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Right now we have this twin futon on the floor in his room so he can't fall out of it and he sleeps in there by himself for naps and sometimes to start the night out. That's the beginning of the transition as far as I can see-- I hope to phase him over there along with the whole walking-talking-potty transition that's coming up here pretty soon.

My sense of Isaac's personality is that he's very independent and take-charge. He decided to start eating solids foods one day when he grabbed a pear out of my hand and began eating it. Similarly, he began drinking from a cup without any prompting whatsoever on my part. He just took a glass of water from me and began to drink. Now he's trying to skip crawling entirely and go straight to walking.

I just feel intuitively that he will lead the way to his sleeping in his own bed in his own room when he's ready to do so. In the meanwhile-- even with the occasional wee small hours play date-- this works for all three of us. In a moment of sleep-deprivation-induced cruelty, I had a good laugh over the misfortunate mother who slept in the crib. After being so unendlingly patient and kind to my baby, I had almost forgotten my mean streak.

Thanks for rekindling my wicked side! Chew on cover to taste. Shred and eat pages of your choice. Once pages are loose, eat individually. You know that babyproofing tip about stuffing the books so tightly into the bookshelf that the baby can't get them out, and so gets bored?

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My daughter doesn't get bored. Even as a short creeping person, she was exhilarated by challenge. We called her "the raptor," from the moment in "Jurassic Park" when our foolish protags realize the velociraptors are methodically testing every segment of the electric fence and will soon break through the weak spot to tear them all limb from limb.

With her sweet, soft, delicate little fingers, she'd relentlessly work at each book, pushing, pulling, loosening I repected her industry and application, and it was the only time I got a chance to read, so I'd sit by watching for the moment of triumph, then sadistically sweep her from the field of victory and undo all her good works. Her utterly rational response was to begin pulling as many books down as possible when they finally released their hold on the shelf, grab a few and run away crowing Eating was secondary to the more refined pleasure of tearing each page slowly and evenly from the spine.

I don't think that the producers of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy Bravo, Tuesdays at 10 set out to rehabilitate my relationship with our house, but it seems that that's what they've accomplished. Or, maybe it's a coincidence. In any case, I've been on something of a cleaning binge. Martha Stewart meets the Energizer Bunny? On steroids?


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I think that really it was a combination of factors that coincided. An alignment of heavenly bodies, perhaps. Until the beginning of , I rarely cleaned the house because I worked all the time outside of the house and earned money to pay the cleaning lady to do it. She didn't do a stellar job, but it was good enough for our needs at the time. The whole realm of cleaning was something that Ben and I just delegated to her in our minds.

It was not "our job" but managing the entire house was not something that any one person could do one morning a week. Hence the grunge collected in the corners. The system as it stood was severely flawed. Then for a brief and shining 6 weeks, I was not working and not pregnant-- during this time I madly gutted and refurbished our bedroom and upstairs bath.


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Repainted and refurnished-- reimagined. This was in part because I feared that I was about to enter into what could be months of pregnancy bedrest and I figured that if I was going to be confined to those two rooms. I wanted them to be as nice as possible. But cleaning as such wasn't really on the list then. This was a fevered renovation project and I could not allow clutter, etc. Then in February the pregnancy was launched and I commenced 8 months of complete dread of overdoing anything.

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I didn't end up on bedrest officially, but the dread was oppressive. No one could tell me-- no doctor on earth-- that doing such and such was safe and doing such and such wasn't safe. Where was the line? Since I went into premature labor last time while in the act of walking home from work which I been not only assured was safe, but encouraged to do and this launched one of the worst experiences of my life, and entering into another pregnancy invited that possibility all over again, well, you could say I was gunshy.

This meant that for months on end I was in this sort of paralysis with regard to the house. But-- would scrubbing the floor send me into labor? If I climbed on a chair to clean that shelf would I fall off and go into labor? Would cleaning fumes hurt the baby? It took a strange and intense sort of self-discipline to endure it. Luckily I had Patrick O'Brian-- more on him another time. I don't think much has been written about the psychological aftermath of high-risk pregnancy-- the lingering sense of invalidism. Perhaps I will do that sometime. Then of course when Isaac was born and he himself prevented cleaning.

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We were in emergency mode for months here just coping with him. Back to the thing about his being a "high need" baby. He wouldn't stand for being set down and never took more than the shortest of cat naps while being held and hence again I was left looking at grunge and wishing it would go away, but not being able to really DO anything about it. Meanwhile the cleaning lady has been aging rather rapidly. She's 75, very good-hearted, but getting more and more arthritic and also seemingly blind to dust bunnies.

I don't know-- we can't possibly fire her she's taken on the role of our Hungarian grandmother we never had and won't, but I do wish that she would gracefully retire. Which apparently she won't. So-- we're at impass on that. Anyway, this all boils down to years of stasis on the house. But things are getting easier with Isaac, and the cleaning lady may be easing herself into retirement by taking several weeks off in a row for various reasons. But it was after watching a few back to back episodes of Queer Eye, that I started thinking "What if they came into MY house and found MY mildewed shower curtain and my hampers of laundry?

They are into the art of transformation and in their capable hands these homes and apartments rise up from the dreck and become beautiful. Could it happen to me? I started looking at the house, you could say, through queer eyes. It's been inspiring. I launched my attack at first on the kitchen. Layers of greasy dirt on the fume hood a useless piece of crap , splatters on the walls, fingerprints on the cupboard doors and clutter, clutter, clutter.

All scrubbed and vanished and just plain gone! No room should have to do as much as this poor room is asked to do.

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Yet Ben managed to streamline and organize and now the place is like, well, a nice functioning laundry room! This has the domino effect of freeing up the guest room from serving as a massive folding area.


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Then I stripped and polished the upstairs bath within an inch of its life. I went to Bed Bath and Beyond and bought up several things, like new shower curtains several and other doo-dads that spruce up the place. And so on we are rolling, a cleaning and ordering machine, throughout the house.

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It's like the Prague Spring around here. I can say, too, that there's something centering and frankly GOOD about scrubbing one's own floor rather than paying someone else to do it. I know-- I know, it's drudgery and we are supposed to have left it behind us with firing up the coal stove in the pre-dawn light. But it reminds me that this is MY house. It's a stroll down memory lane, too, as I revisit nooks and crannies of the abode that I painted five years ago like the Golden Gate bridge it all needs to be painted again It reconnects me with the very corners of the rooms in which I am now spending all my time.

If you normally scrub your own toilet-- hat's off to you and more power to you! I applaud your relationship with your environment. If you normally pay someone else to do it, why not set aside an afternoon with the scrub brush. It might give you a new perspective on things. Our bathroom floor is rotting out and we have to get it replaced. While we're replacing it, we're getting a new sink.