on the floor, if anyone ever left toys on the floor of my totally immaculate house which they never would because we are in all ways PERFECT, is a chore that requires careful planning and foot placement. It is uncomfortable to play on the floor with my babies.

The physical therapist says that if I continue doing my exercises twice daily, I’ll likely be feeling good in a year or so. That means 9 months of pretty intense pain during the pregnancy followed by a year of physical recovery. It’s rough but Wanda’s worth it. She’s more than worth it. She’s amazing.

She’s also likely our last.

I hope the physical therapist’s right. I hope my body is able to bounce back. I’m not sure. I’m really not sure if it could do this again. I’m eyeing my box of maternity clothes in the garage with a desire to say farewell and yet a fear of what that symbolizes.

Because tired, sore or broken, I love my babies. Sometimes when I’m feeding Wanda at night I get such a surge of excitement that I choke a little and catch my breath as I hear her little sucking noises and see her tiny fist clinging to my nursing bra like a handle. I always get baby hungry when my kids are around 3 months old and Wanda’s no exception. When she wakes up in the night crying, I go to her and she is overjoyed to see me. Her whole body grins and gasps and she looks up at me with total dependence and adoration. I am her best friend.

She lights up a room. She makes me hungry for more. And then after I catch my breath and squeeze her almost too hard, I realize that I’m a little broken and that I don’t know how much more broken I’ll be if I have another one.

And yet I’m hungry… for babies. I actually started fantasizing the other night about the smell of Tucks Medicated Pads and that sense memory was pleasant to me, making me think about our first several hours together, holding her and exploring her face, counting her fingers and toes. It didn’t make me think of hobbling to the hospital bathroom with the help of a nurse, in pain and bleeding from my body having recently done something that was both ridiculously hard and completely natural.

When I imagine that scent or look at that box of maternity clothes, all I can think about is my three little rays of sunshine, two of whom I sent marching off to bed with much relief tonight due to their foray into complete obnoxiousness, and how I’d like nothing more than to keep manufacturing them forever.

Does it ever stop? The hunger? Even if you know you’re done? Do you ever stop getting tears in your eyes when you pass by the maternity ward in a hospital, see a baby drooling completely vulnerable in his mother’s arms, or smell your older children’s hair right after a bath? Does the ache ever go away? In a way I hope it doesn’t. It tells me I’m alive, that what I’ve done, that what I’m doing, matters. Can I ever do anything better than making these three people? I’m not so sure.

Holiday Movie Readiness Questionnaire

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We’ve been showing the kids our favorite Christmas movies. Most have been smashing successes. Home Alone, although funny to Laylee, came across as a total horror movie to Magoo. If you’re planning on watching it with your little ones this holiday season, please ask yourself the following.

1. Is your child afraid of abandonment and/or being left alone with no parental support for days on end?
2. Do you like the idea of your child watching another child yell, “I hate you,” to his parents?
3. Is your child afraid of the dark or afraid of murderers with bloody hands, large menacing shovels and trashcans full of salt that turn their victims’ bodies into mummies?
4. Do you want to give your child 100 different ideas for ways to destroy your house?
5. Is your child sensitive to watching another child being ignored, bullied, belittled, yelled at and in all other ways verbally abused?
6. Do you want to teach your child an important lesson about organized crime back in the days of black and white, where a mobster will count to 10 (incorrectly) before “pumping your guts full of lead” with a loud and terrifying round of blasts from a machine gun, while smoking a cigar and emitting an evil cackle over your lifeless body?
7. Does your child ever suffer from nightmares that “bad guys” are roaming the streets plotting ways to break into your house?
8. Do you want your child to suffer from those nightmares?
9. Do you want to explain what a porn stash is?
10. Do you want to explain what the phrase “French babes don’t shave their pits” means?
11. Are you looking for a good way to talk to your children about shoplifting and/or vandalism?

Luckily Laylee was old enough to discern the difference between a funny bad guy and a scary bad guy. Luckily I’m pretty quick with a mute button. But seriously, what was funny when I was 12 is not so much of funny when I’m the mother of a 4-year-old. I’ve got to prescreen these things.

