The dark horse

Another odd dream…  The female lead in my dream was a sinewy, lithe young woman with olive skin and long, raven-black hair (incidentally nothing like my fair, chubby, cute self).  The dream took place in the most glorious of landscapes; green, fleshy land, hilly, and in the constant shadow of heavy, dark clouds.  A horse and a farmer had turned up on this girl’s land, apparently from New Orleans.  The last thing I remember about the farmer’s presence in the dream is an image of him, face down in grass and dirt.  He never appeared again.  The striking, mahogany colored horse became the focal point of the dream.  The horse had drunk contaminated flood water in the south and the girl needed to get rid of the creature swiftly and inconspicuously.   I have a vivid memory of her riding the horse bareback across the countryside, perhaps attempting to ride him all the way to Louisiana.  Her plan was stymied by obstacles I can’t recall, so she took the horse to slaughter, pretending that horse was her own and needed to be put down.  She returned to her own farm where the horse and farmer had originally appeared.  At this point, a second female character enters.  Apparently she is privy to information about the horse that is unbeknown to our femme fatale.  She explains in a dramatic monologue that went something like, “Don’t you see??  This horse is from Morgan County, not New Orleans.  I sent the horse to Louisiana so know one would find out but they’ve already discovered twenty cases of contamination here!  Now that the horse has been slaughtered, the water and meat supplies will be completely contaminated!!!”  

Then I woke up.  

My diagnosis of this brain trash is as follows:  
The beautiful setting was quite Ireland-like.  Most of my dreams take place in Ireland, some even specifically in my childhood home and neighborhood.  This place reminds me of a particular area in the Morne Mountains called The Windy Gap.  It’s literally a gap in the hills where the wind constantly howls.  
I watched The Untouchables last weekend.  During the scene at the Canadian border I noticed that Kevin Costner’s horse was considerably darker in color that the other dozen or so horses in the shot.  I wondered if the director was making some kind of statement.  So I think that’s the source of my dark horse.  
We watched Monsters, Inc. last night.  If you’ve seen it, you know that Mike and Sully spend most of the movie trying to get rid of the kid without being caught with her, thus my character’s desperate need to get rid of the horse.  
Obviously, the subject matter is likely attributed to what the media calls ‘Disaster Fatigue.’  I like to think I’ve just spent a fair amount of time being empathetic towards my fellow man.  

Incidentally, I don’t live in or near Morgan County.  In fact, I’m not sure where Morgan County is.  Ooo, I just ended a sentence with a preposition.  That reminds me of something funny I read on dooce.com.  It’s priceless.  Here it is…

The love between a husband and wife
TUESDAY, 20 SEPTEMBER 2005
“It’s really hot out here.”
“Then why do you have jeans on?”
“Why are you ending sentences with prepositions?”
“Why do you have jeans on, motherfucker?”

Five items

I have quite a bit of junk rolling around in my head today.  Nothing important, really.  

1. I’d like to make a spinach quiche for dinner.  


2. I’m hoping my book and DVDs arrive at the library today so Maeve and I can head over there this afternoon to pick them up.


3. I had an interesting dream last night.  


4. I’m working through an internal dialogue about a good friend who may be making a terrible mistake.


5. My husband rocks and I need to figure out some solid ways to let him know.

Ok.  Item number one.  I just found a great recipe on Allrecipes.com.  Problem solved and I already have all the ingredients.  The recipe calls for light mayo and I only have full strength but I think it will be ok.  Light mayo is for saps.

Number two.  I’m waiting for a book called Ordinary Wolves that my dad recommended.  I can’t always keep up with Dad’s choices in books.  He’s a real smarty-pants.  The last time I visited my folks (Maeve’s first airplane ride and first trip to Colorado!!) I read the prologue of Ordinary Wolves and was hooked.  Our little library didn’t have it so I requested it be transferred from the main library.  I finished River Angel last week and I was going crazy without something so I started A Star Called Henry by Roddy Doyle, one of my all time favorites, last night while taking a lovely, steamy, vanilla bath.  I’m hoping I can get through it in the next couple of days before Ordinary Wolves arrives.  Otherwise, knowing me, I’ll never finish it.  

