You're Next

Julie and Cecily said it more brilliantly than I ever could.

I am not going to lie. I cried during the debate last night. I cried when John McCain mocked all women. When he doubted our abilities to make medical decisions with our doctors and loved ones. When he discounted whether our health was important at all.

I had a difficult pregnancy. I never came close to dying. I never got very sick. But I am not going to lie that I was afraid of that every second I was pregnant. That I had already had a loss heightened this problem. I knew but did not know until I was pregnant how dangerous it was. How it all could have gone terribly wrong at any second.

I did feel safe, trusting my doctors, having talked these out with my husband before. We had access to a lot of great care.

I don't really care about how you feel about abortion. I think how we talk about this issue in this country is stupid. Because I think most of us feel the same way--we don't like them. We don't want anyone to die. We never want to have one. It's how the rest of it is managed that divides people into camps. Camps that don't change anything.

I didn't really believe until last night that there was anyone, anyone in this country at all that really believed that the mother wasn't important at all. But John McCain does.

I wish I could force people to read Cecily's story, even though I know that people discount her experience and do not believe her or her doctors (because strangers on the internet know more than her personal physician). But I feel a little smaller today, knowing that the country cares so little for me, for my gender, for my life, that a man running for President can go on TV and tell me that my health is not important.

You're next.

Kids These Days

Ramona slept through the night two nights in a row. The reason I am telling the internet this, knowing that this will jinx the fuck out of it, is because I didn't really benefit at all from this. Last night she stayed with my mother while we went to a concert and the night before J was supposed to take the middle of the night shift. But still, sleeping through the night is a big deal and I am sure I will properly appreciate this milestone when she duplicates it again some time in 2011.

Those following me on Twitter would have noticed some increasingly pissed off missives concerning our concert last night. The headliner, Weezer, was fantastic. But the opening act Angels & Airwaves was the biggest waste of arrogant emo shitheadedness ever to grace a stage. Much exaggerated gesturing, I believe some jazz steps and some seriously boring music. And I think I might have made violent threats to their lighting tech at some point since I am pretty sure that shit gave me a seizure. Assholes.

Best moment of the night was Weezer's encore. They covered a Nirvana song and all of the sudden you could instantly tell who in the crowd, which was an amazing mix of ages (people older than my parents down to the little eight year old playing air guitar in General Admission), parted between Old and Young. All of us who were old were going crazy because well it was Awesome and the kids were confused.

What the hell do they know anyway? They were rocking out to that Angels & Airwaves emo weepy black eyeliner bullshit.

Yom Kippur

Last night I rushed home to make our Erev Yom Kippur meal. I roasted potatoes and carrots and made a pepper oil tender loin. We ate and drank wine and yes, I cheated because the baby went down right before sundown and damnit I deserved ice cream so I ate that just after sundown. I woke up this morning with a raw throat and a head ache and sounding a lot like Marge's sisters from the Simpsons. So a lot of my good intentions didn't happen for observing the holiday.

But I really enjoyed my ice cream this afternoon. I earned that man.

And Then Be Hell On Wheels Sunday

I realized today that Ramona is thirty-eight weeks old this week. And since I delivered her at thirty-eight weeks well . . .she's been out as long as she was in. Which is probably surreal only to me. But it is surreal all the same.

My gorgeous girl has not been her most charming the last couple of weeks. She is hitting a lot of milestones (she hasn't crawled again which her grandmother and father seem to think is pure laziness but I think she is kind of like I've done that) and learning a lot of stuff and trying to pop eighty-seven teeth all at once. I suppose that would wear anyone down and my girl is no exception.

She has already started to throw tantrums which are both alarming and hilarious. It seems that she inherited the worst of both of our tempers which means the toddler years are going to be interesting. I think it's mainly frustration but I see a lot of years of trying to calm her ass down while we try to teach her to get a grip on her emotions.

Until then we are white knuckling this stage. I think once the teeth that have caused her gums to swell up in knots pop through or she finally starts crawling or I don't know she pulls that stick out she will be just fine. In the meantime it is just waiting it out and being kind to one another.

She is spending Saturday night with my parents. What do you want to bet she will be a perfect angel?

Anxiety

I feel like I am drowning. It's not any one thing--it's the sum of a lot of things. A swirly clusterfuck of things. The economic stuff is just making my head spin and I have to admit I have been doing some 2am disastering. Our 401Ks are shot but man my parents were supposed to retire in a couple of years, there may not be time for them to recover. I'm dealing with a lot of changes at work--including a new boss. And my business is not the most fun to be in during tough economic times (though what is? the unemployment industry?). And the baby is trying to get all of her top teeth at once which I am sure this is efficient but fuck efficient. She is just in a terrible mood and I don't blame her. Her mouth is all swollen--her gums look like we took a crowbar to them. And the damn teeth still haven't cut.

It just feels so overwhelming. And none of it is anything I can really do anything about--it's all out of my control. So it is just there above my head, swirly and worrying. Making me sick to my stomach. Waking me up at night.

I can't stop worrying. Can't get control of it all. My face is broken out. I have weird bruises on my arms. Bags under my eyes. I feel battered.

I just have to get through this, I just have to hang on. I am that freaking inspirational poster of the damn kitten holding on by a paw goddamn it. But if I fall I won't land on my feet. And there is nothing there to catch me.

Shana Tovah

After listening to Chicken Littling all day which lead to the first Anti-Semitic Jew banker remark I've heard in just ages I am Done with the banking crisis.

Shana Tovah, Happy New Year everyone.

Go Cubs Go

Like a lot of people I am struggling right now. The economy. The election. It's all so overwhelming. Layered on are issues with my job, my family, everything. . .it's just a lot. I am nothing special or unusual and sometimes I just look around and can almost see the cracks in the people around me. We are all just walking around half broken.

So I am trying to take a break from this and focusing on something that is so very important. The Cubs playoffs! I will immerse myself in all of the ups and downs and really shitty calls that this is bound to provide. We've ordered garb for the whole family. I am pretty sure there will be crying. Actually, there will definitely be crying.

But it's a beautiful distraction, one that I need desperately.

God I love baseball.

Call It Sleep

I'm about to write something that is the height of blogging idiocy. I am going to admit to the Internets that I let my baby cry herself to sleep tonight.

Of course this is the advantage of having a small (but loyal!) readership. The tens of you that come here probably are not going to set fire to this site. And on the whole, you are a level headed wonderful lot.

Mo used to have the easiest bedtimes in history. From basically three weeks old when she went into her own room, I'd change her, nurse her and put her to bed. No muss no fuss. But a couple of months ago she had a growth spurt/teething fiasco had me rocking her to sleep. Even this was a simple routine with only an occasional issue.

But in the past couple of weeks I've figured out that I have taken a baby who happily put herself to sleep and coaxed her into not wanting to do that anymore. I'm not really blaming myself, I think she needed that for a while, but now she needs to go back to putting herself to sleep. I know she can do it (this is very different than some kids who just are not ready to do this and I understand why this doesn't work for everyone).

Last night was the first night and a brief and minor crabby fit was it. She went to sleep, woke to eat (early, unfortunately) and then again at 3 this morning (and had to cry herself to sleep again). Not a great result but not horrible either. I'd heard from many people that the second night was much worse so I put the baby to bed and got in the shower (so I wouldn't have to listen). And she didn't make a peep.

Until twenty minutes after I got out of the shower. And she had a meltdown. It was so very hard not to go and pick her up. So I gave myself a mental deadline and luckily she fell asleep before that.

So many of my friends have done this and I have encouraged them. I have never judged them except to think that they were obviously doing what they thought was best. But I have to admit I was judging myself because GOD I was weak about it. I knew she was just mad, not scared, not needing me. I knew she would give in and sleep. I knew she could do it. But it felt so very strange not to go to her.

But she hasn't made a sound in hours. That is a very good sign.

Of course not only did I just tell the internet I let her cry it out. But I also just jinxed her sleep.

