Don't Read This if you are Sick of Baby Complaints

Why did she sleep for 8 hours straight, 3 days in a row?  Why?  It's like being in the desert for 3 months and someone handing you a big glass of water and then yanking it away after one sip.  It tasted so sweet and you got enough to want more and to have hope you wouldn't dehydrate and die.  It's crueler than no water at all.

This week has gone progressively downhill.  Last night was the pinnacle.  Of course it helps that by the time you hit Friday, you've already accumulated 4 sleep deprived nights to make it more miserable, but she hit new behavioral lows.

She went down at 9 (after several tries) and woke up at midnight.  I did make the brilliant decision this time not to offer her food, but to just put the pacifier in.  Which actually worked.  She sucked frantically and went back to sleep.  I had to get up a couple times to make sure it stayed in or to put it back in, but that kept her asleep until 2:00 am.  (And of course my fear in giving her the paci is that she won't be able to sleep w/o it, which will mean wake up calls every time it falls out for us to put it back in.  That would be a nice cherry on top of this sleepless sundae.)

I had finally fallen back asleep at 1:45 am in the nursery bed, waiting for her to wake up, when my not-so-much-a-night-person husband wandered in to the room looking for his watch.  He scared me awake, and then disappeared like a ghost.  I tried not to be insanely mad that right when I fell asleep he decided it was a good time to come in. 

4am rolled around and awake again.  This time James got up to get her.  I suggested the pacifier approach, but he decided she was inconsolable and so she got another bottle at 5am.  Because she NEVER went back to sleep.  Until 7am. 

Today she is a wreck.  And when I got up all I wanted to do was lay back down and die again.  And I remembered it was just one short week ago that I thought my world had changed and that we were going to enter a new phase of happy, sleeping baby.

I'm on page 117 of Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child as recommended by many of you on FB.  I will try to continue reading it during all of her wake up calls throughout the night.  Then I can contemplate how nice his advice is and how I wish my baby was adhering to my failed attempts as I read.

Georgian Food 101

In a bonus post today, I thought you might enjoy seeing some of the Georgian food we've been enjoying here.

I've noticed a lot of the restaurants end with 'house" in their name.  For example, "Bread House" or "Cheese House."  Of course the recent outlier and deviant being our visit to, "Khachapuri Hut."   Way to stand out and be different!

On Wednesday, James had to go to the opening of an exhibit at the Moon Museum where he spoke and gave some lovely TV interviews.  Yes, the Georgians do love their native son.  His head grows daily with the praise lavished on his language skills.

More importantly, after the exhibit we went to eat.  At...wait for it... Khinkali House.   It is suppose to be one of the best makers of, yes, Khinkali.

What you ask is Khinkali?  Basically it's like a Chinese dumpling, but NEVER, I repeat, never, say that to a Georgian.  It is their pride and joy.  And in their minds they (like the Greeks) are actually a much older civilization than the Chinese and their silly dumplings.  But, you get the idea.

They fill the Khinkali with meat, or cheese, or mushrooms, maybe some potatoes.  They are quite delicious.  You have to hold on to it with the knobby end, bite a hole in the khinkali, and slurp out the juice (messy) and then eat the rest, but not the knob.  You leave the knob on your plate so everyone can count how many you ate.  For a couple of the kinds here, we were given either sour cream or butter to slather on the khinkali.  Butter makes everything better you know.

In addition we had the ubiquitous Khachapurri, and a dish of basically, mushrooms cooked in a clay pot with some kind of sauce and drenched in cheese.  I'm not even a huge mushroom person, but these are DELISH.  One of my favorite things in Georgia.








And that's your little dose of Georgian Food 101 for the week.  Wish you were here to eat with us.  We plan to roll our way out of the country in a couple of years...umm, umm, good.

I also thought this menu item was interesting.  No, not the "chicken meal "chkmeruli", which I actually think is not "meal" like the grain, but a chicken meal.  No, I like the "Chickens inside on grill" option.  I just don't think you could be much more specific, and I find it important to know if they are being cooked on an inside or outside grill.  It makes all the difference.

Choking

I meant to write this a few weeks ago when I was looking for a nanny, but it still shocks me, so it must be shared.

I was told by a friend here to ask the nanny's I interviewed what they would do if a baby was choking.  She told me the reply she had gotten, and I figured it must have been a fluke.  So I decided to test it out on 3 different nannies I spoke to.