This is How We Roll

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After less than two months, Baby Daring, aka Wanda, aka Baby Dolly, aka Baby Lolla, aka Princess Lolla Dolla, has effectively killed off any future attempts at tummy torture time.

Around our house, this is how we roll.

She doesn’t need to be coaxed by a crazy lady with a squeaky high pitched voice but I think she likes to be and I’m happy to provide that service.

I’m not sure why I’m giddy about my almost 2-month-old being able to roll over every time I put her down. My other kids didn’t do it until 3 months of age and with Magoo, I dreaded those milestones because they meant he would get into stuff sooner. For some reason, watching her do this tickles me to no end, except for the part where she smooshes her face into the mirror and cries. That is obviously totally un-fun and also un-funny. The rest is gold.

When she was in utero and she made my abdomen feel like a rubber bag full of ninjas, I sort of had a feeling she’d be a mover and a shaker. I was right. I wonder how long until she’ll be able to fix her own breakfast and get dressed on her own. The other kids can. She just needs to show a little initiative.

Snazzy Jammies

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So things are moving along. Wanda is aging rapidly. We’ve moved her out of our room and I’ve decided it’s time to purchase some new Snazzy Jammies.

The problem is – I hate buying Snazzy Jammies. Now if you go to the Snazzy Jammie store to buy them, it’s not embarrassing because everyone in the store is there for the same reason, but who wants to spend that kind of money which only goes to pay for more of those life-sized posters right next to the kids’ play area at the mall?

No. When I’m looking for Snazzy Jammies, I usually look at Target or Kohl’s.

The problem is – Most people at Target and Kohl’s are not purchasing Snazzy Jammies. They are there looking for rain boots or a kitchen timer, maybe a roll of scotch tape. I like all of those things as much as the next person and so I usually try to camouflage my Snazzy Jammie purchase by spending way too much on sundries but, really, you cannot totally camouflage SJs. You just can’t.

A piece of Snazzy fabric may stick out from under your bag of diapers, giving your Snazzy-Jammy-Wearing ways away to curious bystanders. And at some point the checker will have to pull them out of their hiding place under the bathmat on the conveyer belt to scan them. She can either scan them discreetly or hold them up to the light, taking the hanger out with an eye-catching flourish and turning them from side to side in order to check out just how Snazzy they are. I’ve had both. I prefer discreet.

And I always feel like she’s looking at me a little too hard. Maybe she’s wondering if Snazzy Jammies should even come in the size I’m purchasing. So what if I’m wearing no makeup, have my hair in a bun and am sporting sweat pants. A woman carrying a mom-purse so big that it sets off the flashing “fasten seatbelt” light when she puts it on the passenger seat of her mini-van is still entitled to feel Snazzy once in a while. I think it’s in the constitution somewhere… or at the very least one of the amendments.

First Grade Terror Alert

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I recently found a calendar in the pocket of Laylee’s school folder. It’s the folder that we use to send communications back and forth from home to the classroom. Her young, fun and perky teacher is always coming up with new exciting ways to motivate and reward the kids and I assumed the calendar was part of this rah-rah go-team-ishness.

Every day Laylee’s calendar came home marked with an orange stamp that said, “GREAT WORK!” I assumed all was well. Each day I’d check the folder and each day the orange stamp would appear… for the first couple of weeks. Then all of a sudden on one day she came home with a black stamp that said “good job.”

“What!?” I asked Dan. “I don’t want to be one of those parents who’s overly involved in her kids’ schooling or who freaks out when she gets a ‘good’ instead of a ‘great’ on her report card but I want to know why she’s fallen from her pedestal on the stamp scale. She’s not even getting orange anymore. Today’s stamp was black and I want to know why. I think I’ll email the teacher and get to the bottom of this.”

Dan offered some sage words of wisdom in regards to, “Do NOT do that. If you do that then you ARE one of those parents. So she got a lower level of stamp one day. It’s really not a big deal.”

