Nap Time

Nap time is my favorite time of day, hands down.

Don't get me wrong--I absolutely love playing with my baby, and watching as she learns new things, which she does almost every day. It's absolutely amazing.

But play-time is almost as tiring to me as it is to her, mentally speaking. By the time she's ready for her first nap, I'm so ready for "me" time. Being a stay-at-home mom is nowhere near as easy as it sounds, even for someone as lazy as I am. It's especially difficult for the first year because, as you may have guessed, you're at home. Alone. With a baby who can't even form a single coherent sentence. As cute as those little coos and squeals are, for an amazingly talented and intelligent person such as myself, it's incredibly difficult to go without intelligent conversation for 12+ hours a day.

And Nap O'Clock is the only chance I get to talk on the phone, or online, or even watch TV, with people who have larger vocabularies.

I'm not ashamed of it one bit, because even my patience does, at times, come close to an end, and I think nap time is a necessity both for baby's mental development, and mommy's mental stability. I can't be a good mom tweaked out on stress all day every day, so I'm glad God thought to include that internal pause button.

Maps

So, I'm frantically trying to get this done at 11:35. I totally forgot about the challenge today, running around doing errands and such. But! Because I'm so awesome, I think I can pull this off. I was looking through my previous work trying to find something that could possibly fit with the letter 'M' so here goes. If you don't like poetry, you will probably hate this.

“About the universe and infinity…”

Our bodies are maps,

but you won’t find L.A.

in the genes--

Escher’s Atlas,

the most logical paradox.

La réalité est l’illusion la plus persistante.

I’d like to think

my hair can be described

with more than four letters,

but we are not that creative;

Not even Einstein

could hide his sources completely.

We are reasonably sure

the universe won’t collapse

under the weight

of our own morbid curiosity.

We are uncertain

what is it we’re standing on,

but we are afraid to look back.

Science has a bloodier past

than Kali.

Religion without Science may be blind,

but Cassandra would tell you

that Sight is overrated.

La vue manqué l’inspiration.

But I digress.

Life is like an onion,

or maybe that was Earth.

Either way, there’s more to it

than a few pieces of protein--

Gravitation is not responsible

for people falling in love.

I’m not sure what is,

but it has to do with hate,

and maybe a bit of dirt.

Nothing is fair about magnetism.

There’s something to be said

about the universe and infinity.

Our slate is not as blank

as we’ve been led to believe,

but neither Nature or Nurture

can account for stupidity.

Whatever it is,

we will never be perfect

until they can incorporate

those last 22 letters

into our DNA.

Listerine

I'm not sure why I feel like my days are so busy. I get at least 8-12 hours of sleep a day, and Olivia takes pretty long naps. I'm always surprised at how much I can get done in a day when I put my mind to it.

Maybe it's because I somehow always forget to take care of myself between taking care of her and doing my fun writing, work writing, cleaning, laundry, and watching Netflix. Not that any of that is particularly difficult or time consuming on its own, but I never really have a dull moment, and it's not uncommon for me to realize at the end of the day that I forgot to eat, or to do some errand or another.

Fortunately, those are not really noticeable things. If I forget to eat, I might get a little...testy...but otherwise you'd probably think I was pretty on top of things to look at me. Unfortunately, the thing I forget to do most often is brush my teeth.

Yeah, I know. Gross.

Fortunately, I discovered these cute little mini bottles of Listerine you can keep in your purse, and it's quite possibly the most ingenious idea someone else has had. It may take half a bottle to completely make up for the halitosis, but in my opinion, it's money well-spent, and I'm sure anyone unfortunate enough to have to interact with me on a busy day would agree.

Kindergarten

My first real encounter with history was when I was five years old. It was my first day of Kindergarten at Good Shepherd, and I was dressed in a horrid little navy jumper. Tights, too, probably, because tights really suck.

I don't remember what time school was actually supposed to start, but my dad always left for work really early in the morning--I mean, still-pitch-black, might-as-well-be-midnight early--so, of course, I was up too, since he was dropping me off.