BRILLIANT

Elizabeth and Jessica NEVER Have to Deal With This Shit

I am so angry. I honestly gave consideration to taking up a career as a dominatrix--might as well make a nice side income off of punching people in the balls. I don't know how one gets into that line of work exactly but I would even squeeze my ass into pleather. I mean I am guessing that the hours are flexible?

These problems are not the kind that I can talk about here since I like paying my mortgage so that ends that. But I think everyone has had these problems, the kind where there really is no solution--at least nothing I can control--and I just spin and spin and make myself crazy because I can't change anything. It's this circular problem that I cannot seem to get acceptance with or move forward or do anything but the same shit over and over again. And I hate that feeling. Of knowing that it is useless to obsess over it but endlessly rubbing that worry bead over and over. I've worn the finish right off of those beads trying to make sense of everything.

I've failed.

I think in my mind I thought adults didn't do this. They didn't have problems they couldn't solve and they didn't obsess about things that they couldn't change. But I've been an adult for a long time now and I suppose it is time to admit that I have both of those things going on.

Somehow being a grownup is way less about staying up late and being able to read Sweet Valley High novels than I thought it would be.

Sad Night

When I was a little girl, my sister and I would visit my dad's parents for two weeks a summer. Shockingly, Waterloo, IA isn't exactly a hotbed of activity and our days were mostly dorking around the house, running in their huge garden and, for me, watching Cubs games in the afternoons with my grandpa.

He'd be mowing the lawn, or doing something with the corn, something outside and would come in about ten minutes before the first pitch. We'd have ham sandwiches and icy Cokes. He would spend the whole three hours griping about what bums they were and how blind the umps were and WOW didn't anyone ever hustle anymore? I didn't learn anything subtle about baseball from my grandpa, he didn't talk stats or about pitch selection with me, we just watched the game and complained about the bums on the field.

I fell in love with baseball in those summers, but the kind of love that you know you will revisit. Some years it was true love, some years just a mild crush. But year after year we watched the games and it just became a part of me.

In later years we moved to an American League city. Baseball was one of the few things my dad and I could talk about without fighting. I learned about the designated hitter and forkballs and had my heart break a dozen times. I am a baseball fan. We are a dying breed if you listen to the media. But I have my doubts. I think kids across America are watching games with their grandpas (and grandmas), learning the game without knowing it. They don't call themselves fans today but they will in ten years.

This weekend my Cubs (!) clinched the National League Central. Unlike last year we are not worn to the bone just making the playoffs. It's the 100th Anniversary of our last World Series. No pressure guys but it would be nice.

Tonight is the last game at Yankee Stadium. If you are a baseball fan you love Yankee Stadium. You might hate the Yankees but you love the Stadium. I did not understand when the Yankees announced they were building a new stadium. I still don't. To me Yankee Stadium, Fenway Park and Wrigley Field are like holy lands. They are special. They are magical. And I can't really imagine voluntarily giving that up.

I watched the closing ceremonies tonight. They had Whitey Ford and Yogi. They had Don Larsen and Thurmon Munson's kid. Bernie! Boomer! I was sobbing (J is playing softball and I stupidly didn't tape it for him). It breaks my heart.

Baseball will keep moving forward. The Cubs made the playoffs. But Babe Ruth's daughter threw the first pitch. And a little bit of the game is dying tonight.

Inspired

I have to admit that while I have been following Sundry on her fitness journey, and cheering her on, this entry was hard for me. Our babies are the same age and dude, girlfriend is in better shape then she was before her first baby. That entry was not about me and not about any of her readers. You can tell she is really giving herself a pep talk, was really trying to keep up her momentum. And she really is an inspiration.

I am jealous. I am jealous of her determination, her drive and that she has already damn done it.

I don't know that I want to devote so much of myself to fitness. I don't want to focus too much on it. Because for me I know that could quickly build to an obsession. But I also know that I want to be a strong role model for my daughter, that I want to be healthy for me. I am actually not in a bad place weight wise from the pregnancy, but as some one who has never been an athlete I am not the strong person I want to be.

I can do better than this.

I just have to decide to do it.

And We Didn't Even Fight With Any of the Drunk Whiney Seahawks Fans

I work with a guy who has a familial hook up with the San Francisco 49ers (which happens to be the favorite team of the AB family). So this week, since the 49ers were playing the Seahawks, I did some wheedling and BAM. Tickets for J and me.

Tickets that were not quite as close to the action as you might hope (a sherpa might have been helpful for getting to our seats, also a jetpack). But there are no bad seats at Qwest. So we were thrilled. And screaming. And winning!

We had (wisely) dumped the child with my parents. Qwest has the rep of the loudest field in the league and lord my ears are still ringing. Have a feeling that would have made the Meaper in the Screamer and wow. Yeah. Glad she spent the time with my mom.

Plus Zambrano no-hit the Astros and the Cubs magic number is SEVEN. Y'all. Just imagine the horrifying dancing that happened in this house when I watched that over and over on ESPN. I had to do it silently since I finally got the kid to sleep but still. The intent is there.

Very excellent sports weekend.

Remembering

When I was eighteen I had a job in an “up and coming” neighborhood. This basically meant that it was a slum that was gentrifying—full of bars and restaurants but also junkies and the homeless. At this job one of my duties was to clear the veranda of the night’s occupants each morning before opening the office. This lead to all sorts of horrifying situations because my bosses didn’t really seem to grasp that a cute little eighteen year old blond probably wasn’t the ideal person to do this.

On time stands out for me—even though it was very mild. I had just walked up the stairs to start rousing the regulars awake. There was a pile of blankets near the stairs and a pair of arms shot out from underneath the blankets. Those hands grabbed at my ankles. I flailed and kicked and fought and ran.

I was completely fine (and much more careful after this—though to stupid to insist that the process change until after I was actually attacked). This incident really altered how I thought about personal safety. It was a turning point for me in realizing that I wasn’t invincible. Being young and white and cute wasn’t going to insulate me from all the bad things that could happen (long time readers realize how much this was drummed into my head after this).

It’s been twelve years and every morning I walk past the blanket piles that the homeless of this city still sleep under. I am not eighteen anymore and I don’t work in that neighborhood. And I am a transformed person. I am cautious and snake-bitten. I walk past the blankets and wait for the hands to shoot out. I am ready to scream, to kick, to fight.

I think many of us feel this way about 9/11. We spend this day watching the skies. We shakily check the news. We warily wait for the hours to pass. It was a country wide tragedy—the loss of our collective innocence. Whether you were in New York that day, whether you knew some one who died, whether you were on a flight—your experience that day changed you. Our collective experience changed us all.

I woke up this morning apprehensive. I remembered that day. I remembered the person that I was what feels like a long time ago. I mourned her and I mourn us all. The politicization of what is an American tragedy is sickening. No matter our individual experiences we survived this as a people. And as a people we move forward—dodging those hands that seek to grab us. Those that are real and those that live only in our fears.

Yes, I Name My Cars Don't You?

There is an often quoted study that came out a few years ago about how women buy cars based on cup holders. And as sexist and overly simple as those quotes may be I think that the gist of the study may be true. Not that women only care about cup holders. I just think that the study was really trying to find the differences between what men and women really look for in a car. I suspect that women (grossly generalized) are about the comfort of the experience--they want all of their passengers (including their kids) to feel secure, to have access to beverages and snacks, to have the space that they need. They want the car to be easy to tote gear like groceries and kid supplies in. They want it to fit their whole family, they want it to be simple to park. They want safety equipment.

Men might care more about the bells and whistles. Like tech packages and headlights and the rims. They care about horsepower.

I know that this is ugly stereotyping at work and wow I bet there are definitely those of both genders that cross those lines. But in the AB household that is where we stood while shopping for a car.

Since it was my car it was ultimately my call (which is a weird thing when you are married and annoying because HI I DON'T WANT TO DECIDE ALONE). And I turned into a big cliche. I wanted something with stability control for safety. With the same amount of cargo space that I have now, with leather seats and a sunroof. I wanted something that was easy to have a baby seat in. And I wanted something that my dad could sit in the back seat in (even though this will never happen--I can think of situations where I will be hauling Shaquille O'Neal and a St. Bernard named Maxine that are more likely as my dad does not ride in the backseat ever but still).