I asked:
What do you do if a baby is choking?

I was told:
Nothing.

And no blink of the eye, or discomfort in the response.  Just a simple, "nothing."
Oh, OK.  You're hired.  You seem like a good caretaker for my child.

I'm still kind of hoping this is a "Lost in Translation" moment.  But, not sure why they all answer that way....Perhaps it is just the Georgian way - whatever will be will be.

Our Daughter The Teenager

Me and my big mouth.  I know as soon as I told the world she had slept for 8 hours at night that she would get me.  My mom will affirm that I am not making this stuff up.  Anytime I say anything out loud that I'm glad she did...bam.  Done.  She does the opposite.  Isn't this supposed to be teenage behavior?

At 2:10 am when the crying started, I came out of a deep sleep thinking, "Oh man, 5am came quickly today.  Glad James is getting up with her."  And then I tried to look all bleary-eyed at my watch and it said..not today sucker. 

I can't believe how mad I was to get up and feed her.  I felt like she tricked and betrayed us.  She led us along the garden path (and yes, to mix metaphors here) just to pull the carpet right out from under us.

I went back to bed and had the most sad and depressing dreams.  I woke up so sad and couldn't remember why.  Then I did. 

It's amazing how quickly you can go from joy to the abyss in this motherhood game.  Luckily I have my super positive, love-y post from yesterday to read and remind myself how happy I am to have a baby.  I had no idea I would have to use it so soon.

Cora - 1,203    Parents - 3 (nights of bliss)

She's winning by a mile.

A few questions for parents:

1.  Did your 3 month old ever do this? Start randomly sleeping double their normal night sleep, and then go back after a few days?  Were the 3 days a fluke, like a 70 degree day in January, or was it more like 70 degrees in April and consistent warmth is right around the corner?

2.  Do any of you have kids who only take 30 minute naps on the button.  She wants a 30 minute nap every hour of wake time.  Is this OK?  And if 3 month old babies are only supposed to sleep for 15 hours a day, and they sleep with short eating breaks from 8-8, is it OK if they spend 5 or 6 hours a day on naps or does that cut into night hours they will sleep.

Help.

A Miracle I call Sleep

By a miracle that I consider far greater than the parting of the Red Sea, our daughter has slept 3 nights in a row for 8 hours straight.  EIGHT.  I will say I keep waking up waiting for the storm to break all night, but when I finally hear it at 5 am....I can never believe it.  The first morning I thought my watch was broken.  She went to bed at 9pm and NOTHING...nothing...until 5.  The second morning I definitely thought she was dead.  On the baby monitor she was as still as death and her normal noises....non.   (No in French.)

She was alive.

And I too am alive again.  It's amazing what not staying awake until midnight just rocking her to sleep, followed by wake-ups at 2, and 5 for feedings can do for you.  I wanted to dance.  Sing.  Cry.  Laugh.  I can't imagine anything that has ever made me happier than realizing I slept through the night.  A blessing I used to take for granted.

And so because of this blessed miracle....and trust me...I am trying to have zero expectations that it will happen again.  Because by now we (I) all know 3 days does not a pattern make.  But because of said miracle, I had time to turn my thoughts to a lighter direction today.

My Cora(zon) woke up this morning happy as a clam.  We laughed (happening more finally) and played, we ate and we even took a short 20 minute tummy time nap together on my bed.  She still isn't doing great daytime naps, and by afternoon she is pretty maniacal, but I enjoyed my time with her.  Because I wasn't insanely tired.

And as I enjoyed that time I was able to do what other mommies do.  I thought about all the things I loved about having a sweet little baby.

I thought about those first moments when I pick her up out of her crib and she is still a little sleepy and she cuddles in to my shoulder and gives me wee hugs while making her sleepy noises.  I thought about when she was just home from the hospital and how she would lay on my chest after I fed her and sleep for hours, and how she was so tiny I couldn't even feel her.

I thought about when she falls asleep in my arms,  and how she does her 'ol one eye trick of squinting open one eye every few minutes to check and make sure I am still holding her, and standing up before she closes it up and wriggles around to get comfy against my chest.

I love how tiny she was when she came home.  None of the preemie clothes fit.