Before we left, he picked me up and took me outside. We walked around the yard, and he gave me one of those "you're-growing-up-so-fast" speeches that usually mean very little, if anything, to the kids, and everything to the parents. I don't remember much of it--only the part about the Indians. (Native Americans? Back then no one really cared about PC, so I'm writing Indians). He pointed out a tree in the yard, a towering cedar I'd always wanted to climb but even now don't have the height to reach even the smallest branches. He told me that tree was a hundred years old at least, probably more, and that a long time ago, when the cowboys and Indians were sitting around their campfires, looking up at those same stars in the sky, that tree was there. That tree saw it all, all the amazing things that had happened before even his parents were born, and it would be there after even we were long gone.

A pretty deep discussion for a five-year old, perhaps, but that is one of the few good memories I have of my childhood--that light-bulb moment when I just barely started to grasp at the concept that the world was larger than my backyard.

As I thought about that memory today, trying really hard to figure out how to talk about something that started with a 'K' and also somehow related to babies, I had another light-bulb moment:

I think kids are like trees. Little baby trees we plant, and cultivate. We watch them grow, and then we die, but like that cedar tree our kids are there, at least for awhile, remembering the days we sat around the campfire watching the stars.

Jefferson Barracks

So, just a heads-up: this post is pretty long, and it's not strictly within my usual theme. I wrote it during my last semester of school, and it's the only thing with a 'J' I could think of using for the challenge. Sorry! Hope you like it anyway :)

If you look up Jefferson Barracks online, you will find it listed under many headings. Military Post, National Cemetery, County Park. Constructed in October 1826, the Barracks was both a training center and Hospital complex during the Civil War, and it served as a major gathering site for troops and supplies until World War Two. Stretching two miles along the west bank of the Mississippi, it covers almost 2,000 acres of rolling wooded hills on the outskirts of St. Louis City.

                

Make a right at the intersection of Kingston Drive and South Broadway, and you’ll drive past a little grey stone gatehouse and short, matching stone walls at the corner of Grant and Gregg as you enter the park. It’s hard to believe they actually existed when the Post was in use; they’re too pretty, too clean, too ornamental to have provided any real defense. But to the uninitiated, it must seem as if you’re driving into history itself.

                

This is the only concession they’ve made to the past, however. Throughout most of the Barracks—the parts open to the public at least—it’s out with the old and in with the new. New trees, new roads, new buildings. There are shaded bike paths, covered picnic tables, baseball fields and volleyball nets. Every once in a while you might spot an older-looking building, but most of these are inaccessible, and few, if any, are actual remnants of the once-important Civil War base.

               

Every year, though, in Spring, Jefferson Barracks hosts reenactments of famous battles of both the Civil War and World War Two, and the last weekend of April is World War Two Weekend. Hundreds of reenactors come from all over the country in authentic WWII gear representing US, British, Russian, Canadian, German, and Italian Forces. Some arrive with authentic working tanks, trucks, half-tracks and jeeps, driving through the park like emissaries of history itself. From Friday to Sunday afternoon, there are both Allied and Axis campgrounds set up with period correct displays. Green, Brown, and Orange canvas tents flutter in the breeze, surrounding small campfires. There is the constant ringing of hammer on metal as stakes are driven into the ground, securing the tents, and booming gunfire from weapons and tanks.

                

Many reenactors actually live the experience, sleeping and eating in camp—period-appropriate food and drink only in camp, of course—for the whole weekend. There are weapons and equipment demonstrations, the sale and trade of gear among collectors and reenactors, and, of course, the battles. None of the reenactors, vendors, or other personnel are paid for their part in the event, and there is no admission cost for any of the 20,000 plus attendees.

                

My dad got into WWII reenactment in 1998, when I was about eight years old, through a friend of his at work. He was British Airborne, a paratrooper. He started off with a gun and some gear, borrowing everything else he might need from friends. Ever since, our basement has slowly accumulated period gear and weapons, framed newspaper clippings already yellowed and fragile with age, and books about WWII planes, ships, battles and weapons. Descending those stairs almost feels like time travel; even the furniture down there looks old. And every Spring, we’d loot the basement of its relics and head to Jefferson Barracks for WWII Weekend.

                

Friday was set-up day. It was always my least favorite part of the weekend: the part that involved actual work. Those old tents aren’t really any harder to set up than modern ones—in fact, the whole set-up is much more intuitively designed--no instructions required. But the thick, musty canvas, though much warmer at night, was also much heavier than today’s flimsy nylon or polythene, and by the time we were old enough to camp out with him—I might have been about twelve, my sister nine—we were not quite old enough to be patient with the process.