So Friday night we bought a new car. It was a totally different experience than the last time we bought a car (which was like six or seven years ago). This time we test drove a few things way in advance, we secured financing ahead of time, we consulted Consumer Reports . . .we were so responsible. Major purchases are still examples of when I feel like we are totally playing at this adult shit. I may be thirty years old but I still feel like a kid when it comes to shit like buying a car. But we did exactly what we were supposed to and it still took fucking forever.

But, many hours longer than it should have taken, we got what we wanted. It's beautiful. We got a good price and I am delighted with our purchase.

Fucking salesman though. Harpied us about the baby having a pacifier while we were buying the car. WTF DUDE? Shut up about the damn binky or I am marching my ass out. Also, suck my DICK SHE CAN HAVE A BINKY SHE IS A BABY.

So now we have a lovely new Mommobile in our driveway. She just needs a name. J's suggestion is Shirley which I sort of like but feel like I shouldn't use because he only likes it as he wants to bone Shirley Manson.

Any suggestions internet?

All I Want Is No Muffin Top

Immediately after giving birth I lost thirty pounds. I don't recommend my method--which was to lose a whole bunch of water and also be so crazy that you don't eat anything for about two weeks. I lost thirty pounds in two weeks and was just eight pounds heavier than my pre-preggo weight. And I have been hanging out there ever since.

I've lost and gained that eight pounds a couple of times. According to my parents' scale (I don't own one) I might actually weigh more than I did that two weeks post partum. Yes, that depresses the hell out of me.

This flux is mainly because now that I am back at work I sit on my ass all day (vs. on leave when I was afraid to sit in my house all day and drug my baby all over town and walked a whole shitload--even walking all pokey-like is better than sitting around).

I recognize that I am probably going to have to do something about this eventually. Possibly work out, definitely stop eating the way I have been (which is whatever I want). But in the mean time I have to stop worrying about how things are not The Same.

Jeans are my toughest thing. Because my pre-preggos fit just fine. Except, well there is some hanging. And the hanging is not ok with me. I recognize the irony because y'all I preached the low-rise. Not the super low-rise that requires waxing or anything but a nice low-rise jean was just the ticket for some one with curvy hips, bigger legs but a small waist. Especially with as much junk in the trunk as I rock. But I don't have a small waist anymore. And sadly the flat stomach is gone. So everyone I urged to wear low-rise that was like BITCH BE CRAZY well I see your point.

But being a girl with a small waist but real hips and thighs meant jeans were a challenge. There were like two brands that worked at all. And well, now I have a hanging stomach. I wish there were another way of putting that. I wish there was another reality but . . .there is skin, there is pudge, there are cut up muscles. It's SEXAY. Also, I have lost my ability to suck it in. I have been sucking it in since I was twelve years old. Twenty-seven years of sucking all down the drain. I love my baby but why does she have to punch my soul right in the junk?

So I have been wearing one pair of mid-rise jeans since I had Mo. They are mid-rise (which means they are like five fingers below the belly button. And they are ok, and frankly I would love them if I could suck it in. But I can't and well there is some spillage. So after a couple of weeks of depressing try ons. . . well. I bought mom jeans.

Now they are not 1980's taper legged nonsense. From the hip down they look like fashion jeans. But they are practically up to my armpits just trying to mush all that shit in. I feel a little bit crushed by it honestly, and a little horrified to be admitting this shit on the internet. This is way worse than that time I told y'all about when I got a tampon stuck in my delicate lady parts (notice no link though DIGNITY). I feel all neutered and unsexy and like I am terribly unattractive. And sadly, these jeans still make me feel better about myself than the ones I was wearing. I paid money to feel this bad.

But at least my belly won't be hanging.

This Is Why I Am Not Sure I Could Ever Do A Newborn Again

Last weekend my mother took the baby Saturday night and there was much rejoicing. We both slept all night and slept in the next morning. The other days of the long weekend (with alternating nights) really helped me feel re-charged and rested. Y'all know where this is going right?

Since she came home little girl hasn't slept well. Teething and crawling and being so hungry have all combined to make a clusterfuck of not sleeping. She is hard to put to bed (something I am really not used to at all), wakes up several times and has even started eating twice during the night.

It is kicking my ass so hard.

I am trying a few things. Tylenol before bed, trying to get the MIL to feed her more during the day but mostly I think I have to be patient and ride it out. Milestones mess up sleep. Teething messes up sleep.

Like most parents, especially with two people working outside of the home and those with infants, our schedule hangs on by a thread. The slightest change in it sends us into a tailspin that is difficult to recover from. I think the distribution of labor between J and I is really fair but I still put her to bed every night and I get up with her at night 6 nights a week. Which means when she doesn't sleep I am the one who suffers.

He does it once a week. And I know he would do more. But with our arrangement this really is the fairest way. It just beats me to a pulp when she is like this. I get up at 4:30 in the morning so I have zero chance at eight hours of sleep regardless. My best shot is seven (not in a row) but this week my best night is five.

So yeah, I've spent that sleep I banked when she was at my mom's.

I have to keep chanting to myself that this is a stage, that she really is a good sleeper and will be again. Eventually she will sort out the crawling, eventually she will stop teething. Eventually she will stop trying to suck my will to live out through my veins. Eventually I will stop feeling like a crazy person.

I just have to stay calm. Be kind to myself and to my husband. And try not to kill anyone.

Not Won Over

Y'all. I tried. I tried so very hard.

I gave her a chance. Technically I am the demographic that the GOP is courting with the pick of Sarah Palin for VP. I am an independent white female voter who supported Hillary and GASP I'm a mom (first one to call me a soccer mom gets a cockpunch).

To be honest the chance that I would actually vote for John McCain was tiny. My big issues are the economy and civil rights and McCain's policies on these issues scare the FUCK out of me. But I was supposed to be wowed by this woman via her vagina so I tuned in like the cynical shit that I am. But I honestly tried.

I thought the coverage of her daughter's pregnancy and the rumors about her baby and GAG the bikini pictures was just gross (though SPARE me GOP your horror at it all since you have been slinging racist shit at Obama for a year assholes). I think the criticism of her record and her religious views and her inappropriate and unethical behavior while in office is totally in bounds and fuck off if you think I shouldn't know that as a voter. I might choose to vote for her anyway but I should know what I am getting.

So I watched her speech tonight. And. Wow. She was not impressive. She was sarcastic and petty and I didn't get a thing about her that made me feel anything but disgust. I was suppose to relate to her. I was supposed to think she was supermom. But all I could think was how much I loathed her. Loathed everything she said--how she smeared civil rights, how she mocked people for wanting hope, how she cocksucked John McCain for being a POW while advocating the torture of prisoners. The only thing I related to her about at all was that if I had to give a speech in front of all those people I would have sucked too.

Somehow I don't think that is what they were going for.

Betchfest

Her Bad Mother knows that we all need a little place to spill our guts, maybe about things that won't work for our personal blogs. Nobody needs to empty their spleen about their boss only to have said boss stumble upon their blog. That is why all weekend long bloggers have been hosting guest bloggers in a bitch across America. See the Basement for details.

Today I am hosting some one who wishes to be Anonymous. I am sure we all understand.

What to bitch about, what to bitch about?

I've been pondering that question for the last few days, trying to figure out which part of my life is bitch-worthy.

The problem is? Lately, my life has been pretty damn skippy. Especially when contrasted with some other people I've been reading about on-line. I obviously can't bitch about my personal life situation when all this kind of crap is being flung at other people.

Then I thought, "Hey! I can bitch about Sarah Palin, someone who seems to have been assembled like a Mr. Potato Head from a Republican wet dream." ("NRA Lifetime Memembership? Check! Vagina? Check! Oooooooooooooh, baby... you are making me so hot!") Have you seen that picture of her with the fur collared suit? It's sooooo... MUCH FUR. I could honestly go on and on about that, but I feel like I'd be wasting my bitching opportunity. Instead, I'm going to go with the tried and true and bitch about my husband. My darling, special husband, who is a wonderful person. 99.9% of the time, he is thoughtful, and hard working, and loving. I'd say his biggest flaw is his workaholic mindset. He works in a profession that requires an immense amount of both technical knowledge and emotional involvement in other people's lives. And he gives too much of himself away.