I love how she puts one little hand into the neckline of my shirt and holds on for dear life.
I love her delicious baby smell.  After bath time.  Which doesn't last long because she is the queen of smelly farts.
I love how she stares at me like she is memorizing my face so she can remember who the important people are in her life.
I love how she takes one hand and grasps at my shirt, or rubs my arm or my hand.
I love how hard it has been to get her to smile, and how rewarding it is when she gives you a face-splitting one.
I love the fat rolls on her legs, arms and belly that are so squishable.

I love when she is laying in your arms, she puts one fist up to her chin and holds it there like she is "The Thinker." (Or she has just been really bored by us since day 1)

I love how when she finishes up a good crying fit and finally gets picked up how she lets out just a few more yelping cries that sound like she is telling me off, and letting me know I should take care of business a little faster next time.
I love that we named her Cora and I didn't realize until later that it is the first part of the word Corazon -which in Spanish means heart.  She is the first and best part of my heart.

I love her.  And I love that I am sane enough right now to be able to take the time to remember how much I love her and what a blessing it is that we got her, like Sarah and Abraham in my old age.


 I am not crazy enough to say that I love all the painful and heart wrenching, back breaking moments that a newborn brought in to my life - but I love her.  And when it hurts again, I want to come back and read this post and remember how grateful I am for a daughter.


Who one day (in her 20's) will be taking care of me in my senile old age and making her own list to remind herself why she loves the crazy, annoying old woman she calls mom.

Laughter, the best medicine.

I haven't laughed hard in a long time.  At least 3 months, probably longer.  I mean laughing so hard that you gasp for air.  I miss that.

A couple days ago James and I went to the Carrefour.  The "fancy" grocery store/target here in Georgia.  We had several amusing incidents including a butchered (pun intended) English/Georgian conversation with the (ha, ha) butcher about a pot roast.  They were calling every employee over to try and figure out what a pot roast was, and I was even showing them a nice photo of it on my iphone.  Carrots, potatoes and all.

I think they finally figured out what it was (we'll know for sure on Sunday) after we all had a good laugh and the lady at the counter said, "I hope you two come back a lot."  This was nice considering I usually feel like they are all annoyed with me in that store when I ask for things in English and they don't understand.  Laughter and pictionary are apparently the true international language and the way to people's hearts.

This was normal laughter.

Later in the grocery trip we noticed huge bulk barrels of about 12 different kinds of cookies that appeared to be homemade fig newtons.  Personally they gag me with a spoon (or without), but James loves them.  So he went over to engage the bulk food lady in a conversation about said cookies to find out why there were so many varieties of fig newtons.

I stood back a few feet watching.  I noticed that whenever James is in the act of engaging and "learning" from someone culturally, he hunches over to get at their level and makes a super engaged face, and starts doing all kinds of signs with his hands.  It is as if that fig newton conversation were deciding the fate of the world.  It is James at his diplomatic best.  I wish I could show you.  But I'm too lazy to make a video right now and upload it.

I didn't laugh much at the time, but when I got home that night and we were talking at bed time, I remembered the interaction, and I jumped out of bed to imitate him in "engaged, learning" mode.  i.e. I am trying to show you exactly how interested I am in what you have to tell me - I am a person who loves learning.  For some reason when I was hunched over, wiggling my fingers and looking super engaged I could not stop laughing.  I realize this is probably not even remotely funny to you.  But it was hysterical in the moment.  And every time I thought of it for the next 24 hours I died laughing.

The actual event isn't important...just the laughter.  I am sad or lonely a lot right now.  Laughing that hard reminded me how much I miss body rocking laughter.  I need to make it happen more in my life.

Khachapuri Hut

James and I went to the mall on Monday for a mini-date while our nanny watched Cora.  I wanted to see what was there, and we thought we could stop in the food court as well and get a fast bite to eat.  The food court was virtually empty and was in the middle of a lot of construction.  It consisted of Burger King, Mama's Pizza, Popeye's and and Khachapuri Hut.

As we passed by Popeye's I noticed that there was no food displayed in any of the front bins, no one working in the food prep area, and just one employee sitting with her back to the front reading a book.  I have a feeling that food might not have been so fast.