                

It took an hour or two to set up camp, maybe longer, depending on how cooperative my sister and I wanted to be. In addition to the tent we each had canvas cots to sleep on, some of them with men’s names printed in faded ink, and dark spreading stains I never worked up the courage to ask about. We also had small green-painted foot lockers in which we stored our clothes, shoes, food, non-period contraband like Gameboys and CD players, and a space heater for the cooler nights. For light, we had a couple of old oil-lanterns, one painted red, one a dark forest green.

                

One of my favorite items was a heavy old cooler, made of some thick green-painted metal, where we kept cream and black cherry sodas in glass bottles. These were the only drink we could have outside the tent, since they looked old enough to be period appropriate, at least from a distance. We never kept soda at the house, except for holidays, but for this one weekend in April we ran around on a caffeine high, spying on the ‘Germans,’ flashing fake Morse code to each other through the trees with old, heavy metal flashlights which had red, blue, and white lenses you could change out.

                

My dad says it’s changed now, but our campsite was always at the end of Gark, right before it turns South and becomes Bagby Road. We had an area all roped off, as if dividing past and present was as easy as that. As a kid, I always took so much pride in the fact that I was allowed to pass that boundary at a whim, to pass in and out of history like a ghost. I remember every once in a while lifting the rope to my shoulder, standing with a foot on either side of the line, defying the constraints of time. It was a powerful thing at an age where most children feel frustratingly powerless, and I loved WWII Weekend much more than I’d ever have admitted because of it.

                

Unfortunately, with age came a loss of childlike wonder and a new awareness of personal hygiene; by the time I turned fifteen, I refused to do anything that would prevent me from taking a shower every morning. I actually began to care about all the dirt and bugs in the tent and, most horrifically for me, the bathroom. I remember walking into the little bathhouse across the street, and backing right back out again. There were spiders everywhere. Big ones. The sticky webs spread across every stall. They hung from the ceiling. It looked like the place hadn’t been cleaned since it was built. I figured that it was time to quit camping when you’d rather squat outside than use the toilet. No amount of cream soda, even in neat glass bottles, could make up for that.

                

So I packed away Jefferson Barracks and WWII Weekend with other fond childhood memories and left it behind for, I thought, ever. Despite the odds, however, I did eventually develop a relationship with the second part of the Barracks.

                

My husband joined the National Guard the year before we were married, and when he had finished his training, he was stationed at Jefferson Barracks. I hadn’t even known until then that that park of the Barracks existed, let alone that the Barracks was still in use by the military. But now my husband travels there once a month for duty. I’ve only been inside myself a couple times, but it still fascinates me, though in a different way than the park and recreation area did years ago.

                

Make a right at Telegraph and Sherman Avenue, and you’ll travel about a mile past subdivisions full of cute little houses, and an assisted living center for veterans, before you get to the base itself. There are no concessions to history here. No pretty, clean stone walls. It’s surrounded instead by tall chain-link fences with rolled barbed wire at the top, and the little guardhouse is a sturdy, light red brick. Up to the guardhouse, at least, there is a bit of decoration; a small crescent shaped garden with a few dark red bushes and a light stone sundial, grey to match the stone walls around the park. To the left there’s a cute little fighter jet of some sort, polished and painted in splotchy green and brown camo. On the nose, white script reads “Rose’s Gang” above a painted red mouth full of sharp white teeth.

                

Inside, a row of matching red brick office buildings, many of which are no longer in use, stand in front of the rest of the base like pawns on a chess set. I’ve only been inside two of the buildings. One was new, a pretty red brick to match the rest, with three sets of double glass doors, and columns supporting a balcony above. Inside, it’s all clean white linoleum and paint, stark but modern. Solid, evenly spaced doors line the halls, portals to some office or another, with little signs outside on the walls to label the function of each.

                

We attended a military ball there last Fall. It was a lot less interesting than it sounded at first; there were a lot of inside jokes and little games that only the officers would have understood, but it was expected that everyone play along. Each place at the long white draped tables was set with a list of rules, and for the longest time we couldn’t figure out whether they were serious or not; there were more than twenty of them, some reasonable and some just plain confusing, and there was no heading on the page to explain that it was a game.

