It’s a shocking admission but I’ll make it here, because this is my space: it’s been more than two years and I still haven’t moved on from Hannah’s birth. The slightest thing takes me back to that time and it feels as if it happened five minutes ago.

 

I’m not sure why that is, although I have a few theories: it could be that I love birth stories and I enjoy reliving the moment; or perhaps it’s that the entire episode was traumatic and I haven’t dealt with it adequately; or maybe it’s because I believe few people have acknowledged the significant role I played in Hannah’s speedy development, so I feel the need to relive it in order to reassure myself that it actually happened.

 

It could be a combination of all of those things. Or none of them. Who knows? Whatever the answer, I find myself harking back to early October 2002 probably more often than is healthy.

 

Today, there were two things that took me back. I was clearing out yet another drawer full of old magazines, when I came across an article on premature babies. It featured the stories of five moms who had given birth prior to 37 weeks. In my craving to soak up every detail in the article, my children’s bickering turned to background noise and I found myself reminiscing over Hannah’s birth story yet again. I also visited Tertia today. In a way, (probably along with a thousand (or two) other people around the world) I feel I’ve been pregnant right along with her this year and when her babies are born, I just know the snot will fly in my house. At 34 weeks and 5 days pregnant, she’s achieved 6 more days of pregnancy with her twins than I did with Hannah.

 

I was 33 weeks and 6 days pregnant when I gave birth to Hannah. After a week of painless contractions, I remember feeling actual pain that afternoon and the nurses had worked themselves up into a mild frenzy. There was a lot of activity – the doctor’s questions, the ctg, which was strapped to me almost the entire afternoon, at least three nurses checking the readings and asking me whether I was in pain, and the internal examination, after which my doctor muttered, “I can’t even feel her cervix.” He looked up at me and said, “We’ll be doing a c-section in three hours” and walked out of the room. I burst into tears. Had he even been talking about me? What did it mean that he couldn’t feel my cervix (to this day, I’m not sure, so if anyone knows the answer, please enlighten me!)? Was the caesar absolutely necessary then and there?

 

I remember crying through my phone calls to Scott, my parents and Belinda. Nothing could calm me. I wrote Hannah’s birth story a few months after she was born and started it like this: “I’m lying in a hospital passageway, wondering whether I’ll be able to love my baby.” Looking back, I realise that was an inaccurate choice of words. What I was actually worried about was whether I’d be able to bond with her. Everything was happening so fast and I didn’t feel prepared to face her. It was that thought that was uppermost in my mind when the epidural took effect and when I felt the incredible pressure of the doctors taking her out.

 

And yet the moment I saw her face, I knew I loved her. The tears – of happiness, not despair – started when I heard the words, “It’s a girl”, flowed freely throughout the few short minutes I was allowed to kiss her face and continued when she was whisked away to be put into an incubator. It was 9.25pm. She weighed 2.1kg (four and a half pounds?).

 

It sounds strange, but the thought of a caesar had never once entered my head while I was pregnant with Hannah. I’d read avidly about all kinds of birth, but, having given birth once vaginally, I was convinced I’d do it again the same way. So I wasn’t prepared for the pain of recovering from the surgery. I was on morphine, which, for the first 12 hours, did little to keep the pain at bay and kept me in a twilight zone of semi-consciousness and dreadful nausea. I remember seeing Scott and Belinda sitting in my room for what felt like hours, while I drifted in and out of sleep.

 

According to Scott and the photographs, Hannah was in an open incubator for her first night, kept warm with bubble wrap. A tube fed her formula and some kind of monitor (apnoea? heart?) was attached to her foot.

 

Not being allowed to see her tore me apart. Each time I attempted to grope my way out of the morphine-induced fog and asked to see her, the nurses would tell me that it wasn’t possible. At some point in the afternoon, perhaps because I’d made a sufficient amount of noise, a nurse helped me into a wheelchair and took me to the nursery.

 

When I saw Hannah, I felt very little emotion. I think it was because of the morphine, but the absence of feeling disturbed me. I knew I had to hold her. She’d been moved to a closed incubator in the nursery and the tube and monitor were still attached. I told a passing nurse that I wanted to try breastfeeding her. I remember her throwing me a look that should be reserved for heavily-medicated head cases, and she said, “Ok, but just don’t be disappointed if you don’t succeed.” My next memory is of sitting half naked in the middle of a very busy nursery, while Hannah sucked heartily on my boob.