Khachapuri is a Georgian staple.  And it is also super delicous.  It contains two of my three favorite foods.  Bread and cheese.  (Chocolate being the missing third.) There are several kinds of Khachapuri made with different textures of breads and sometimes different cheeses, but the one pictured above is one of my favorites.  It has a sulgumi cheese (much like the Greek halloumi)cooked in the middle of a light, flaky bread and then cheese on top.  It's all warm and delicious.

My picture does no justice to the actual delicacy, but what I thought was kind of funny and wanted to capture is that they had clearly adopted the name of their restaurant from the American "Pizza Hut."   Khachapuri then, is the Georgian Pizza.  We got a bean filled and spinach filled one too.  Yes, they thought we were psycho for ordering so many, but my husband can never resist food and why eat one when you can eat three?

I thought this was another interesting side note about Khachapuri from Wikipedia:  As a Georgian staple food, the price of making a Khachapuri is used as a measure of inflation in different Georgian cities by the Khachapuri index, developed by the International School of Economics at Tbilisi State University.

Aren't you happy I wrote a blog that isn't all tragic and dramatic? Consider this a palate cleanser.  I'll be back tomorrow with more harrowing tales of motherhood.

Little Orphan Cora

Last night James and I went to the Marine Ball.  It's a big, formal event that most of the Embassy folk attend each year.  We missed it in Baghdad, but I was advised by a good friend (you know who you are Oni) that we should go and I better come prepared with some formal gowns.  So I did.

Of course, I wasn't considering the fact that it would be the first time I would have left my baby for more than a 2-3 hour block, and it would be the first time I left my baby with anyone besides James or my mother.  OR that I would have just barely found a potential nanny this week and would barely know her before trusting her with my most precious belonging.  You know what I mean.

Saturday night rolled around, and with great trepidation I rocked my little girl and tried to get her down for a nap so I could get ready for the event.  As I paced her room in the dark I suddenly realized that James and I had not adjusted our will to include the names of who would take care of Cora if we both passed away.  I started to panic because I was suddenly certain that tonight would be the night we died.  And if you saw the way the Georgians drive around here you would know why.  That, and I am clearly mentally unstable.  This I hope has been established in past posts.

I paced and I thought, and I thought and I paced.  Which sibling would love Cora the most?  Who would be willing to take Cora?  All are great, but which one would raise her the most like James and I would?  Who would have time for her?  Oh, and of course, how would she ever make it without us?   I started to tear up at the thought of her lonely orphan life and how we should have never come to Georgia where we would die.

There is no conclusion to this, I'm just sharing more crazy.  I guess if there is an ending to this climactic tale, it is that James and I did survive, and I never did get around to emailing anyone to tell them they were the future parents of poor little orphan Cora.  I guess I'd better decide that soon as we will be doing lots more driving here in the next 2 years.

How do Children Survive to Adulthood?

Ironically (or not) after publishing my bad mom post yesterday....I made it 100% official last night.  Because I am trying to be kinder to myself however, let's call it "exhausted mom" and not "bad mom". 

I don't even know where to begin in exposing my shame to the world, but let's start with an hour before James came home last night.  A mere hour - I was so close.

It had been a relatively good day with Cora.  No major screaming or meltdowns, and one solid morning nap.  Always a blessed miracle.  My neighbor Liz was super sweet to throw a welcome-to-the-neighborhood-and-meet-the-ladies-of-said-neighborhood event for me at 4pm.  I was a little nervous about it because that happens to be the exact time Cora will (occasionally - nothing is regular) take her long afternoon nap.  Around 4:45, sure enough, she sacked out in my arms as I walked around talking to people.  At 5:10, I decided to take my leave early - because nothing is more important in your life than your child's sleep - and try to put Cora down. 

Of course as soon as we left the party and walked outside she was wide awake.  By the time we got home I rocked her for 45 minutes.  She faded in and out...but like the prize fighter she is, she never went down for the count. 

I finally gave up and went downstairs with her to play.  At this point she transformed into a giant Grumpasaurus Rex.  BUT...I still felt OK about things.  I hadn't heard from James differently, so I thought, "hey - just 15 more minutes and he'll probably be home.  We can do this."  I texted him and called him to confirm this fact for my peace of mind, and also so I would know when to put dinner in the oven....no answer.  After the call, major meltdown city began.  MAJOR.  Like more terrifying than any  meltdown I had every experienced with her.  And PEOPLE.  There have been meltdowns. 