Number three.  If you intend to follow my blog you’ll soon discover I am a prolific dreamer.  My dreams are intense, memorable, and frequent.  I dream like a child.  Last night I dreamed I was going home (Northern Ireland) to visit my grandparents, both of whom died last year.  In this dream, my parents lived within driving distance of us in some non-descript location that reminded me a little of the area of Massachusetts where we lived several years ago.  Anyway, I was having loads of anxiety about leaving Maeve for the week.  She was to stay with my Mom and Dad.  I didn’t have any pumped milk for her (a constant source of anxiety in my real life) and I was nervous about the effect being away from her for the week would have on my milk supply.  Even though Maeve eats bananas at lunch and rice cereal at dinner she still nurses like ten times a day.  Breast milk is still her number one source of sustenance by far.  So, in my dream we discussed introducing dreaded formula in my absence, something I’m vehemently opposed to in the real world.  So I’d packed for the trip and was ready to head to the airport for my ATA flight (I never fly ATA in the real world) but I’d forgotten to pack the breast pump.  We had to go all the way back to Mom and Dad’s because I’d left the pump there, along with all my favorite jeans which I needed for the trip, and I hadn’t kissed Maeve goodbye.  I was so distraught that I asked my dad to call ATA and ask them if I could just bring Maeve along.  Dad said they wouldn’t let me but Mom would fly over with M in a few days.  I cried.  It was already 11:45 a.m. and my flight was scheduled to depart at 1:30.  I would never make it.  Dad said everything would be fine.  So I went.  

The only thing I can take away from this dream, other than the fact that I desperately love my daughter, is that my dad still has the power to make everything ok.  I called him yesterday to tell him about Maeve’s banana poop.  I was afraid I was feeding her too soon and that she was just pooping it all out.  He’s a PhD in chemistry.  He knows stuff.  He said she was just fine.  In my dream I feared I would miss my flight.  I can do math.  I know what time you should arrive at the airport for an international flight.  I can tell time.  Yet in my dream, if Dad said I would make it, then I believed him.  It’s a nice feeling.  Between my dad and my husband, I’ll always be ok.  

Number four.  I’m not ready to get into this one yet.

Number five.  Last night Zack dealt with a howling, inconsolable baby for 45 minutes while I soaked in the tub and finished that bottle of Pinot Grigio.  He’s such a trooper.  He’s a hero.  I’m so proud of him.  I’m so proud to be his wife.  Dr. Phil said that men need to know that their women are proud of them.  (That’s right… I’m a Dr. Phil fan.  I’m not ashamed.)  When M. and I went to Colorado I left Zack a love letter under his pillow.  We had a rough night with Maeve the night before I left.  M. had a complete meltdown and, out of sheer frustration, I yelled at Zack.  In the letter I told him how deeply I love him and apologized for being mean.  I told him that we’re teammates and we can take over the world if we do it together.  I truly want to start each day thinking of a way to make Zack’s world better, a little at a time.  He rules.  

So I’ve posted pictures of the whole family.  Enjoy.  

Darling Maeve

My little Mouse. 

Reese

My sweet Reesie. Reese and I have been together for years; before Maeve, before Mags, before Molly, before Zack. She is my E.T.; I am her Elliot. We think she is a dobie-bordie collie mix. 

Maggie

Mags is the true pack leader. She's a super affectionate, playful cat. The dogs love her. 

Sweet Molly

We don't really know what Molly is made of. We call her a Bambigoat Hound. She is lean and limber like a deer, eats everything like a goat, and howls at sirens like some kind of hound-dog. She is most likely a boxer, greyhound, great dane mix but who could be sure. 

Molly and Mags napping

 

Reese and Molly

 

Zack and I at a wedding... less than sober

 

Zack and I in Breckenridge

 

A wine-with-dinner sort of day

I had such a vitally good day today.  The weather is fabulous.  Low 70’s, low humidity, bright sunshine, cloudless sky.  The first days of the fall in the Midwest finally remind one why one chooses to live here.  Our local weather channel actually described a series of days in this past July as ‘Steam Bath Days’.  I’m not sure that’s an actual meteorological term but if the shoe fits…  Zack and I thought ‘Wet Blanket Days’ might be a contestant for next summer’s roughest days.  When the humidity is really high my mom often refers to the weather as ‘close’.  Anyway, I guess today was ‘far’ not ‘close’.  

Maeve woke at 6:30 this morning as she does most days.  Zack got her up and changed her while he cooed at her in Italian.  “Buon giorno, principessa!”  He brought her in to our room and snuggled her in beside me where she nursed happily for twenty minutes or so.  We lounged in bed, giggling and cuddling until almost 7:30.  She kicked around on her activity gym long enough for me to eat breakfast and have a cup of coffee.  I threw a hoodie on over her PJ’s and plopped her in her stroller, let the dogs out, and we hit the road.  We walked for about an hour in the crisp, sixty degree morning air.  Maeve slept most of the way.  

The rest of our morning flew by with a mixture of playing, playing, mashed bananas, playing, me getting a really nice shower while Miss bounced in the bouncy seat in the bathroom (she even let me blow dry my hair while I sang “Summer Lovin’” over and over to her), after which she settled down for a nap.  Zack came home for lunch.  Maeve woke up just in time to see him before he went back to work.  More nursing and then we headed out to run some errands.  After two hours of carting her around town to various stops, including the Starbucks drive thru, Maeve fell asleep in the car and slept in the driveway while I unloaded all our loot.  More nursing then we took a nap together.  After our nap Maeve watched Baby Van Gogh while I did a load of laundry.  Now Daddy is home so, of course, the two of them headed out for their nightly walk.  Zack takes her a good hour walk every night when he gets home.  We call it my decompression time.  I usually read or check email and get dinner ready.  Wild mushroom tortellini with pesto is on the menu for tonight.  Thanks to our glorious day, I even put a bottle of Pinot Grigio in the fridge to chill!  Life is good.  

