Walk Me Through This, Armstrong

Yesterday, while I waited for my pasta to cook, I removed the necessary ingredients from the fridge:

butter
milk
hot sauce
cheese

and suddenly noticed what I had not noticed before: a list of ingredients on the cheese wrapper. Milk, lactic whatnot, whey pickles, tonnes of yummy goodness it read. And the last line: May contain colour.

(I should clarify that this was orange cheddar cheese.)

MAY contain colour. Are you implying that it may NOT? Am I to believe that orange cheese is made from milk the colour of a tangerine, a tulip, a turbid glass of lower mainland water after a windstorm? (sorry – I needed another “T” word after the first two.)

Also, if YOU, cheese-selling-dudes, don’t know whether or not there is colour in your cheese? You should either find out, pronto, or lie about it.

Then I drained the pasta, put the butter in, splashed some milk in, a quick dash of flour to thicken things up, hearty glops of hot sauce and as much cheese as I could grate without activating my carpal tunnel syndrome.

The other day, Wednesday, I was out with my mom and cousin. We were talking about stress and anxiety and how we deal; we have family who deals by not eating – too stressed to eat! My cousin said no way – the minute I get the bad news, I look around for something to stuff in my mouth and my mom said, yes, comfort food, very much so, and they asked me what do I do, am I an anxiety eater or an anxiety not eater. I said I didn’t know. But yesterday, as I shoveled the above-described lunch down my hollow gullet, I had a “hammer-to-head” realization about what sort I am.

Thank you for the really nice commiseration and advice around Trombone’s First Big Freakout 2007! (we’re getting t-shirts made) From the depths of hell, I found two things useful.

1. Singing alternate lyrics to Brahms’ “Lullaby” in my head while I hummed and hummed and hummed for 4 days. Because these words:

Lullaby, and sleep tight, hush! My darling is sleeping,
On his sheets white as cream, with his head full of dreams.
When the sky’s bright with dawn, he will wake in the morning.
When noontide warms the world, he will frolic in the sun.

were not doing it for me.

One of my versions:
It’s a phase, it’s a phase
it will not last forever
it means he’s growing and getting smarter
pretty soon he’ll be in school!
It’s a phase it’s a phase
just hold on one more day (sometimes segue into Wilson Phillips here but not often)
it’s a phase it’s a phase
enjoy all that new grey!

and 2. counting my blessings.

Besides internet support, I also received two phone calls I didn’t return (sorry!), a few emails, a beautiful bouquet of tulips, a book, a tear-inducingly-cute pair of baby sneakers, a new recliner and a mei tai.

OK the last two I paid for. But if YOUR baby wasn’t sleeping and YOU were spending hours on end rocking him wouldn’t you think it a blessing if, during the day, you walk past a consignment store and see The Perfect Chair (TM) just sitting there, waiting for you to buy it for a reasonable price? It’s a La-Z-Boy.

It rocks. And reclines.

The second picture features Baby Tad, who restored sanity to Trombone’s wee Freakedout brain with soothing lullabies, played at the press of his (her?) right paw. Foot. Frog thingee.

The Mei Tai came from Coastal Sling Baby Carriers just across the Patullo Bridge from us. We traipsed out and had a very helpful demonstration of Trombone + Mei Tai. He liked it and so did I. This way I get to carry him on my back and he gets to gently stroke the nape of my neck with his delicate fingers.

Ha ha ha ha! I’ll be bald by June!