She screamed, went stiff as a board, turned red and and howled without stopping.  No matter what I did she wouldn't calm down.  Then she started choking on her own mucus and breathing became difficult.  I started to really panic and called James a couple more times.  Not just to find out when he was coming, but to tell him I needed help.  I'm sure I shouldn't have been, but I was scared.  After having 3 children, I have seen my sister be relaxed while her youngest is slingshotted out of a baby bjorn bouncer, but for me each new crazy thing is terrifying.

Now this is the part you've been waiting for.  The reason you read all that boring context above:

I was completely wound up inside and scared and the anger escalated from about 0-100 in 5 seconds that James was unavailable and I was alone in this crazy country with no one to help me.  I had a completely break with sanity and did something I regretted, well not instantly, but definitely later that night.  I sent him an email (typing with my nose while holding stiff as a board, screaming baby) with the subject line....wait for it...."Pick up your f-ing phone." 

When I read that now it makes me laugh.  (It may not make him laugh for a few more days or weeks.)  But it was SO not funny then.  I was insanely mad.  And for those of you who don't know me...I never swear.  I swear, I don't.  And I try not to pseudo swear (i.e.: f-ing) because it is ridiculous, and if you're going to do it, just do it.  So yeah, I was mad with my big talking, fake f bomb dropping email.

By the time James came home, about 20 minutes later, I had calmed her and started to feed her...but forgiveness and relaxing took about another 1.5 hours.  Yes, I am a jerk.  And the whole time I bounced around the room with screaming Cora I kept thinking..."I'm taking my baby home and coming back when she's sane in a year, or ten."  Obviously not happening.  Just temporary insanity.

I'd like to say this was the end of my bad mom exhausted mom (and wife) ways...but it got worse.  Can you imagine?  Worse than the almost f-bomb?  True.

We put Cora down for the night and I SWEAR that I woke up around 1:15 and heard her wimper, so I made a bottle by my bed to be ready for when she really woke up.  (I keep a bottle of water and the formula on my nightstand so I can mix quickly upon her beckoning.)  At 3:15 she started cryng and I bolted upright, grabbed the bottle and ran into her room.

I swooped her out of her crib and over to the glider and started to feed her. 

Of course, she was very fussy and wriggly and making lots of noise drinking, but I didn't think much of it because lately she has been doing that at all feedings.  We are now testing for silent reflux with zantac.  It did seem a little stranger than usual however, so finally I got up and left the dark room to see the bottle in the hallway.

Wait for it.

It was just water.  I let out a little yelping scream.  James came flying over in the dark to ask what was wrong, I threw the baby at him and went to make another bottle.  Crying and thinking I just killed my child.  The doctors tell you:  NO WATER.  She had noisily forced down 1 full oz of water.. and my baby was going to die. 

I ran to my bedside table to grab the formula and looked at how much was in the dispenser to try and figure out how on earth I had only imagined filling the bottle with formula instead of really filling it.  And as I looked and thought... I slammed full body into my bedroom door.  Bam!

James came running again, this time crying baby in arms, and asked behind the door if I was OK.  I have no idea how that door got partially shut behind me when I went in, but my body shut it the rest of the way. 

I told him I was, but the inside arch of both of my feet were killing me.  How in a full body slam of the door, the one thing I injured was the inside of both of my feet is baffling in and of itself, but I ignored my foot pain, shoved the new bottle at James, and ran downstairs to call my mom.

She calmly told me I did not kill my child, and I shuffled back up to bed where I lay until James finished feeding her, waiting to find out how she needed to go to the emergency room.

All I can say in true Scarlet style is, "tomorrow is another day."  Well, today is.   And I hope it's a better one.  I wonder how I will try to kill my child or alienate my husband today. 

The Nanny

Two days ago I found a nanny that I liked.  She has a five month old herself, and worked with two other American families who had infants.  She speaks great English and is very kind and flexible.  She comes for 4 hours M-F so that I can have time to shower, do dinner prep, clean the house, do laundry, write a book.. or just take a nap if Cora happened to be up all night.   Which she likes to do.

The nanny is here right now.  I am sitting in my little home office writing this blog and listening to my daughter scream.  It's killing me.  I want to go and take her away from the nanny with (wait for it) every fiber of my being.  It is impossible to sit here and listen, but I know I should.  Otherwise how will the nanny and Cora work it out?  The nanny (Sopo) needs to figure out how to quiet Cora and Cora needs to become familiar with Sopo.  But for the love!  How long can I listen to her scream in pain?