You would think after 10 years of this, he would have developed some coping mechanisms for the stress he puts himself through. But although he works out regularly, he won't make any time for anything other that attending sporting games. And then there is the drinking. He and I both acknowledge that our drinking has become positively 1954 over the past few years. Wine with dinner, a cocktail or two, almost every night.

Even that doesn't worry me so much. What worries me is the rare but awful binge drinking. In the 20+ years we have been together, I have witnessed some scary binges from him. I have certainly had my own as well, but if someone you love is puking their guts out or stumbling so badly you have to support them, a 6'4", 200+ man is way scarier to deal if you are only a 5'3" woman, rather than the other way around. And I haven't been that out of control in a decade, whereas with him it's a once every other year thing.

I haven't actually had to deal with it in a long time. There was one incident last year, which I was not a witness to, but that involved a big sports team win and a $2,000 charge on a credit card he had absolutely no recollection of. When I read back over this, I feel bad, because I give the impression that he is out of control, and I think that the opposite is true. I think he tries so hard to maintain control that when he very rarely finds himself in a drunken situation around other people drinking like crazy, he will give up that control.

He'll let go and just drink until he can't anymore. And he's a big guy, and he can talk and walk and laugh and seem far less drunk than he is until he suddenly hits "incoherent." It's scary, and it's the kind of thing that wears away at the foundation of our relationship, and it has happened just enough times that it has taken a bit of the trust in him away from me. And that just sucks.

Social Cleaning

When J and I got married we were the only ones we knew in our circle of friends who were married. In fact, most of our friends didn't have long term relationships at all. And we spent a lot of time trying (largely unsuccessfully) to cultivate that holiest of grails. The couple friends.

It's a quirky bit of chemistry to find friends that the husband/boyfriend gets along with the other husband/boyfriend, and likewise for the ladies (I guess this is probably also true for same sex relationships) but also the four people enjoying everyone's company. Add in that my husband is the sort of person you really LOVE or just loathe and I am socially awkward and . . it has been a challenge.

We've tried though. Lord knows we try. We have one set that the girlfriend and I have literally not one thing in common and yet we soldier on, eight years into the relationship. It is just close enough. Even though after eight years I still don't know much about her and would never dream of going to movie or anything with her on my own. We can get through a night of cards and a few barbecues with each other.

Adding a baby into the mix makes this even harder because now it would be really great to have this other couple have kids and hey could one of them be a baby?

This is why, after MoMo was returned to us by the grandparents today, and after she went to bed we steam cleaned the fucking floors of this house. I am baking cookies. And making wings. And a variety of other things. Because one of J's friends and his wife are coming with their kids tomorrow and well. Maybe they are the ONES.

Normally J will claim I will just love whatever girlfriend/wife that he can dig up. Because all chicks enjoy each other. We just sit around and look at each other's vaginae and whooping it up. J has never been a thirteen year old girl, he thinks all women like each other.

I do like women though. It's just harder for me to find ones that I want to spend a lot of time with--female friendships are amazing but they require a lot of upkeep. You have to invest in female friends in a way that you don't with men. But this woman does sound nice and her youngest is about a year old--older than Mo but still a young baby. For this I will clean my house and try to not be a social moron. Try.

So wish me luck. I might be drinking all morning (while baking!) in preparation for trying to charm these people. All so J and I can have a couple to play poker with and eat cheesy appetizers with. I am a team player.

Five Blissful Weeks

There are things that I have been dreading, nay denying that they will ever happen despite a lot of evidence to the contrary. I go on and on pretending that everything will stay exactly as it is today and well that strategy has been working for me. Except for that messy bit about how shit but keeps happening anyway. That part is a kind of lame.

One of those things is crawling. OH YES MY BAYBEEE IS CRAWLING! Unacceptable is what that is. She just turned seven months old yesterday. IS SHE ALLOWED TO DO THIS? WHAT AUTHORITIES CAN I CALL?

Sorry for the shouty but this! Makes me shouty! And abuse punctuation! But my life is so very over. This house, while charming, is a total death-trap for a mobile but poor judgement showing thing. I means she already eats hairballs and keeps petting the cat (you know, the cat that wants to kill us all), I am pretty sure she will pull that damn bakers rack in the kitchen on top of herself any second now. It is fortunate that her crawling is more of a forward moving inch at this time but I am pretty sure she will be a pro in no time at all.

I had planned for her to be like me. I never crawled. True to lazy-ass form I held my arms up to be carried until one day I was like Fuck It and walked. Then learned to roller skate a week later. YES I WAS VERY LAZY.

But the damn kid has her own ideas and abilities and I vote hell no.

I was just thinking earlier this week about how much I was enjoying this stage. Where she can really play with toys and sit there on her own and man it is really handy for going to the bathroom. I mean, yes, she could roll but she really wasn't going to roll for distance. It was blissful really. I enjoyed that stage. All five weeks of it.

I Miss Him

I saw this old man eating his lunch today with shaky hands and I couldn't stop thinking about my grandpa. And though his hands would never shake while eating (because he is like the food equivalent to my best friend's grandfather who had Parkinson's disease and yet never spilled a drop of his martini) this old man just reminded me so much of him. The slightly stooped yet proud posture, the oddly formal clothing, the carefully combed hair. I just wanted to crawl in his lap and kiss the top of his head, breath that old man smell.



I had to remind myself that if I did that I would likely be arrested or . . .fondled. But it was touch and go there for a moment.



I miss my grandparents. Him more than her in a horrible way mainly because she really just likes to make us all feel horrible. Where he just enjoys us while he can. My grandmother is a wonderful woman and everything a grandma should be yet I am my grandpa's favorite. And every child should get to be some one's favorite. And he is the kindest, most gentle soul I have ever been lucky to meet.



The old man saw me watching him and asked me for directions to his bank. I walked him there, I didn't want him to get lost. I know that when I do that, when I care for some one else's grandpa, some one will take care of mine.

Maybe I Shouldn't Blog While On Cold Meds Either

I was sitting at lunch when this (I assume) homeless dude comes up and asks me for fifty cents for a McDonald's Hot Apple Pie. I immediately go for my purse because I do not wish to deny anyone their hot fast food pastries. In fact I gave him a dollar because man, you need two.

I cannot stop bitching about the trash can at work. I have a cold and according to the new eco-standards I should get up every time I use a tissue and walk to the trash can. This means I should work about fifteen minutes a day because I am not staying late because of a fucking trash can move. Instead I have a mountain of used tissues spreading germs forth into the workplace. We are saving the environment by infecting us all with the black plague and wiping out humanity! WINNER!

Not that there is anything delicious about a cold but I am quite enamored with the return of dangerous cold medications. During pregnancy they just toss you some vitamins and shake their heads at your selfishness if you so much as take a Tylenol but now I am allowed the entire aisle at Rite Aid. Sure I might die but the baybee will live so glug that Nyquil (except don't because I would totally sleep through her nightly howl for snacking). Still, it is a relief to be able to take something and not want to die. Of course trying to decide whether to stay home is now a calculus problem involving child care and is it more work to stay home and try to entertain the baby (or do I make my MIL come even though I am here and is it weird to displace them from their routine and GAH). Frankly it is a lot less stressful just to go to work and waste my time walking tissues to the trash can.

I Know, Technically I Do Not Have a Dick

Just so y'all know, not having a trash can is pissing me off even more in practice than it did in theory. It does not make me want to recycle. It makes me want to huck organic produce at some one.

I have a cold. The baby has a cold. We are snotty nosed messes. And I have to walk down the hall to throw out a damn tissue. Suck my dick recycling program!

Poor baby keeps waking up. J went and rocked her back to sleep. She is just a runny eyed snotface. Poor thing. Poor me because you know she will up ninety-eleven times tonight and I am already tired.