 

The next day, she pulled her tube out on her own and she was moved to a cot in the main nursery.

 

Penny, a friend from our church, happened to be on duty at the nursery for the next few days. She shook her head in amazement when she heard Hannah’s story and watched her being breastfed. Penny was my saving grace. Hannah would fall fast asleep after feeding from just one breast, which caused the other nurses to tut-tut and try to get me to wake her up “for a proper feed”. Penny understood that Hannah and I were onto a good thing and, given my more-than adequate milk supply and Hannah’s tiny size, she knew there was no reason to force her to drink more than she wanted. Penny was also the one who listened to me when I needed to be heard. Tertia recently alluded to the awful necessity of leaving your premature baby behind at the hospital to gain weight/ learn to suck/ get well enough to come home. I was absolutely determined not to go home without Hannah. I’d hired a room in the maternity ward after my discharge to be close to Hannah. Two days before I was due to go home, I noticed that Hannah was getting jaundiced. The nurse I mentioned it to dismissed my fears, saying that we should wait for the doctor to test her the next afternoon. I knew that if I didn’t get her tested immediately and under the lights as soon as possible, I’d have to go home alone. That evening, Penny stopped in to say goodnight. She heard my fears, and arranged to have Hannah tested first thing the next morning. She was under the lights within minutes of the test and only had to stay there for 24 hours.

 

The paediatrician was also amazed at Hannah’s progress. I remember him saying that she was doing “too well” and that it made his decision-making difficult. We eventually agreed that she could go home once her weight, which had dropped below 2kg, had begun to climb steadily. I’ve never watched anything as avidly as I watched Hannah’s chart. I fed her every two hours. On the Monday, the day my time in my hired bed ran out, her weight had sneaked up about 50 grams to 1.98kg. I needed no more proof that she was healthy enough to go home. I went to my room, packed Hannah’s bag and waited for the doctor to arrive. He looked Hannah over, looked at me and said, “I see you’ve made your decision.” I walked out of the hospital with my premature baby six days after she had been born.

 

Maybe, by typing this up, I’ll be able to move on from that day. Or maybe not. Maybe at 90, I’ll still get misty-eyed every time I hear of the birth of a baby and recall the day that James or Hannah came into the world.

“What’s your family’s tradition at Christmas time?”

 

This question was posed to me a few days ago and I remember feeling a bit taken aback at the choice of words. ‘Tradition’ isn’t my favourite word. It invokes images of staid aunties in their Sunday best, trotting off to church because it’s ‘the done thing’. Grannies who mutter under their breath at way the world has changed. A lack of adventure, novelty and innovation.

 

Yet isn't part of child-rearing about helping to create a history, replete with rituals, habits and conventions, for our children? Our household is full of them: going to church, trying to remember to say ‘Grace’ before meals, and reading the papers on a Sunday afternoon while the children run wild. Reading stories before bed, saying we love each other when we say ‘goodbye’, eating biscuits in bed on long weekend mornings.

 

Tradition, then, isn’t all bad. I was overcome yesterday when I fetched James for the last time from his crèche. A five-year tradition that seemed to creep up on me and grab hold of my heart. One that, almost too soon for my liking, has come to an end. For James, it means no more cooked meals at lunchtime, no more sleeps in the middle of the day and no more ‘staying with mommy’ days, just because we feel like it. For me, it means no more dropping James a whisper away from my work, no more popping up within a few minutes when he’s ill, no more long chats with his teacher. It can be sad letting tradition go.

 

I took the children to the theatre today. Within the last few years, it’s become a tradition at this particular theatre to put on a Christmas pantomime the week before Christmas. The last time we went to see this show was two years ago. Hannah was barely three months old and I sat breastfeeding her throughout the show, exhausted beyond belief. As I sat there today, watching my children watching the show, I felt my heart swell with pleasure. James - unlike last time, when he was too young to understand what was happening - laughing in all the right places and making a start, despite his shyness, at participating. Hannah – much more aware than she was the last time we were there - intrigued, yet terrified whenever the elves appeared. Tradition, when it’s coupled with novelty, like a fledgling skill, or a new child, can be exhilarating.

