The life of a librarian isn’t always glamorous. It’s not all slowly taking off glasses and shaking my hair free of its conservative bun. There’s more to it than inspiring a love of reading and helping students work on projects. There’s also the thrill and excitement of fielding call after motherfucking call of people looking for the IT guy. Though no fault of the IT guy’s own (he’s super awesome), people think that because we work in the same room, I must have his schedule memorized and beyond that, I must actually tell him what to do, prioritizing tasks based on how loudly a person just yelled at me. Keep in mind, we have different offices and unique phone extensions. But I can’t make it to 9 am without fielding six or seven calls asking if Carlos is there and wondering if I could perhaps fix their computer issue for them. Sorry. I can’t. I’m kept too busy with wearing sensible shoes and shushing.
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Isobel is kind of OCD when it comes to dirt. Rather, she really enjoys finding any speck of dirt on the floor that she can and immediately screams EW YUCKY DIRT DIRTY DIRT EW EW MESSY! Although I still find it amusing the 100th time as I did the first time, the fact that I have a toddler constantly on the lookout for dirt on the floors isn’t helping me feel accomplished. Between the kid and the cat and the leaves tracked in and out every time someone comes and goes… let’s just say there’s no shortage of crumbs or pieces of grass or shredded bits of couch for her to flip out over. I appreciate the sentiment, honey. But we’re just going to have to leave some of that dirt there for now.
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Isobel is not fond of changing into her pajamas so I made a Big Deal one night of telling her she was going to wear her Owl Jammies. She has a marked affection for owls for some reason, and one set of her pajamas features a litle applique owl. Now every time it’s time to change into pajamas she starts shouting OWL JAMMIES! OOOOOWL! JAAAAMIES! HOOOOO! HOOOOO! Which is great, except that we have the one pair so she’s rewareded for her efforts about every third day. Basically I feel this proves something integral about parenting: sometimes the solutions you find lead to new, and even more inventive problems. Parenting is evolution at its most exhausting.
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I’ve had several million coworkers have asked me when we’re going to have another baby. As if they were waiting for us to just reach into the ether and pull one out. I respond by tossing out a vague, “We’ll see,” or “eventually” because I suspect people would not be happy if I told them that I’m waiting until I can train Isobel to feed our cats without breaking things or dumping cat food all over the floor. You see when I was pregnant with Isobel, my sister moved in with us. When I became too huge to bend down or squat, it was her job to feed the cats. I realized that until I have a replacement cat feeder that doesn’t leave for business trips (sorry, husband) I can’t think of having another. Isobel trains every day, though, and is making great strides in her technique. I just hope my vintage milk-glass bowls survive.
Of course I genuinely read the last sentence as:
“I just hope my vintage milk glass bowels survive.”
And laughed and thought, oh, she’s so poetic.
We are the Frat Boys of Crohn’s disease. Whereas regular frat boys think everything relates to sex, we think every thing relates to poop. And then we laugh and high-five.
haha – I’ve trained 11- m.o. Romy to pick up lint and string from the floor and hand it to me as if it were a gift. This is better than when she put a piece in her mouth that turned out to be a splinter from our hardwood floor. (I said to my parents, watching, “what’s a little hair and dirt? Won’t hurt her.” Then she choked. On a splinter.) Now she hands me every piece she finds and I exclaim and oogle it. “A present for mama! Thank you.” and hold it to my heart until I can throw it away.
Aw, that’s really sweet. (Except for the splinter part, heh. We all have moments like that, though, so no worries.)
I can relate all too well with… well, everything.
LOL, I’m sorry to hear it.
Isobel seems to be researching the price of a Delorean?! Plans to time travel?! xx
Yes, but she knows Mama loves vintage. So vintage + time travel = Delorean.
I love your kid’s face. She is so cute.
I’m telling you, having a little monkey helper/toddler when you’re pregnant is AWESOME. When I got too big to bend over I made Athena shower with me and wash my legs and feet.
Thank you!
Since since monkey butlers are illegal, I’ll have to make do with Isobel.
So when you get married people never stop with the unending “when are you going to have a baby?” then when you have one they start in with “When will you have another?” does it ever stop? How many kids does it take for people to quit asking about your reproduction?
They’re always asking (or demanding) the next step.
I think that really, under their veneer of concern, what they really want to know is: “When are you going to die? Are you dying yet? Are you dying yet?”