And I am still pissed about the trash can.

PKFA for Short

A really ridiculous thing happened at work today, one that I feel pretty comfortable talking about here because it really isn't about my office. It's about offices all around this country and all the stupid shit that happens in them that makes no sense at all.

They are taking away our trash cans.

I don't actually get this. Apparently this is to encourage recycling. And also exercise because you have to get up to throw things away? So when you have a cold that uses eighty-four thousand tissues a morning you can drag your ass to the trash center and burn 10,000 calories.

We have solved both global warming and the obesity epidemic.

I think this is why so much of the eco-movement just irritates the hell out of me. I do not mind doing small things that add up to big things. I don't even mind doing big things if they make sense. But I really mind that I am not allowed to have a goddamn trash can anymore to throw away my snotty tissues. And that I was barraged with emails after the announcement from people hitting reply to all friggin celebrating that we would all get exercise while we GO GREEN.

I love the sentiment of Go Green but I would like the phrase erased from the English language.

I suppose this all makes me a planet killing fat ass who doesn't want any exercise. I doubt that surprises anyone.

Do I Look Like Mike the Mover?

If you weren't following me on Twitter today, and you weren't since no one is, you missed that sometime around lunch a large box arrived in my office. It contained a chair.

This chair. In zebra print.

Which, oddly enough, I never ordered. It took some time for me to convince my officemates that I didn't order it, a vendor didn't send it to me (why would they do that), and NO J DIDN'T BUY ME A ZEBRA CHAIR.

It took me a really long time to track down who was supposed to get the chair (a woman from another part of the country, who's name in no way resembles mine and who I do not know) and convince the company that yes, it is a problem that I have this chair since I didn't pay for it and some one else did. Enough time that I am thinking I won't be doing business with Ballard Designs. Because bitches are crazy.

By the end of the day Zebra Chair was sort of a celebrity. People were coming to pose on it and remark on it's glamour. I think I will miss it when they send a man in brown shorts to come get it.

I am sure as hell not carrying it downstairs.

*COUGH*

In the past week or two the baby has taught herself this sort of fake cough--ahem HACK ahem--that she employs at every opportunity. Any time that things are not proceeding according to her little diabolical plan she gives a little Excuse me *HACK* and we are all supposed to fawn all over her. Except that it is the fakest cough sound ever, like she is a passive aggressive asshole trying to "politely" alert you to her presence. Usually girl dissolves into giggles shortly after--I mean she is six months old so her acting skills are keenly developed for her age but she is not Meryl Streep.

It's hysterical honestly. Except that when we are out and about and people are staring at us in horror because we are laughing at a choking baby.

So she will cough and then stop and check our faces for response. She will peak up over her lashes to see if we are watching. Laughter is the wrong response. Laughter will make her try again, like COUGH DID YOU HEAR ME? She will then howl a bit and be angry and well eventually will lose interest all OOOH SHINY. It's awesome and sad and we are so totally fucked when this kid is thirteen. That is a lot of time to perfect screwing with Mom and Dad. I am pretty sure she will get better at it.

*Side note, have totally signed up for Twitter. Have no followers. Please join up and I will follow you right back and we'll be BFF forever! Or something less stalkery!

Not At All

Yesterday was my thirtieth birthday. I spent it running DelSelva around the whole fucking earth trying to find him a Wii (VICTORIOUS I AM SHOPPING CHAMPION) and then we all went out to dinner at a dueling piano bar. I am glad that I secured the promise of DO NOT HUMILIATE ME before that dinner because those celebrating events got to do many classy things like grab their husbands' jock in front of a room full of people. Funny when other people do it maybe?

I am not sure exactly how I feel about thirty actually. I think it's an age that I remained convinced would only happen to other people and I would stay 29 for at least ten years. Not because thirty is old exactly, but because I am still young naturally. And I am still young. But I am old too. I am married, have a young daughter, work for The Man and pay an obscene amount of property taxes. I am not exactly partying heartily if you catch my drift.

I look at J and I think what the fuck because we were young once! We had flat(ter) stomachs and no grey hair (well I still do but . . .) and man we were adorable. Like little puppies. Now we are rumpled and tired and slightly more round. I guess it is still to accept that aging is universal and I cannot opt out. It is not at all like not buying an IPhone.

Woe and Despair

Most nights MoMo goes to bed easily. I take pride in this, not because I am doing something right, but in that I can usually spot it when things start to go very wrong. Because there is a brief window that she will go down easily and happily and if you miss it. Well hope you packed a bag with some ear plugs because it is going to a while.

Tonight we have an out of town guest and in between the long trafficky drive to get him, the excitement of lunging for pizza and her business in flirting with him well she crashed and she crashed hard. It doesn't help that she is working on yet another tooth and she got her six month shots yesterday. But she spiraled into an hour of screaming at me, a half of screaming at J and then reluctantly passing out while watching a Queen DVD with J.

I have to admit I worried that the newborn stage would be even more screamy than it has been and on nights like this I am so grateful that it hasn't been. Because I am weak and my nerves cannot take it. An hour of weeping, face melting wails of WOE AND DESPAIR and I need to recover from my vapors with ice cream and Olympic television. There are just moments when I want to reason with her, to just force that information in her brain--you are upset because you are tired so just go to fucking sleep kid.

I am sure our friend thinks I am a dream mother.

We Are Family

When we were still struggling with infertility I had a really difficult time articulating exactly why I wanted to have a baby. I have never craved babies the way that other women seemed to (though I cannot stop monching their cheeks now). What I wanted so badly, what cost us so much, was a family. I was lucky enough to grow up with a fantastic family and last week I got to just enjoy what I was looking for.

I know that my parents really enjoy my baby. I know that they truly love watching me mother my baby. And I love watching them with her. MoMo makes us a family in a way that we weren't before. I know that other people have great family relationships without children, and we did too, but for us this was what I wanted all that time.

We didn't really do anything so special. We lazed around, played with the baby, ate lots of chocolate chip cookies and bacon. We played cards and watched the non-stop coverage of the Brett Favre trade. I have been fortunate to have positive relationships with my parents as an adult (we all work at it but I think there is an element of luck too). They love my husband. We stayed up late and night and played cards (and yes, my mother drunkenly had issues removing her fleece jacket and flashed us all). We talked about babies and sports and what car we should buy this fall and everyone got some time to themselves and everyone cared for the baby and it was all so very healthy.

Everyone deserves that.

There is a lot about being a mother that has overwhelmed me. I tried to prepare for the big changes and I think I did as well as I could but . . .I just didn't know what it would be like for me. I am really struggling with balancing my life, figuring out how our marriage will work, getting used to the idea of even being some one's mother, struggling with my new body. It is a lot. I have never regretted having MoMo, though having a baby is so incredibly hard. But last week really embodied what I had been looking for.

And I felt so capable as a mother, I felt like a good wife, a valuable friend, a daughter my parents could be proud of. And I ate bacon! It was like the Thanksgiving dinner of vacations, short but satisfying and rich. Something to look forward to and to look back on with a sleepy and satisfied smile.

And did I mention the bacon?

Vacation

We are in the wilds of California this week. About fifteen miles from a forest fire with my parents in a "Presidential Suite." That phrase is very deceptive as it is really a laminate pine lined room with two attached bedrooms and a small bathroom. But still we are all napping a lot, playing with the baby and eating bacon at every meal.

Last night we stayed up playing cards with my parents. My mom slurped down the better part of a bottle of wine and well . . .she flashed us all. It wasn't intentional, she claims, and yet there it was. Or they were. She got stuck in her shirt? I was there and I still don't understand it.

I have done shit all week and thank god for that. I was so tired and dried and worn down deep in the bone. Believe it or not laying around and watching TV and walking around in the semi smokey river front is just what I needed.

Never under estimate the power of napping for a mom of an infant.

Six Months

My baby girl is six months old. She is no longer a blob. She has a personality (oh well she always had personality but now it is more like Personality). She has things to tell you. Sometimes she tells you in Dolphin Shriek but she gets her point across.

