Self-confidence is an elusive thing.
I have been putting the little one down for the night 400 times, and yet I still doubt my ability to accomplish it.
And I'm not pulling the impressive number 400 out of my French derrière; I'm counting 365-2+28+11 = 402.
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Tonight's been tougher than usual. For a change, she doesn't have an ear infection: she's got strep. She's already woken up 4 times screaming since I put her down 2 hours ago and change.
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A child's sleeping pattern is absolutely the number one parameter in parents' sanity. It's taken me a year to be comfortable with what we've accomplished: I used to believe that there might have been a way she'd have slept better. Maybe if we'd rocked her more? or less? Or if we'd treated her with anti-reflux drugs? or anti-allergy? Or gone totally drug-free? Or danced around a fire in the garden on one foot on a full moon while chanting an ancient hymn?
My point is; if your child is a 3 hour napper, that's time right there to do some cleaning and cooking, or emailing a hundred friends, or sorting our your taxes in two countries, or taking a nice long luxurious shower and washing and drying your hair and giving yourself a foot massage; or writing a novel; or getting a few hours of work in so you can go to sleep at a reasonable hour at night.
My point is; I'm jealous of parents whose kids sleep more.
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A's got a serious sense of humor. My father was discovering YouTube and surfing funny home videos of cats (yes, totally harmless). She just started laughing hysterically at the sight of those cats, getting the rest of us to collapse in laughter. She's too much !
Who knew us humans developed a sense of humor at such a young age?
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
flashback
We had an italian friend over for lunch last week-end, a Sicilian at that, who's just left Italy recently.
The lunch was somewhat akin to walking through a field of land mines.
- Pick up a pizza for a quick bite?
-Oh no, pizzas in France are horrible. Instead, let me cook for you. But wait, what brand of pasta do you have at home?
And so the pasta brand came under scrutiny (thankfully Barilla passed the test as the minimal standard accepted by him).
Then came the toppings: no cream in carbonara! It's from Rome ! No cream, that's not authentic!
No bread either to be served with a pasta meal! And certainly no grated swiss cheese !
At this point, P was hesitating between wide-eyed amazement and simply laughing it off.
No twirling spaghettis in a big spoon! And no cutting them either ! (as he turned his gaze away in shock). Not to mention NEVER reheat pasta.
Said italian also threatened to kick a Finnish housemate out of his own apartment for considering seasoning his pasta with ketchup.
Yet he eyed my vanilla flan tart and approved, "Brava, brava".
I didn't have the heart to tell him that while I make cakes and pies and mousses and souffles from scratch; flan is the one thing I make from a mix because that's the way my mother has always done it.
Strangely, I could see myself 12 years back in him. Freshly arrived in the US, insisting that "croissants" be pronounced correctly and never topped with butter, jam, or anything else. Insisting upon American idiocy in so many ways.
How far I've come. Or have I? ;)
The lunch was somewhat akin to walking through a field of land mines.
- Pick up a pizza for a quick bite?
-Oh no, pizzas in France are horrible. Instead, let me cook for you. But wait, what brand of pasta do you have at home?
And so the pasta brand came under scrutiny (thankfully Barilla passed the test as the minimal standard accepted by him).
Then came the toppings: no cream in carbonara! It's from Rome ! No cream, that's not authentic!
No bread either to be served with a pasta meal! And certainly no grated swiss cheese !
At this point, P was hesitating between wide-eyed amazement and simply laughing it off.
No twirling spaghettis in a big spoon! And no cutting them either ! (as he turned his gaze away in shock). Not to mention NEVER reheat pasta.
Said italian also threatened to kick a Finnish housemate out of his own apartment for considering seasoning his pasta with ketchup.
Yet he eyed my vanilla flan tart and approved, "Brava, brava".
I didn't have the heart to tell him that while I make cakes and pies and mousses and souffles from scratch; flan is the one thing I make from a mix because that's the way my mother has always done it.
Strangely, I could see myself 12 years back in him. Freshly arrived in the US, insisting that "croissants" be pronounced correctly and never topped with butter, jam, or anything else. Insisting upon American idiocy in so many ways.
How far I've come. Or have I? ;)
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