 

So what’s our tradition at Christmas time? A dinner with siblings, parents, cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and grandparents on Christmas Eve. The appearance of Father Christmas (one of the males in the family – probably Scott this year!) who doles out cheap gifts to the children. Exchanging gifts under the Christmas tree on Christmas morning. Church with Belinda and Rhiannon. Lunch with my parents in the afternoon and yet more gifts to exchange.

 

Lacking in spontaneity? Certainly. Habit? A little bit. But exciting? Unquestionably: nothing could match the thrill I get from seeing the looks on my children’s faces as they take part in our family tradition.

 

Four more sleeps.

It’s the first day of my holiday. It’s also a public holiday: Day of Reconciliation. Something to do with putting aside our spears and loving each other. Whatever. As I type this, Hannah and James are screaming at each other over a broken toy, which they both suddenly and without compromise desperately want as their very own. Day of Reconciliation my eye.

*

It’s only 10am, but it’s already about 30 degrees Celsius outside. We’re about to go out for a picnic with about 30 other people where we’ll all proceed to fry our children to a crispy shade of red. Limp bread-rolls, tepid fruit juice and sticky lollipops (we’re also celebrating a first birthday). Mmm – this is the life.

*

Hannah is very excited that ‘Farmer Christmas’ is coming to visit soon. She’s not entirely certain who he is or what he does, but she’s caught the delight that James seems to express every time he sees a picture of him, or catches a glimpse of him in a mall. The name she has given him sometimes alternates with ‘Christmas Farmer’. My rurally-inclined friends were delighted when I told them this last night.

*

Hannah fell into the fish pond while we were at a braai (barbeque) last night. It would have been scary if it hadn’t been so funny. No, don’t call the social services just yet – she was being held by a 9 year-old. Ok, I’ll shut up now.

*

Scott will be re-doing his driver’s licence test tomorrow morning. As I type this, he is lying on his back with a pulled muscle/ pinched nerve in his shoulder – I’m not sure what the correct term is – but I call it ‘pure unadulterated terror’.

*

It’s come to my attention, within the last 24 hours, that James is teaching himself to swim and to read. Yesterday, he climbed into a friend’s pool and proceeded to attempt to kick his legs and do the ‘crawl’ or ‘freestyle’ swimming. This morning, he read the word ‘jogging’ with no prompting from me or from Scott. My clever, resourceful boy. Guess he’s not left with much choice, what with his mother having all this ‘me time’ all over the internet…

*

I’ve officially given up the notion that I can be superwoman/mom. Which realisation hit me when I was told to contribute eats to a Christmas tea at work yesterday and my first thought was not, “which ingredients am I lacking for a plate of cookies?” but rather, “I wonder how much they charge for Christmas cake down at the supermarket.”

According to Bernardo Carducci, shyness isn’t genetic. It’s a complex condition that could stem from various sources, the least likely of which is the gene pool.

 

Coulda fooled me.

 

I can remember feeling shy as a child in the most innocuous of situations. As a six year old, I remember feeling mortified when my teacher called me to the front of the class for having neat handwriting. I couldn’t wait to sit down, because I felt completely humiliated; I remember the feeling of being terrified of one of my uncles, whose only crime was having a loud voice and a wicked sense of humour – so terrified that I would to pretend to be asleep when I knew he was due to visit; I can vividly recall my very first experience of blushing. I was twelve and I was running an errand that took me to the Sub A (Grade 1) class. The teacher called me over to read to the class, because I was “going to be a teacher”. My face felt as if someone had set it alight and I couldn’t read the words properly – it was as if they were in a foreign language. I left the classroom convinced that I was a failure and I would never be a teacher, or anything worthwhile for that matter.

 

That feeling rears its ugly head periodically even now.

 

If I’m honest with myself, I’ve known for years that James is shy. He’s never enjoyed ‘action’ songs and almost always refuses to participate in group activities if he’s unsure of the outcome. Until now though, I’ve chosen the head-in-the-sand approach, hoping that it would go away, that he would grow out of it. But a recent incident made me realise that I’m going to have to face it head-on.

 

It was his graduation. To borrow one of Tertia’s favourite words: “naff” in the extreme. He’s five, for heaven’s sake – what on earth is he graduating from? Sandpits 101. Weeing standing up: Advanced module. Touch-counting: the basics.