She has three teeth which she will not show you willingly but pop out when she grins. Her eyes are still crystal blue. Her hair is blond and red and black. All of them at once. Her cheeks are so rosy it looks like I make her up with blush. Her cheeks hang low like a hound dog. I find it impossible to not to much them like popcorn. Impossible to walk past her without breathing in that baby smell and kissing the top of her head.

She can sit up by herself, for minutes at a time, before toppling over like a tower of blocks. She likes to fling her rings around. She can pull herself forward on her belly like a centipede. She sits in her excersaucer (which I call the office) doing very Important Work. It is like she is a tiny executive making deals, ruling the economies of small countries, the usual. And every once in a while she will cackle and flash a look like "this shit doesn't happen on it's OWN Mama." Some one has to press the music buttons on that fucker over and over until my eyeballs pop out I guess.

She loves to eat. Anything. She will slam back her bottle in a technique I am sure will serve her well in college though I hope she will be able to hold it on her own more gracefully by them. She eats fruits, veggies, rice cereal and oatmeal with gusto. She will grin while eating and let it spill out all over. She will howl with outrage if you do not shovel it in fast enough. After a good meal she will rub her belly and bliss out for a few minutes.

My whole world is different and I cannot even remember life before Mo (ok there was sleep I do remember the sleep). I feel like the cheesiest cheese because it is like some one cranked up the color on my world. I go to sleep at night (eventually) with purpose.

To sleep that sweet baby head.

What We Didn't Know In 1996

When I was eighteen I worked for an internet startup. No one I knew really used the internet for much other than email at that point, and maybe AOL chat. I remember I frequented the Seattle Times BBS and it was like ten dollars a year or something.

My company was basically one that made webpages but marketed itself like Amway and was seriously one of the weirdest places ever to work. I was eighteen though and didn't know things. My almost thirty year old self wants to back in time and kick some serious ass because that shit was fucked up and some one needs to tell those people that.

This was before the internet boom and before most people had figured out how to make money using the internet but everyone just knew that they could. It was before blogging or wikipedia. It was before GOOGLE. I used the internet all the time back then but I never imagined all of the ways it would infultrate my life. I don't think any of us could image this back then.

I realized today that I use the internet for all kinds of things. Banking, shopping, Boggle, time wasting, communicating with my family, business, research of countless things. I mean what did we do prior to IMDB? Thanks to the internet you can find out which actress was in that one scene in that one movie and not obsess about it until three in the morning.

I even get recipes from the internet. But not from foodie sites. I just pick them up from blogs I read, I am currently obsessed with some carrots that I got from the comments from some one's blog post. This is the part of the internet that I wish my mother and my grandmother could enjoy. Sort of a virtual neighborhood recipe exchange. Or a place where moms worry about their babies sleep habits. Or exchange pictures. Or tips on where to find the best deals on baby shoes.

I suppose my grandmother in particular actually had a real community that provided some of that support. And now I have it too. Even at 2am.

The New Jan Brady

This is me on Mother's Day (no one else cares but I am having myself a little moment about posting my face here--I've put J and the baby up without a pause but ME? so anyway this is me). And up until yesterday my hair looked pretty much like this. Very long, very blond and wavy. Actually this is the good version of my hair, on most days it was really a ponytail. I don't think it looks BAD here by any means but it wasn't so faboo.

And this is my hair now (not the best picture and please forgive the period induced clusterfuck on my chin). I actually love it, it is more flattering than it appears here, much more professional and if this photo hadn't been taken after a very long day it makes me look younger and more awake. All smoke and mirrors but hell I will take smoke and mirrors.

J seems neutral about it but all other responses have been overwhelmingly positive. Which is crazy since people really liked the long hair and whined excessively when I said I was going to cut it. I had nice hair but it wasn't anything special and it was all you saw. But now I am more than just three feet of blond hair. Though dude I need to be wearing some makeup given that chin.

I do feel a little cliched, given that I have an infant and am turning thirty in a couple of weeks. But I also feel free. I was more than a little tired of even blow drying all that hair (let alone styling it which face it, did not happen so often). I was also starting to feel ridiculous, like I was trying to rock high school girl hair more than a decade after high school. This is the kind of style that can look casual or dressy, fun or professional. And I really hope it doesn't scream MOMMY.

What is amazing to me is how many women told me I was "brave" and how they wished they had the courage. It is not brave to cut your hair! It doesn't hurt and it will always grow back. I understand how important good hair is (it's an accessory you wear every day) but that is why it has to be something you love, not something you are afraid to change. I will try to post another picture that doesn't make me look all crazy eyed but I love my new hair.

And hopefully you do too.

Not Again

In the past week I have worked eight days, close to eighty hours (plus commuting). By the end I was a stringy haired, sallow skinned, broken out, weepy goddamn mess. This is my least favorite week of the year, it's a crazy time for work and in this current economic environment it is just ugly. Do not let Fox News or anyone else tell you that the economy is healthy because god it is scary out there.

Today I rested. Shopped with my mother. And cutoff all my hair (this is it's own post but it is ALL GONE y'all).

In a couple of weeks I turn thirty and y'all I feel it (and lord how much of a cliche am I to hack off my hair six months after having a baby and right before turning thirty?). I just cannot do this shit without losing my mind anymore. My feet are swollen like little sausages, my skin is all rough and horrifying. Everything hurts. At night I get MoMo to bed and just collapse. I feel like an old woman. I am promising myself never again. This I am not doing again.

I just have to figure out what to do instead.

Slow Down

Baby girl really wants to crawl. I am afraid that she will do it soon too. This has happened before--she taught herself to hold her head up fairly early. She just wanted to do it and did nothing else until she figured out. She has wanted to stand for weeks. She now lays on her stomach, frantically pushes her legs and scoots along--crashing her chin periodically and making a noise like she swallowed a parakeet.

It's actually pretty cute.

And alarming.

I have done nothing to childproof this house. We have all kinds of heavy things to pull down and exposed outlets and dust bunny/dog hair blobs. I'd really like her to be the kind of baby that chills out for a couple of more months.

Grow some hair darling. Enjoy the naps. No need to rush into mobility. I am really not equipped to deal with it anyway.

And Try to Forget That Today Ever Happened

Today was . . . not good. Baby is working on another goddamn tooth and she was so very screamy. She screamed for two hours this morning until I got her to nap. She woke up and was happy for about ten minutes and screamed some more. She screamed at my dad who came up to visit. She screamed at J when he finished up the yard.

Some of it was good natured and she was pretty upbeat. But she needed a lot of distraction so that she wouldn't wig out again.

I got a headache (naturally) we turned into a migraine. And somewhere this afternoon I turned into a big dry heaving vomiting thing.

The child charmed her way back into the will by being pleasant during our (oh I admit it early) bedtime routine. And then she passed out. GOD I LOVE HER.

Am going to take a couple of Tylenol PMs and try to sleep.

Same Old Shit

My MIL and I communicate primarily through my husband. This isn't quite as horrifying as it sounds as we rarely see each other. We have a weird baby wrangling schedule so he is the one here when she gets here in the morning (I am already at work) and he is the one that relieves her in the afternoons (and he goes back to work when I get home). This has resulted in some seriously passive aggressive shit going back and forth without me really knowing if she is being passive aggressive. Is she asking about fucking JUICE BOTTLES again because J didn't really tell her clearly last time? Or is she being annoying about wanting to give the kid juice even though she knows I don't want her to? Is she being as judging as I think she is? Or just clueless? Sometimes it is hard to parse the intent through J.

Our arrangement . . .is working. I know everyone expects me to be gushing with gratitude and feel so lucky and sometimes I do. But sometimes I wish the kid was in day care. Because day care would do what I wanted and if they wouldn't I could do something about the attitude. But with her I can't really, it is more delicate than that. And while I do think she takes excellent care of my baby, and loves her more than anything, there is a lot that comes with this arrangement that is challenging for me.