                

There were a lot of long speeches, and the food was, well, military. If you’ve never had military food, imagine your grade school cafeteria. It was a strange contrast to see people in sparkly ball gowns and tuxes eating off Styrofoam plates.

                

My husband and I ended up sneaking out early. He was required to stay for the whole thing, but neither of us is particularly social. We tried the front doors, at first, but I didn’t think I could pull off being ‘sick;’ I’ve never been a great actress. So we went out back, with the excuse that we needed a cigarette—neither of us smokes—then we slunk around the side of the building, through the shadows, and ran, backs hunched, through the parking lot to the car. On the way home, we stopped at Borders, and the funny looks we got browsing Sci-Fi in formal wear were much more fun than the ball itself.

                

The other building I’ve been in matches the rest from the outside, the same nice red brick, but inside it’s all dark wood. The creaky hardwood floors are scuffed and worn, and the walls are covered in old photographs of soldiers who have served at the Barracks at one point or another. This building was where we went to get my military ID, so I’d be allowed on base without having my husband with me. We were led through a dark hall of old wooden doors with tarnished handles to a room with a couple of desks and some old computers which, despite being ancient, seemed comical surrounded by the even more ancient wooden walls.

                

I remember having to run back and forth from this room to the car, gathering different forms of ID or paperwork, hoping we had everything we needed, because it was a Monday and I had class in Kirksville that afternoon, three hours away. We had our bags packed and thrown in the car, and our cat was frantic for being left alone, though it was nice and cool outside, so every time I opened the door to dig through my bags I had to fight to keep her inside.

                

We left with my new pink ID after a couple hours’ frantic back and forth. My picture made me look high on some substance or another, and I was too late for class, but as I had at WWII Weekend as a child, I felt included in something larger than myself. Back then, Jefferson Barracks was a gateway to the past; now, through my husband’s service, it’s a connection to my country.

                

I can’t say I have a very strong relationship with the Barracks’ final aspect. My grandfather is buried in Jefferson Barracks’ National Cemetery, but so are hundreds of thousands of other peoples’ grandfathers. I’ve only visited his grave once in my life, but it is a beautiful place. Row upon row of matching, evenly spaced white headstones stretch for miles across gently rolling hills, the fields dotted here and there with tall, shady oaks. In some places, the headstones reach up to the backyards of houses, like pale, silent ghosts forever on guard against some unseen foe.

                

Over time, places change, as do our perceptions of them, and the function they serve for us; so it’s been for me with Jefferson Barracks.  I don’t know what the future may hold, but I won’t be surprised if, years from now, this last part of the Barracks’ becomes as dear to me as the rest.

                 

Icing

I have to say that my time in college was both the best time of my life, and the worst.

When most people say that college will be the best time of your life, I feel like it conjures images of wild parties, late nights, and a general sense of carefree abandon.

At Truman, this is usually not the case. I've heard the joke about college: "Good grades, sleep, a social life--pick two." We have our own version for Truman: "Good grades, sleep, a social life--pick one." Though some people do manage to balance all three, it is certainly not an easy task.

Fortunately, my major was probably the easiest to complete, so I was able to get an average of ten hours a night (the absolute minimum sleep requirement for me to be fully functional), maintain a 3.5 GPA, and after the first couple years, I ended up with a few good friends. In that sense, things were great. Finishing my homework always caused me way more stress than absolutely necessary, and I constantly wanted to pull my hair out, but it always turned out okay, and I loved the sense of accomplishment I felt upon handing in a paper or project I knew I kicked butt on.

I can't say I ever went to any real "college parties." Sure, I had a few drinks at home or at a friend's in the short time between turning 21 and getting pregnant (3.5 months). We had parties, but they weren't parties. Unlike during high school, in college I actually knew enough people to get invited to party-parties on occasion, but it just wasn't--isn't--my thing. I'm so introverted that even attending a small slumber party with a relatively low level of activity is enough to wipe me out and lower my immune system for a week. But despite that, I enjoyed myself a lot. I loved Truman, and I loved being a student.

Except when I didn't.