 

Digressions aside… on the weekend of the ceremony, I was feeling horribly sick. I’d been sick for what felt like weeks and I didn’t feel like going to the naff ceremony. I knew there wouldn’t be gowns or hats, or those naff little rolled up certificates, but just the thought of the classroom and those tiny chairs that we’d have to sit on and…the fact that I knew James would hate it…

 

I knew James would hate it.

 

As soon as we walked in, I could tell he was beginning to withdraw. His face turned from relaxed to somber and his gait was hesitant in the extreme. Scott and I each chose a tiny chair and James sat between us. He made no eye-contact with anyone, even when I pointed out his best friend sitting opposite us. He murmured something like, “I don’t want to” and kept his eyes cast down.

 

There was a guest-speaker, who went on endlessly about school-readiness. As she droned on, James burrowed first this way, then that, doing, I now realise, his best to disappear. And then came the climax: the handing out of the little laminated certificate-thingies. Guest-speaker-lady called out names and each child went up to fetch their personal proof that they had attended crèche. There were the bold graduates, who obediently recited their ‘big school’s’ name when asked, and the cute ones, who hugged guest-speaker-lady as if she was an old friend.

 

And then there was James. Scott did a lot of frantic whispering in James’s ear while we waited for his name to be called: “If you go up, I’ll buy you an ice-cream.”; “Daddy will go with you.”; “Mommy can go with you.”; “What about if teacher Bronwen gave it to you?”

 

But it was all in vain. “James Dunlop”, called guest-speaker-lady and there was silence. Guest-speaker-lady looked expectantly around the room, while all eyes fell on our family. “Do you want to go?” I asked James, a fraction of a second before he burst into tears. Guest-speaker-lady walked over, knelt in front of him and handed me the certificate. “He’s just shy,” she said.

 

He’s just shy.

 

I felt devastated for him. All the hurt from a shy childhood came flooding back – the low expectations, the condescension, the disdain. A friend at the graduation tried to put a positive spin on it by saying that it’s a good thing that he doesn’t want to be on exhibit, but I couldn’t answer her for fear of bursting into tears. By the time I got home, I was in tears and I couldn’t distinguish anymore whether the tears were more for myself or my son. Was he destined to a life of shyness too? I couldn’t shake the mother-guilt. Did I make a shy child? Did I make my child shy?

 

Carducci says that it’s a fatal error to label a child as shy. He won’t grow out of it, but he needn’t always be shy. Facing it and helping your child to deal with it is a much healthier approach. He talks about becoming “successfully shy” – the child might never feel naturally comfortable in certain situations, but he’ll have the skills to be able to keep his feelings under control.

 

I’m reading Carducci’s book so that I can gain some of these skills as much as find out how to pass them on.

 

I’m determined to be positive and deal with this as I would any other glitch in our family life. I’m choosing to see James’s shyness as an opportunity for development – for both of us... At least until I’ve got to the last page of this book and tried out absolutely all of the tactics Carducci proposes.

 

...when I saw this.

I love my husband. Always and forever.

So I had this great entry up for a brief moment there. It was all about just how delusional MBP is. In fact, it was one of her emails. I was so angry when I saw her email this morning ("REMINDER" in big caps in the subject line), relaying her feelings about yesterday's meeting and revealing just how unsuccessful my facilitation was, that I wanted to smack her. I wanted to hurt her so much that the best revenge I could think of was to splash her idiocy all over the internet by cutting and pasting her email onto my blog.

But my conscience got the better of me. I just can't do it. I removed the entry after a fraught 30 minutes worrying about it. (Sorry, Liz - I saw your comment - and yes, in her mind, we were in agreement. But clearly, her mind doesn't function like a normal person's...)

…and exhausted from today’s marathon meeting with Ms Bitchy Pants (MBP). I review yesterday's very polite assessment of her: she’s not just a few sandwiches short of a picnic. She's also delusional. The conversation went something like this:

 

Me: So, the aim of this morning’s conversation is to resolve the issues you have with our colleague. We talked yesterday about the incident that brought this meeting about, but let’s look at other experiences where you’ve clashed with this person….

 

MBP: No, let’s stick to what happened on Friday. It went like this: I…blah blah…perfectly reasonable…blah blah…unerrringly sensible…he….blah blah….shockingly insensitive…blah blah… afraid of anyone in authority…hates women….