What I didn't count on in this whole "me-time" plan, is that I wouldn't be able to truly relax when someone else had Cora.  Logically I get that when I hold her she cries too.  A lot.  Often I can't stop her crying any more than the nanny is doing right now.  But as a mom, how do you sit and listen and not jump in and try to stop your baby's pain? 

I guess I don't.  I just went down.  Yes, it's true I have no willpower.  But the thing is I DID calm her down and get her in a place where the nanny could hold her quietly.  So now what??  It just re-enforces the belief that I have to take care of her all the time.  And frankly, that's not sustainable.  If I don't have some breaks from bouncing and shhhing and walking in a 12 hour day I may die.  Literally, of starvation.  Granted, I had some good stores laid up but eventually those will reach an end and I will start withering away.  Possibly even to a tiny, and hollowed out 125 lb.

She seems young to recognize my face and be partial to me, but the way she stares when I hold her...I wonder.  Is she already shut down to others holding and caring for her?  Isn't that supposed to happen at one years old?

I don't know.  Here's the thing.  I feel like a bad mom for hiring help.  I feel like a bad person for not trusting someone else to care for her.  I even hate when I hear her happy or contented downstairs and I think I'm missing these magic moments and what if she bonds more to the nanny than me? 

Is this what being a mom is?  A perpetual Catch-22 that doesn't allow you to ever relax not knowing if you should hold tight or let go?  I'm not ready for this mom gig.  42 was too soon.

Breaking Up is Hard to do

I may have mentioned that I was a little sad about my mother leaving.  Now that a few days have passed and I have picked myself up off the floor where I've been laying in a pool of tears and drool, I feel I can talk about this.

I am 42 years old and I want my mommy.  This sounds a little strange I know, but I feel like I can't live without her.  She helped do the laundry and make meals and hold Cora and she just talked to me and helped me feel like I wasn't totally alone in a foreign country.

Last night I told James (as I cried some more) that the only thing I could compare this to was a bad breakup.  Everywhere I go... I see her.  When I pass her room, when I work in the kitchen, while I rock Cora and wait for her to pop her head in to see if we're OK.  Not only do I see her everywhere, but I know I can't get her back.  And that she has moved on (hello..14 grandkids and 6 children!) while I have not.  And finally, I don't know how to function without her.  I let myself learn to depend on her and now she is gone.  I let go (quite willingly) of my independence and now I don't know how to be alone.

James looked at me and started laughing.  I looked at him and did not.

"I'm serious."

He said he realized this, as he tried to stop laughing, but that he thought it was pretty funny to compare my mom going home to a breakup.  I nodded, but inside I thought, "that's because he didn't just go through the breakup."  And I also thought, "I will kill you."

No, I didn't think that.  But I thought it might be funny to write it.  And I can't kill him.  Because then I would REALLY be alone.  And I can only handle one bad breakup this month.

Georgians are Funny

I've been wondering if the Georgians are funny.  I wonder this because they don't always get every hilarious joke I tell.  And you guys know...my jokes are good.  Real good.

In exploring the city, I've started to realize that they DO have a pretty good (Read: twisted) sense of humor.

They love art and culture.  That is why I never see my husband.  Because he is the cultural attache and so he has to go to every cultural event.  That means pretty much every day and night of his life.  I love that about his job.  Not at all.

Anywho.  They love art and culture.  One way I know this is because there are fun statues all over the city.  On our way home from church today, my mom and I captured some of them on film:

These are my favorites.  There is a bridge and on both sides of a bridge they built statue people who are just hanging out doing various things.  Here they are sitting and kissing for example.

This is how I know they are funny.  This guy is a "jumper."  Seriously, he's on the ledge and ready to go.  Who does this?? When did jumping in to oncoming traffic become funny?

My mom joins the one behind her in dancing.  Although it APPEARS that she is giving the, er, "jumper" a nudge.

 

Photographer.  Obviously.  And look, I can be funny too!

We celebrate the dance!

Good stuff folks.  I like the Georgian art.  It's funny.