She refers to my daughter as "her baby." And has made comments that she is raising her. J thinks that these are a joke and no big deal but they make me seethe with rage. Rage I am not allowed to express. Because those dark weeks after the baby was born (and really prior to the birth) are a bruise in my marriage that is still too tender to rub. I think J is perfection in a bottle but he is not so supportive of me in the face of his mother. Maybe I wouldn't be either if the situation were reversed--I have no idea. But I am Mo's mother and really I would like my MIL to back off. But our situation is so intimate I don't think she can. SO . . .that is not so perfect.

She ignores some of the things I want. Even though I have been assured repeatedly that whatever I want is great. That is really whatever I want that she agrees with. So I say not to push foods and she proudly talks about tricking the baby into eating. I say let her figure out her own way and she insists that it is time to eat. I say STOP CALLING MY BABY FAT and she calls her Fatty Patty. I believe that maybe we are not interpreting "whatever you want" in the same language.

I feel like I have gotten better about this issue, and try to appreciate my MIL for who she is. And she does an amazing job with my daughter. But man, I just feel so judged by her all the time. J claims she isn't doing it but it feels like she is. Maybe I am projecting onto her? I just wish that she would back off, really accept the difference between Grandma and Mama. I wish that she would stop claiming success for everything the baby does (she rolled over because I taught her, she eats because I made her, she got teeth because I invented TEETH)--Mo is doing these things because she is growing up and trying so hard and man she deserves all the credit (my MIL does the same thing with her boys too--everything they do is because of her and man do I have to bite my tongue).

I should probably stop worrying about her and move on. Nothing is going to change. And in a few months this arrangement will be over.

And I will probably miss her.

Why I Do Not Cut Myself A Break

I am struggling right now with my body image. I think the high of not being pregnant anymore and the initial rush of being so much smaller so quickly has worn off. My body is not the same, and while I really did not expect it to be I guess maybe in the back of my mind I did.

The worst part is that I don't know if I am being irrational at all. Am I really a lot huger than I was before? No idea. My clothes fit but differently. Things hang and drape where they didn't before. I feel wide. I feel ungainly. It is not unlike being thirteen and growing six inches in a year and just not knowing what to do with myself.

The baby is only five months old and if I were anyone else I would cut myself a huge break. But I cannot seem to. I had planned to get my act together about this shit before I had a daughter because even though she doesn't understand me at all I can feel her eyes on me. I do not want her to feel this way about herself.

I do not know what to do. I suppose just mindfuck it to death and feel bad about myself and then somehow accept things. I could get off my ass and change some things but I do not think that is going to happen.

Happy Fourth

I hate the goddamn Fourth of July.

Before you hit send on that anti-AB email I have nothing against days off of work and barbecues but I really fucking hate fireworks.

I never got the bug on fireworks. I don't even really enjoy the big shows (they are usually dull) but at least they are safe. I really hate the home fireworks.

On our street is an apartment building that even the city admits was a mistake. It is a multi-unit building on a small street with only historical homes. I have nothing against renters but the ones that this building attracts are just awful. They are loud--they sit in their cars at the curb with the music blasting loud at all hours (I actually had a confrontation with one at 5:30 on a Sunday morning a couple of weeks ago that began with my head exploding and screeching "ARE YOU HIGH?"). Their kids run in the street and in all of the yards. The speed down the street (which is very short and a dead end). It's just a frustrating situation.

So right now there is a whole group of them on the street, drunk, with loud music and setting off fireworks. Into the woods behind the neighborhood. With kids running around.

Under the best of circumstances fireworks stress me out. In the hands of drunks and kids I am hiding in my bedroom self medicating with Diet Coke and Vanilla Sandwich cookies.

Zoo

We took the girl to the zoo last weekend and if you had met my mother you would realize it is amazing that she hadn't been eighty-seven times already. It was the perfect Seattle summer day--a little hot for me (because I am week like that) but sunny and lovely and I think every family in the Northwest headed to the zoo.

Mo was not that interested in the animals but just adored being carried about by Grandma and Grandpa. She was also thrilled to be riding facing forward in the stroller.

One of the happiest surprises that we've found with the baby is how everyone just relaxes around her. My parents were there, J's mom was there and we all just strolled around with the baby. We all just want to take everything in through her eyes. My nature is not to take time and breathe it in but she makes me slow down.

J-No

Best overheard conversation EVER:

"Is that Jennifer Lopez?!"
"No. Hell no."
"That is her. I just know it. That is J-LO!"
"No. Her booty is the wrong size. And where are the twins?"
"I just knew her hair was a weave!"

This went on and on and on between this girl and her boyfriend in the cosmetics section of a department store. The great part? Neither of them noticed that they were really looking at a drag queen.

Suck It

Dear World,
Stop asking me if my baby sleeps through the night. You don’t actually care about the answer. Your eyes fog over in boredom if I even say so much as “sometimes.” You are just waiting like little pouncing lions to jump on me whatever my answer. Let me save you the trouble.
If I say yes, without any back story then you jump on me that obviously she cries and I just sleep through it. That she is neglected and troubled and maybe doesn’t even BOTHER CRYING because I do not care about her. You tell me she is too small for her age and correct me when I assure you you are wrong.
If I say yes, explaining that to me a baby her age that sleeps in 7-8 hour chunks is definitely sleeping through the night, you tell me stories about how your child never slept ever and people like me aren’t even parents, not really, because babies like that clearly are not difficult ever and I have no right to be tired. And then you stomp off.
If I say no, then you start screeching about how babies this age SHOULD BE and I am failing as a mother. Obviously, I am waking her up at night with the vibrations of my neediness. Have I tried sleep training? You tell me stories about your two week old who slept through the night every night—the obvious implication that there is something defective about ME. If you are my mother-in-law you will repeatedly tell me about how my husband slept through the night right away—despite the fact that you told me I was unreasonable for wanting my baby to sleep in four hour chunks because her father didn’t until he was a year old. If you want to tell me I am unreasonable FABULOUS—just make up your mind why first ok?
My conclusion is that nobody knows anything. They are just having pre-arranged conversations with me that I am not interesting in having. They just want to tell me I am wrong whether I am listening or not.
But seriously. Suck it.

Finding My Way

I don't write about work here, for good reason, since I don't want to be Dooced. My job sounds much more interesting to others than it actually is and it pays my bills. That is the important bit. I am actually so paranoid about this that when I came over from Diaryland I went back and deleted anything that remotely was about the office (except in the most generic of terms).

Since going back to work I've come to realize a bunch of things. One, my job is not particularly family friendly. This is not the fault of my employer, entirely. I mean not all jobs are family friendly and mine is worse because of my commute. It is just a difficult situation to work out even if I loved my job which at one point I did. But the parts I love have been shrinking and the parts I hate growing every day. At the end of my pregnancy I thought it was my hormones that was making the situation feel so suffocating and I now know that no, it really wasn't.

I feel crushed under the weight of my life sometimes. I need to find a way to balance my work and my family and I know this is something that particularly mothers struggle with every damn day.

I read somewhere that young men plot their careers deliberately and have plans of where they are going. And that young women tend to drift more, grabbing opportunities and going wherever they go. I think that is an overly general statement but I find it interesting because that is precisely what I have done. I fell into my job and while I am good at it I am not sure it is what makes sense for me. It's an odd thing, because I helped J plan his career carefully. And I neglected to do the same for myself.

I am aware that this is such an entitled middle class white woman thing to worry about and that many women would trade with me in a heartbeat to at least have choices. I just hate my choices. I don't want to stay home--not only do I not feel like I would be good at that but I don't want to risk not being able to get a job again (at this level), I don't want my daughter to think that she has to choose between having a family and having a job and my mother in law moved up here to take care of the baby. That is just a lot against that option. And I am not having a lot of luck figuring out how to make this work for me. I am exhausted all of the time. The commute is hard. The job is . . .what it is.

I just feel lost. I don't know how will find my way.

Mission Control

I missed my early bus home by about thirty seconds this afternoon. Because it was early. This turned out to be lucky because five minutes later I was doing a butt-clenching sprint towards a bathroom to let my ass explode into a toilet.