 

Seemingly eons later:

 

Me: Let’s try not to make assumptions about one another. Can you agree that you were being offensive when you said that he didn’t deserve to be in the position he is and that a person with his qualifications should know more?

 

MBP: Yes. But sometimes things slip out… and perhaps I shouldn’t have said that…, but when people don’t know their own jobs and they need someone like me, with all my years of experience, to tell them what to do….blah blah… amazing talent….blah blah…incredibly intelligent…

 

Days later:

 

Me: So we’ve agreed that we need to keep our criticism in check, particularly when it isn’t constructive. We’ve also agreed that there are serious consequences to continuous altercations between the two of you: it will have a detrimental effect on your working relationship and on the team as a whole. Can you think of any solutions to this problem?

 

MBP: He needs to go on diversity training to learn how to deal with people of colour. He needs to understand that the roster is there to be adhered to and that he can’t just chop and change at will…blah blah…rules…blah blah…inform me…blah blah…unfair…blah blah…

 

Spades of bureaucratic crap later:

 

Me: Let’s talk about the roster at another meeting and keep to the issue at hand. Your idea of diversity training is a good one, but I think the whole department should be included, because having a look at the assumptions we make of one another and how to deal with each other more civilly would benefit us all...

 

I could go on, but my head is about to explode and I need to get some sleep. I achieved my objective, which was to get her to admit that the two comments she made to her colleague were insensitive, and that her manner can be offensive. Also, the fact that she suggested diversity training and I didn’t have to bring it up is a bonus, because it didn’t seem as if I was forcing it on her.

 

I’ll be organizing the training for early next year. Stuck in a room for seven hours with MBP, blethering on  about how sensitive she is: oh, what a happy day that will be for us all…

Tomorrow is apparently a very big day for me. I use the word ‘apparently’, because my boss phoned me TONIGHT at HOME. This means that what I’m about to do tomorrow is a BIG DEAL and she wanted to LET me KNOW that I shouldn’t LOSE any SLEEP over it.

 

Here’s the thing: I wasn’t about to until she said that.

 

One of the people that I work with is a very ‘difficult’ person. Scott would say I’m being very tactful here. I spoke to him about what I’m about to do and he said that, yes, my tactics would probably work, if I were dealing with a sane person. So, ok, she’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

 

I’ve been told that, prior to my arrival, she’d clashed with every colleague she’d ever worked with. She’s defensive about her lack of qualifications, aggressive towards anyone who challenges her knowledge, derogatory towards people of certain cultures, and generally just plain bitchy, which trait she attributes to the onset of menopause.

 

I’ve been privileged with the task of chatting to her tomorrow about how unacceptable her behaviour is. A few days ago, she blew up at yet another colleague, who took offence and fought back. She confided in me about the incident and fortunately, I remained neutral during the conversation. (all the while thinking that the only solution is for this woman to be tied down and tranquilised …) My boss, not wanting to escalate the problem just yet (or perhaps copping out BIG time), wants me to ‘appeal to her better nature, while emphasizing that similar behaviour will no longer be tolerated.’

Easy Peasy.

 

In a weird way, up until a few hours ago, I felt all too ready to do this, because, as you know, I’ve just come off a facilitative leadership course. I have new skills that I’m just dying to try out on someone and who better than old Ms Bitchy Pants? But my manager’s call has made me edgy. What the heck am I getting myself in for? How will she react while I’m doing the facilitative influencing thingie? What if she raises a whole bunch of irrelevant crap? What if she hasn’t taken her horse tranquilisers and jumps over the table to attack me with her nail file?

 

If I don’t report back tomorrow, you’ll know I’m dead.

 

Best news of the year:

 

I was told this morning that, based on this year’s performance, I’ve been given a 21% increase in salary, rather than the across the board 5%… Huh? Huh? How brilliant am I? “You LIKE me. You LIKE me!” (Oscar speech of - what the heck was that actress’s name – Sally Field?)

 

Best conversation of the week:

 

(Context: Every Christmas Eve, our extended family – grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, various children – get together for dinner. One of the men dresses up as Santa and ‘arrives’ to give out presents to the little-ies.)

 

James: Is Father Christmas real?

Me: Well, did you see him last year?

James: Yes!

Me: So do you think he’s real?

James: (Grinning) Yes!

(Pauses to think) We should phone him to invite him to a Christmas party.