The Find

On Friday, my mother and I were wandering around the city trying to pick up a couple of souvenirs she wanted to bring home.  We had been told that no shops opened until 10am.  This turned out to be true.  So when we arrived at 10am to where the shops were, about half of them were actually open and the rest were either "in progress" or not even close to open yet.  I'd say 11am is a more realistic estimate.



Because the shops weren't open we started just wandering around a couple of the streets taking pictures of each other.  It was that or lay down on the cold bricks and rest, so we opted for the pics.

Aren't we amazing models?  I personally think my mom nailed the casual lean.

As we continued to wander around the streets, I started to smell something delicious.  Something sweet and bread-like and generally wonderful.  I started to fear it might just be emanating from one of the houses we were passing, but I could see some cars parked up at the corner of the street and I secretly hoped for "a find."

A find is when you don't know you want delicious sweet and warm bread, and you don't know a place exists, but somehow fate smiles down on you and you find the most magically delightful place in the world.

So it happened.  We turned the corner and there was a tiny little window with a woman leaning out of it and two tiny windows on either side of her showcasing some tasty bread offerings.  We had no idea what any of them were, but we pointed at two, paid our lari and oh-la-la.  Warm bread in our greedy little hands.  Thank goodness they don't get up until 10am because we had the first batch of the day...hot and ready just like Little Ceasers and Brittany Spears.  Um, umm, good.  Suddenly the day was looking up.

Thank you for a tasty find today.  It's the little things.  Bless you Georgia for loving bread and cheese as much...or perhaps even more...than I do.

And Cora agrees.

That is really all. 

My mother says she is leaving tomorrow and I want to die.

That is all.

A Successful Halloween

It's not every child that wins their very first Halloween Costume Contest.  And without even attending the actual party.

James wanted us to bring Cora in so that the staff at the Embassy could meet her and see how cute she was in her little butterfly outfit.

As with all things baby, this turned out in no way like it was planned.  It worked out that we had to leave right when she needed to be napping, and that we would arrive at the Embassy right when she would want to start eating.  So we arrived with a screaming (how adorable!) butterfly baby.  Do all babies just love hats and black outfits on 70 degree days or is it just ours?

We rushed through security (rushing for security that is) and ran past people as James pointed at the baby and told them it was his little girl - up to his office where we could sit down and feed her.  The hat and wings came off and James grabbed any passerby to drag them in and show them his little, well now, caterpillar. 

She finished eating and just wanted to pass out, but we put the wings back on and walked downstairs, talked to a couple of people, I waved the antennae hat so people would know there was more to her costume and apparently we passed a judge for the costume contest.  He said, "This is the first baby I've seen."

We rushed out the door and to the car, and thus ended our amazing visit to the Embassy Halloween party. 

The next day I found out Cora won.  It pays to be the only baby I guess.  And seriously, she was pretty cute.  Next year we'll work on the accompanying smile.

I'm Tired.

I don't understand the outcry against teen pregnancy.  After entering my 40's and having a child, the logic of the teenage mother is suddenly crystal clear.

There are the obvious reasons a teenager should be a mom - like the fact that their bodies will bounce back much more easily.  And their high expendable incomes and valuable life experience.  But I think the most obvious reason for teenage moms is the sleep factor.

When I was in high school, particularly in my sophomore year - I literally slept no more than 3 hours every night.  Between sneaking out of the house every night (it's OK my mom has finally accepted this) and getting up at 5:30am for seminary, there just wasn't much.  And I feel I was pretty consistently high functioning.  Not because of my grades, but because of how effective and lively I was socially.  Obv.

I just didn't need sleep.

Now I'm 42.  Every night that passes with less than my requisite 7 hours of beauty sleep, and that actually comes much closer to 3 hours makes me more of a crazed, literally certifiable, looks-like-a-homeless-person human being.  I cry.  I can't talk to people without becoming angered.  I say things I wish never came out of my mouth.  But sometimes I'm also really, horribly glad they did.  See?  Twisted.

I'm glad I had a baby.  And I'm glad that I did it at my age - which by the way, the obgyn told me is now classified as "elderly mother" and not the kinder "mature mother" - because it has helped me see the light.  To become less judge-y and more accepting. 

16 year olds getting pregnant?  God bless them.  They're smarter than we think.  Now excuse me while I try to sneak in some beauty rest during my daughter's 15 minute "long" nap.