I don't really believe in fate. I do, however, think it is entirely possible that my digestive tract controls the transit system in Seattle.

2021

I remember when I was all thirteen and convinced that I was the ugliest, stupidest, more horrible person on the face of the earth I went crying to my mother all full of woe and drama and shit. I think I was worked up because I didn't have a boyfriend and probably never would and would DIE ALONE. God you could not pay me enough to be thirteen again you really couldn't.



I give my mother credit. I was obviously being way to angsty and ridiculous and she didn't laugh in my face. But she really struggled to reassure me. And she looked at my awkward teenaged face and broken out skin and said, "Oh darling, of course you are lovely, you have beautiful teeth."



I remember sobbing over and over about how no one every married anyone for their teeth and GOD how ugly was I that my mother couldn't even fucking LIE to me and say I wasn't horrible looking.



I remember this now and I wonder how my mom didn't slap me silly or laugh at me and how on earth it didn't break her heart in two. Also I wonder if she will let me move in with her sometime in 2021.

Zen

I am sure it gets old to click here and read how very tired I am but . . I am so very tired. I feel it all the way to my toes. I came home from work today and J went to the Hulk and I took a hot shower and ate french fries for dinner. It is that kind of day.

The baby and I watched the Cubs game and she went to sleep without screaming at me for two hours which I appreciated so very much.

I spent most of the day trying to wrap my fingers around my life--trying to figure out how to not hang on so damn tightly that I snap it in half. A lot of shit has gone down here in the last couple of days, the usual work bullshit and existential mother guilt shit and my grandmother moving into a home shit and baby will not fucking sleep shit and I cracked a little on the inside yesterday. It is so very hard to feel like you are living your life right. That you will not wake up in thirty years really pissed off at yourself.

So I spent the day getting Zen about this stuff and forgiving myself for this financial stupidity that would have sent us into ruin a few years ago but now just means I feel bad and I was almost there when I got in my car to come home. And I noticed that no sound was coming out of the speakers on the right side of the car. I mess with a little and mess with it some more and go wild worrying about how now J won't want to drive this car when we buy another one this summer and how that means the car is probably falling apart (because the engine is controlled by the speakers somehow in this scenario) and wow I was off the cliff there for a moment.

Then I realized that the damn IPod adapter wasn't plugged in all the way and fixed it.

I think I have a ways to go before I am Zen.

Sleep Helps

Last night the baby screamed at me for forty minutes and then at J for half an hour before falling asleep. Tonight she screamed at me, inconsolably, for two hours. Perhaps we were spoiled because she never had colic but this is heartbreaking. She just howls and sobs and fat tears roll down her little chubby cheeks.

I am tired down in my bones. I feel as though the marrow has been scraped out of me and I am just a shell. A shell that types.

When you feel this way there is nothing really that you do well except list all of the ways that you are failing the people in your life. There are so many. It isn't just the baby's sleep, which is awful, but also this soul-crushing work problem (that shall not be named because I don't need a Dooceing on top of everything else) and the normal life shit. What I really need is a full night's sleep, a couple of days off, a bowl of ice cream and a good boinking. I won't be getting any of those things any time soon I am sure.

Poor J. It must be alarming to watch your wife just loose her shit completely and sadly, just rocking in a corner. Because that is what I am doing and I do not know how to stop.

I will just go to bed. That will help.

Important Lesson

Today as I was leaving work this guy on the corner grinned at me and shouted, "Girl you are wearing the HELL out of those pants. Every black guy around is loving that ASS. Aren't we brothers?!" (he then shouted to two men across the street).

Now those guys really had no choice but to agree (what were they going to scream that no my ass was FAT) and the guy was really more creepy then anything else (and possibly drunk it is hard to say) but my four months post partum self was a little cheered.

And we all learned a little something.

My ass is still kryptonite to black men.

Mixed Results

The sleep regression continues to kick my ass. The tooth popped through at least a bit (I think) last night so here is hoping that she goes back to her old self soon. J did his first night shift last night and judging by the bags under his eyes I don't think he handles the broken sleep any better than I do.

I sort of felt sorry for him, because man have I been there. But then I remembered that YEAH I HAVE BEEN THERE FOR FOUR AND A HALF MONTHS. Yeah, one semi-decent night's sleep doesn't really make me less of a bitch. Let's try for two honey.

Mo had her first solid foods (interesting that they call them solids since they are more like slime than anything else). The rice cereal seemed to confuse her. And apple sauce made her happy even though she spit it out. Since it's all just for fun at this stage anyway we're calling it a win.

Sometimes I look at her and I just think where did you come from? How do I have a baby? And how is she already old enough to spit apple sauce at me? Sometimes I feel like I am going to wake up and it is all a dream. It's hard, this being a mama to a little baby, but it is so good. So good I can tell I need to wrap up in it like a blanket--store this feeling for the hard nights ahead.

Shame Shuffle

In the past couple of months my post baby body has gone back to it's pre-pregnancy, pardon the pun, shitty digestive system. After the blessed blessed reprieve (which seriously was so nice because can you imagine alternating between debilitating constipation and explosive diarrhea while knocked up) of pregnancy well my digestive tract is taking it's duty to make me miserable rather seriously.

And this week, at work, what I have always worried about happened.

I had stomach cramps followed by an ass explosion . . .no biggie. And then I realized. There was no toilet paper in the stall.

Oh y'all. I was trapped in a stall with all the very fancy ladies of my office roaming around and all I wanted was to wipe my ass. I tried to peel any spare bits off the last roll. I even used a damn scrap off the floor (I know, but I was desperate). I finally waited it out until the ladies left the room and then did the shame shuffle a stall over and cleaned up.

You would think that shitting on a table in labor would make these things less humiliating. And you would be wrong.

Sandwich

The knock off of Chick Fil A that they have at McDonald's is freaking delightful and thank god I am not pregnant because I would have eaten my body weight in that nonsense (big time tangent but knockoffs, remember after 9/11 and all the designers kept saying that Al Queida was being funded by people selling Burberri, Fendy and Couch bags--double side note when I was in New York my favorite thing was to walk around and look at the misspelled fake bags, I wish I could have taken photos but the vendors get understandably nervous when you whip out a camera--because yes of course terrorism is about FASHION so you can imagine what kind of shit is being funded by all the crazies selling fakes outside of Sex in the City screenings**end tangent). Anyway that sure is a delightful sandwich. Basically the very best thing that happened to me today.

A lot of crappy things have been happening lately. Nothing that I can talk about here so much except that I know that I am fortunate. My marriage is solid, my baby delightful, we are not having financial problems. . .but being fortunate doesn't really help when I find myself sinking in a rather hopeless situation. One that is making me feel more depressed every day. I have to keep trying to keep my head out of this, my family doesn't deserve to have to deal with this crisis and I don't want to go through it.

So anyway, it's a great goddamn sandwich.

Just Kills Me

Y'all. I do not know how this has happened. My baby girl just keeps growing and growing--doing exactly what she is supposed to do--but I cannot help but miss it. I never truly understood the term bittersweet until I became a mom.

Since her first day on this earth my baby had to be wrapped tight to sleep. The tightest swaddle you can imagine or she wouldn't calm down at all. Then last week she suddenly didn't need it anymore. She was just fine without it.

She has always loved her pacifier. Sucks on it morning, noon and night. But now she doesn't need it anymore. Still at night, still for naps or when things go wrong, but mostly she doesn't need it.

She can laugh. Not the baby giggle but a full chortling belly laugh that shakes her all over and jiggles those hound dog cheeks.

I love this age so much. She just wants to sit and laugh and hang out--she is very good company--I just want to put her in my pocket and keep her this way all the time. But at the moment I think this, I keep thinking I cannot wait until she is big enough to sit up on her own. To eat a cupcake. To say Mama. To give me kisses. I want to hit fast forward and rewind and PAUSE like her babyhood is one giant Tivo.

And yes, that is totally baby barf on her face in the above picture. There is just something about how she is doing the full on Gerber Tyra Banks beauty shot with puke on her that I love so much. She just kills me.