 

 

 

I attended yet another course this week. I’ve moved on from ‘personal’  to ‘facilitative’ leadership. Who the heck organizes courses for this time of year, anyway? I’m tired and I need a holiday. Did you know that South Africa closes down for a month over Christmas? Schools closed on Friday, and it’s all downhill from here: we’re in holiday mode. I’m as tired of this year as the next person, so on Monday morning, having lobbed Hannah in the direction of her daymom’s house and sent James speeding off to school at the back of a car of questionable safety standards, I unwillingly dragged myself to the course venue, consoling myself with the thought that ‘facilitative leadership’ is sufficiently objective so that there was no danger of over-engaging or becoming emotionally invested in the process. In short, I was going for the food.

 

Granted, it was incredibly good food, but one short day later and I was blubbering in front of the rest of the course candidates. It’s a bit of a blur now. I was sick at the time (I had yet another bout of flu the whole week) and I remember getting way too involved in our role-play. The scene we’d set appeared all too familiar for my liking – it replicated my hellish work situation perfectly – and a solicitous tilt of the head from my course facilitator had me red-faced and doing the ugly cry.

 

I don’t regret it – doing the course, or doing the ugly cry in front of eight perfect strangers. I learned an incredible amount, and either gave the strangers a good laugh, or helped them to see that their actions have consequences. Hey! I’m already a facilitator.

 

Note to internet:

Although I consider myself fairly knowledgeable, I feel obligated to inform you that there are a few things that you simply won't, no matter how long you read this blog, find the answers to here:

How to blow your nose

 

Holding her breath under water (um, huh?)

and certainly not:

 

How to treat pmt
Thank you.

 

I went to see Polar Express with James this afternoon. Ok, Santa was a touch Messianic towards the end there, but I thoroughly enjoyed the movie, not least because I got to watch as James got so involved with the plot that his little butt was perched on the edge of his seat and his popcorn sat forgotten in his mouth until I leaned over to remind him to chew.

 

I’ve decided to allow the bell to ring for me. (See the movie to get that last sentence.)

 

Has it really been five days since my last post?

 

I could lie and say it hasn’t felt like that long. The truth is that I’ve thought about writing every night, but I’ve just felt too apathetic to do anything about it. My MIL’s visit left me feeling angry, frustrated, inadequate (for not confronting her), and very miserable. To top a crappy week spent thinking about how crappy her visit was, I came down with flu yesterday, so even as I type this, I feel as if I’m floating on a fever and drug-induced cloud. This would be about the 90^th time I’ve been sick this year.

 

Charming.

 

Apropos of nothing: Because I love charts (see Scott’s innie-outie creation, artfully supplied by moi) here is the outcome of the spontaneous voting that went on after my little anti-MIL blurt:

 

 

I know: that added no value whatsoever. Humour me – I love seeing spreadsheets in action. Thanks to everyone who voted. I might just take your advice.

 

Moving swiftly on:

 

We baby sat – sorry – had a friend of James’s over for a play date today. I’ve come to the conclusion that this whole play date thing is a bit of a farce. It all started a few months ago when the mom of one of James’s classmates told me that her little darling was desperate to come and play with James over the weekend. I have to admit: I don’t get it. They see each other for six hours each day, five days a week. Why the desperation? Call me a monster, but it just doesn’t fill me with unbridled joy knowing that someone else’s child will be my responsibility for a few hours of a weekend afternoon, while the mom gets to flit off to do what she likes and I DON’T EVEN GET PAID FOR IT.

 

Go on, admit it – the thought has crossed your mind too.

 

It wasn’t all that bad in the end. The joy of having a five year old over to play is that he can generally get on and do what he wants on his own and all that’s left for me to do is make sure he’s sufficiently hydrated and he doesn’t pee on my bathroom floor.

 

I know: I’m a horrendous ogre of a play date host. Sue me.

 

Pssst: it’s Scott’s 34^th birthday on Tuesday. He’s expecting a surprise party of note. This won’t be happening – for various reasons – the primary one being that he seems to have more virtual friends than fleshy ones…(If you’re reading this, Scott: LOVE YOU!!) But we’ll be spending a few hours alone on Tuesday night while my mother babysits – which kind of makes me feel as if I’m also getting a gift on Scott’s birthday. Hey, I’ll take my me time where I can get it.