My first year really sucked. The very first day of class after freshman week, I woke up at midnight in horrible pain and had to have an emergency surgery, which took me out of class for...probably a few weeks, at least. My memory of that time is really fuzzy. Of course, that really affected my grades that semester. My boyfriend also temporarily broke up with me (we're married now....heh) which also really hit me hard. Then, a week after second semester started, I got bronchitis real bad and missed most of my classes for the first half of the semester. Overall, it was not a good year.

My sophomore and junior years were better. I kicked ass in classes, and in HvZ. I held a few jobs at the same time, and I got married.

Then I got pregnant, and things seemed to go downhill from there. We were happy, of course, after the initial shock. The pregnancy itself wasn't the problem, but it created quite a few complications. We found out my husband was scheduled to go overseas halfway through my senior year, and since I couldn't go to school and take care of a baby at the same time, I had to figure out how fit in enough credit to graduate early. I eventually developed gestational diabetes, which sucked because food is my favorite thing, and eating whatever you want is supposed to be the best perk to pregnancy.

For some reason, I decided it would also be a great idea to be President of the English Honors Fraternity as well, which was, in hindsight, a terrible idea. So I was taking a butt-load of classes, being president, doing an internship, and I was pregnant.

And things did not get better when Olivia was born. She was really the icing on top of the stress-flavored cake. Not only did we have a huge problem getting her to gain weight, but at 7 weeks old we had to take her to the hospital for a sub-dermal hematoma. She was, and is, fine, but it was scary, and we're still dealing with the after-shock.

But I've mentioned before that she was worth it, and I stand by that. I love her more and more every day, if that's possible, and if I had to do things over, I would, gladly.

College was the best of times, and it was the worst of times. And I wouldn't want it any other way.

Hiccups

So, I have hiccups all the time. Not the diaphragm-spasm kind; the silly mistake kind.

It's really no mystery why people refer to little mistakes as hiccups. When someone says there's been a "hiccup" in the plan, they're usually talking about something minor. A bump in the road. A complication, rather than a major screw-up. It's annoying, but it happens--we all mess up sometimes, and most of those times it's just a hiccup. A mistake we'll forget about instantly, something without any lasting complications, like going to Wal-Mart for milk and coming home with ten things, none of them dairy-related. You can always go back, and though it's an inconvenience, you'll tell your friends later and everyone will laugh.

But, given time, even the smallest mistakes can be overwhelming. Like droplets of water, they are harmless in small quantities and deadly in large amounts. Have you ever known a person you really liked at first, but after a while you just couldn't stand being around them? It's pretty common among college roommates, best friends, and spouses. Those little hiccups, the tiniest mistakes, can eventually make a huge difference in a relationship if they're not dealt with. I happen to be lucky enough that my best friend (who was also my college roommate) is forgiving enough, and enough like me, that we loved being roomies. My husband is the same way. And no matter how often one of them makes a mistake, they always make up for it later--though honestly, I'm positive that they make less mistakes than me.

Kids are a completely different matter. They're constantly making mistakes or getting in the way, constantly causing little hiccups--you can't go out with your friends like you planned because there's no one to babysit. You give them a bath, and an hour later they're covered in their dinner, or worse. They break your favorite picture frame, or keep you up at night. They bite, pull hair, and when they're old enough, they lie to your face and ignore the rules you so carefully put in place to protect them. And they rarely make up for it. Especially when they're young, they have no concept of right and wrong, no reason to say sorry, because they don't understand how not to be selfish.

It happens to me all the time. I love Olivia to death, but there are days I feel like I can't handle it anymore. I hand her off to the grandparents and swear I'll take a day for myself. But every time, I spend my entire "me" period thinking about her. Wondering how she is, what she's doing, what I'm missing.

She never says sorry for the problems she causes, the little hiccups in my day, the extra pounds or the stretch marks I'll probably never lose. She's six months old; she doesn't even understand that anything she does could affect anyone else.

But that's okay, because she doesn't have to apologize--there's something about being a mom, something about having a child, that gives you more love and patience than you'll ever know what to do with. I'd probably want to strangle an adult who messed up so so constantly, but with her, I really don't care how often those little hiccups annoy me--all it takes is that little toothless smile to make up for a bad day.