Friday, September 21, 2007

A Few Very Random Thoughts

I can't seem to organize my mind today to write a coherent, topical post. So I'm just going to provide you with a few of the scintillating random thoughts flitting around my TGIF-feeling brain.

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After a very long, frustrating online shopping process that involved numerous ordering-trying-on-and-returning experiences, I at last found a new denim skirt AND a new khaki skirt, both of which I ordered from L.L. Bean. (I've been searching for a good khaki skirt since my last postpartum one went the way of Goodwill, two sizes too large.) Here's the kicker. They're size ten. Now, I don't care one bit about the size number, but get this, people: I am normally a size eight, plenty of eights often feel too large (but sixes are too small), and my favorite and most-often-worn skirt is an Old Navy SIZE FOUR. On the same body, at the same time. Size four, size ten. Is it any wonder it's just about impossible to online shop successfully? How in the world are you supposed to know what size to order? (Don't tell me to consult the size charts. I also ordered two Ann Taylor Loft knit tops, size small--my usual size--by checking the size chart beforehand. They arrived so gigantic that I sent them back and gave up completely. So sorry, Susan! I was VERY DISAPPOINTED!)

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All the coolest bloggers are insomniacs, so I guess I'm in good company. I keep waking up at night from who knows what, and then can't fall back to sleep. This is nothing new for me, but it hasn't been this bad for a long time (read: almost ten years ago during my hellishly hard psychology residency; the year the Minnesota Board of Psychology almost refused to license me because I had done my graduate work in a different state). The baby monitors torture me. I hallucinate faint cries from the girls' rooms; I'm convinced someone, somewhere, needs something. I get out of bed to stand by the monitors and crank the static up as high as it will go. Nothing. I go back to bed and lie sleepless. I think preschool is getting to me.

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I told a friend the other day that the more time goes by, the more I feel convinced that our original decision to stop at two babies was right. My hormones seem to have settled down, and I don't second-guess every baby item given away. But then I catch a glimpse of Genevieve at this glorious baby age--an early one-year-old: they're sublime! Perfect! COULD NOT BE CUTER.--and it kills me, just kills me, that I can't freeze time and keep her just like this for another half year or more. I see one-year-old babies everywhere and they all seem the same to me: like babyhood incarnate, like the very definition of babyhood. And I don't really want another; I just want mine, forever.

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Remember that frosty night when the girls froze in their summer-weight jammies? It's been, like, a zillion degrees with ten zillion percent humidity ever since. Of course. No, we're not wearing the blanket sleepers and fuzzy hats and mittens I found. We're not sleeping under flannel sheets. We are, in fact, running the central air and wearing sleeveless shirts. Are you familiar with Minnesota weather? This is it.

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