Mom and Maeve

Maeve and I at her very first Irish Fest 

Maeve and Molly

Best friends in the making 

Daddy and Maeve

Daddy and Maeve hanging out last night. 

Poop-demic

When I last signed off I did so because Maeve was finished napping. Turns out that what woke her was the need for an upcoming poop. Of course, since she’s only four and a half months old and doesn’t talk, she didn’t mention this fact to me. I scooped her out of her swing like usual and nestled her down on her changing table like usual. All babies love to be naked, or bottomless at minimum. I always give her a minute or two sans diaper before I wrap her up in a fresh one. My husband strolled in to see her and we cooed and giggled with her for the afore mentioned minute of free time. Well, if you recall, I mentioned her desire to move some milk, if you know what I mean. Maeve proceeded to shove both of her feet into her mouth and, to our chagrin, a dirty banana smell filled the air and poop spewed out of her, painting the changing table. Zack grabbed her little legs to prevent her from dipping her socks into the honey-mustard mess and I attempted to gather up the most of it with diaper wipes.

Naturally, there was a second wave. The storm surge. We had strategically shimmied her to a clean corner of the changing pad. The clean spot was no more.

Just as the doodie geyser sputtered out, she peed.

Needless to say, Maeve ended up in the bathtub.

A note to any other poor soul faced with this kind of poop-demic. Salt. Simple table salt takes poo right out of fabric. Don’t know why; it just does.

Maiden voyage to Blogville

One’s first entry into a brand new blog is a rather daunting task.  Although I have little reason to believe this text will ever be read by anyone other than me, one click of that ‘random blog’ button and my life (and grammar) is suddenly up for public scrutiny!  Ahhh well; what the hell.

So I’m 29, married, and have an almost five month old little girl.  My delightfully Midwestern, formerly Catholic, smart, silly husband’s name is Zack.  Our little one is called Maeve which, incidentally I think would be a great name for a hurricane.  Let me tell you, her flood waters have breached many a levy!  We share our little old house with two big dogs, Molly and Reese, and a little black cat, Maggie.  Molly is a complete nutter and desperately devoted to my husband.  Reese and I are like ET and Elliot.  Maggie is a foot soldier of the devil, whom everyone in the house adores.  

Five short years ago, I entered the world of The Young Professionals only to recently discover that The Young Professionals are actually overgrown frat boys in Ferragamo shoes.  I began my career as a recruiter then morphed into the sales role a couple of years later because “that’s where the money is.”  Well, I made it – a LOT of it.  Too much, in fact.  Soon the novelty wore off and I realized that, contrary to our corporate culture, money isn’t everything. I returned to the recruiting world where I could, God forbid, do a little something for my fellow man.  I’m lucky I wasn’t fired for that sentiment alone.  Anyway, I remained a dedicated recruiter until April of this year when I happily accepted the news from my OB that it was time for a little rest before Maeve’s arrival.  I spent the rest of April and the early part of May reading books and getting freckles in our backyard while my belly swelled to Guinness Book proportions.  

We sold our house (which we now refer to as “the Big house”) and moved to a lovely little historic neighborhood on the city’s eastside, hoping that the downsizing would afford us a fairly smooth transition into a single income household.  Yeah, right.  

So I have officially become a Stay at Home Mom, or a SAHM as it’s referred to on the internet.  I joined a Yahoo! Moms’ group and everything!  I don’t drive a minivan just yet.  For that matter, I don’t really drive my car at all since I literally need a part time job to fill that gigantic gas tank.  Nonetheless, I am SAHM.  It’s been a hell of a change.  I could never have been prepared for motherhood and staying home and all this business no matter who I talked to or what I read.  One really does have to quite literally just jump in with both feet.  

And so this brings me to my blog.  I have much to say… all the time.  I’ve tried just prattling on to Maeve but, quite frankly, I don’t think Maeve gives much of a shit that I’m currently debating ditching Republicanism for Libertarianism, nor does she care about the book I’m reading or what I’m making for dinner, nor does she care about how mad I get at fat people, complete with O2 tanks, in motorized grocery carts loaded up with Hamburger Helper and Carl Budding lunch meat and big boxes of Velveeta, nor does she care that I have some serious opinions about religion that Zack is just sick to death of hearing.  So, I’m going to write it down.  

Baby is awake.  Signing off.