“Well, at the very least I want to know what the different stamps mean. If a teacher’s going to use a complex rating system for our kids, represented by random stamps, I at least want to know what the different levels mean.

“It’s like if the government came up with a new terror alert system but didn’t tell anyone what the different colors meant. Like if they just came on TV one day and said, ‘The terror alert level is purple,’ but no one in America knew what the ‘Purple Alert’ meant.”

“You should just ask Laylee what they mean,” Dan responded.

“That’s all well and good,” I replied, “But if I want to know what a ‘Purple Alert’ is, I’m sure as heck gonna want to hear it from the administration, not from the crazy old guy waving a shotgun outside the gates of the White House.”

“So, who exactly is Laylee in this analogy?”

“The terrorist.”

Pride, Prejudice and Zombies

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I made the mistake of blogging or tweeting a while ago that Little Baby McSquidge had slept 6 hours in a row one night. Yeah. Jinxes are real and pounding on wood after the jinx is enacted will do you no good whatsoever. It may even wake the baby.

So now she’s on a decent schedule. She sleeps for 2.5-4 hours at a stretch all night long. I go into her room and feed her, fall asleep while she’s nursing, wake up 2 or three hours later with a crick in my neck, do the other side, fall asleep, put her in bed and then head to my bed just in time for her to wake up again. It hasn’t been particularly restful. Luckily Dan’s home on paternity leave so he does pretty much everything around the house that doesn’t require mammaries.

He’s going back to work in a few weeks though and I’ve been working towards getting some sort of restful sleep schedule going. I told Dan I needed to find a way to stay awake while feeding her so I could feed her, burp her, give her a new bum, and put her away in time to get some sleep before she woke up again.

His suggestion was that I watch movies while I nurse. We have a small TV and DVD player in the nursery for that purpose but I’ve been too lazy to bring up any movies. So last night, I looked through what we had, trying to find something that could keep me awake long enough to feed but wouldn’t hold my attention so completely that I couldn’t turn it off at any point and go back to bed when she’d finished eating me.

So I started the new cinematic nursing plan last night with the short Pride and Prejudice. It was a success I think. Each feeding lasted only one hour and I was only a little bit wound up when I got back into bed. I think it took me maybe 10 minutes longer to fall asleep after each feeding, what with the drama and romance and passion and such pumping through my veins. I think this is still better than drifting in and out of unrestful sleep while sitting upright in a rocking chair.

Today at naptime I finished off the movie. Maybe tonight I’ll give Colin Firth a go. Although I still consider the BBC adaptation to be the authoritative P&P, it is a bit more mind-numbing with its slow pacing and copious discussions of gowns, propriety and fortunes.

Whatever happens, I need to find a way to feel less zombie-like. Perhaps a year or so from now, I’ll magically find the solution…

I Plan to Become a Millionaire

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This morning I was spending some sweet quality time with my squishable water-filled newborn. Sunlight was filtering in through the window of my cozy bedroom and I was sitting next to her on the bed. She looked so precious and perfect except for a bright red gash, newly carved into her pudgy cheek.

“Stop scratching yourself baby!” I urged, “I think we’re gonna have to start calling you Scar Face.”

I’ve filed her nails. We’ve tried the little mittens and the pjs with the fold-over sleeves on the ends. She gets the mittens off like a fat little cross-eyed Houdini with dark duck down for hair. She spends her life trying to punch through those fold-over sleeves. They are a great burden to her.

Looking at her latest injury, I thought of the perfect solution – plastic face shields like you can buy for your PDA but made for babies! I know, right? Best idea ever. They would stick onto the baby’s face with a light, dermatologist-tested adhesive, completely covering baby’s face except for the eyes, mouth and nostrils. They would be transparent so you could still see your baby’s face, although it would look a little like you were viewing it through a window that it was being smooshed up against. But who doesn’t think it’s cute when tiny little kids smoosh their faces up against windows? Tell me. Who?

Then the baby could scratch and scratch all she wanted without doing any damage. She’d be happy and ready for her next photo shoot at a moment’s notice.

If anyone’s interested in buying this idea for mass production and sale, please email me. Serious inquiries only.