jaysaint Getting it all down on paper…

Alden is sitting on the floor, looking dreamy and sweet. Damon, Mom and I are arranged on various couches.

Me: Alden, I love you.
Alden: No, Grammy love me. Graaaaaaaaamy! I looooooove you!

Jerk.

Something else I’ve abandoned in 2010… all my general parenting/baby books went on PaperbackSwap. I found them frequently useful and sometimes reassuring. I’m certainly not above good advice. The truth is, though, that mostly I read them and then cherry picked what I found there to support doing what I wanted to do anyway. I’ll continue to read issue- or age-specific books. I love research. I can’t wait to read Nurture Shock. But for the most part I’m content to do my own thing, influenced by friends and fellow parents whose opinion I trust.

I remembered this morning the little feeding chart I made when Alden was a newborn. What side, what time, I think I even listed diaper changes. When I took Elliot for his first checkup and the nurse asked how often he was eating I said, “Often. Um, I don’t really know. I mean, whenever he wants to. He really likes to nurse.”

I thought we were so laid back with Alden, but we’re setting a new standard of “Meh” with Elliot. I still worry, mostly about SIDS, but it’s not as sharp a sensation. One good outcome makes you expect another, I suppose.

I do have to confess that a few times I have entirely forgotten Elliot, which makes me laugh and then makes me feel queasy. The first time we were at the playground — me, Damon, the kids and my mom. I was sitting on a bench next to the stroller holding a sleeping Elliot. Alden and the other grownups had migrated to the other side of the playground and then suddenly there were some cute slide shenanigans. I grabbed the video camera and it wasn’t until I was sitting on the ground in front of the slide that I remembered I’d left Elliot behind. Ha ha ha. Eek. Another time my mom came to my office so we could have lunch together and brought Elliot so he could nurse. I drove us to a restaurant and was at the front door before I remembered my very own baby in his car seat. Granted, the door was about 10 feet away from the car. But I can’t deny that few seconds of forgetting. I wasn’t able to laugh that one off — too close to tragic stories we’ve all read. I didn’t even have the distraction of Alden to blame. I really hope I’m not the only parent who does this oh-so occasionally. If I am, then I should definitely have hung on to those books.

I don’t do New Year’s resolutions. I don’t even do New Year’s Eve. The last thing I remember about 2009 is dozing off in front of a Tivo’d episode of Top Gear. The first thing I remember about 2010 is waking up on the couch at about 1:30 in the morning. Damon looked over at me and said, “Yeah, I drank your champagne.”

This year, for the most part, I’m continuing my tradition of ignoring the self-improvement spirit of the season. What I am going to do is grant myself a little bit of freedom, which may, incidentally, make me a better person (or at least more palatable). It may not be apparent here, but I have a, shall we way, regimented way of doing things — little processes that evolved over time and calcified. They all came about via my attempts to be more complete in my actions, more organized, more consistent. But those rules can also work against me. An example: I generally (dire circumstances aside) do not allow myself to respond to an email until I’ve responded to all the older emails in my inbox. I start at the bottom, almost no exceptions. If you’ve ever noticed me replying to a comment long after you stopped caring about the conversation, now you know why. I’m going to lighten up on that. I already have. There are a few others, but they all amount to the same story about different things.

One other thing. I can’t believe I’m about to say this. I’m doing a lift list. Shut up! I know. I found myself so taken with Maggie’s Life List that I started to wonder what mine might look like. Next thing I knew I was hunched over an Excel document and having a ball. I’ll show it to you when it’s done. I’ve been evangelizing about how much I’m enjoying this process, but so far only Damon has taken the bait and joined me. I swear, he’s glad he did. And not just because I’m easier to live with that way.

Thanks for the upgrade coupon!

(I keep wanting to write iHop.)

Dear lady at the next table: You brightened my day when you stopped to remark on how well-behaved Alden is. Thank goodness you weren’t around all morning when I had to repeatedly tell him to stop poking me in the face.

Dear tired-looking young woman at the kitty corner table: You paid for your meal from a wallet brimming with singles. I assume you are a valet.

Dear waitress: Please don’t bring the adults’ food and then tell us the toddler’s meal will be a few minutes. He will eat all our blueberry compote and then beg the manager for his pancake when she innocently says hello. Nobody wins in this scenario.