My internal novelist

I don't know about y'all, but I think I spend at least half of my time composing narrations in my head. Seriously.

I don't know if it's the constant blogging, or lack of other creative outlets, but writing has become the foremost activity for my brain. My brain narrates my way through my day. At night, often, I lay awake replaying the events from earlier. The audio and video from the day do not stream through my memory bank in the manner I imagine it does for most people when recounting a day's events. Instead, the trappings of my day are replayed behind closed eyelids, accompanied by what I imagine I'd be typing to go along with them. I assume most people have an internal dialogue when in deep thought, but I feel my brain takes it a few steps further than most minds would. Instead of merely recounting my memories, I compose unwritten vignettes and contemplate which point of view would be more reader-friendly. I find myself striking through wordings; using alternate words to make my vocabulary seem expansive my internal thesaurus always on standby.

Take today for example. I was at Wholesome Living Guru's house for a little get together with one other friend. I've already hyper-developed this lady's character in a previous (aforelinked) post. As we sat with coffee and watched our children play, I was internally satirizing the whole scene.

So, I wonder, if I'm using my entire life as blog fodder and making archetypes of my friends, is it fair? I wonder how many writers have lost friends or loved ones to a little world they create all on their own. Don't know what I mean? Well let me explain...

If I didn't have this little blog of mine, I wonder if I'd still hold strong some of my best kept feelings toward people. I mean, if I didn't have my blog, Wholesome Living Guru would not be immortalized as such. She'd just be another friend who has some eccentricities regarding feeding her children. But instead, she is, in my mind, a highly developed character...complete with italicized name. But does that character impede my judgment regarding my personal thoughts that surround this person? I mean, If I go around developing everyone into a hyper-acute version of them self, am I doing a disservice to them? Or am I just doing what every other writer does? Is it fair?

This problem reaches into other areas of my life as well. The other night I was having problems sleeping. I couldn't wind down. I had to take anxiety medication just to hush the narrator in my head who kept going over everything that had happened to me that day and trivializing what words I'd use to describe which event. My husband wanted to make love to me...I couldn't get in the mood. Why? Because apparently I have a novella pushing on the innards of my skull.

This is a real problem for me, mostly because what I compose in my head never makes it to the keyboard.

I wonder if they make internal thought recording devices.

Longest post....EVER

Okay, so I went to the gym this morning at 9:30. With your membership you get a consultation with a personal trainer. I was excited: until my hips started killing me last night. I think I did too many high impact activities yesterday. Anyway, I was contemplating all of the excuses I could call the gym with to get out of my "consultation".

8:30 a.m.: Me laying in bed, thinking of excuses. Phone rings. It's my trainer confirming. Sure I'll be there. Ugh. Then I drug myself out of bed. Maybe exercise would help.

9:30 a.m.: I arrive at the gym with Adrien...after much cajoling to get him out of the house in a swift manner. He was throwing all sorts of fits: mostly about not being able to put his own sock on.

I get there, with Adrien successfully dropped off in the Kid's Club, and I meet Millicent. My trainer for the day. Wow, I thought, don't kill me. She assured me that she was just doing a fitness profile.

And that's all we did.

For an hour I had to answer questions about what I prefer to eat, how much I exercise, my medical history...whether or not I'm prone to constipation. I mean, seriously...bowel movements? I'm too busy paying attention to my son's to worry about my own, and on top of it, who wants to tell someone else (without a PhD) about it. Gosh.

Needless to say, this whole little thing took an hour. My hour. The hour that I thought I'd get trained. I wanted to work on a routine. But I guess you only get that when you're paying. After all, this was my one free consultation.

At the end she asked if I was interested in personal training. I told her no, because it costs too much. I was just being honest. That's when it seemed to trail off, and she informed me of a $49 6 week "Biggest Loser" program -- that conveniently isn't offered after tomorrow (whereby the price goes up to $99). I'd get to work with her for a few weeks, a few times a week. It really is a deal...but $49? I wanted my one hour of hell for free.

Well poop, I guess it's back to the ellipticals and treadmills. I did get a login name and password for some program online that calculates how many nutrients and calories I'm getting, etc. You put in what you've ate and how much exercise you've done that day and it tells you what you need to eat more of (or less of) and how many calories you're shovelin' down a day. I guess that's cool. But ya know...I wanted hell. I wanted to feel the burn, not be asked questions about how much I go to the bathroom and whether I prefer pork chops to veggies.

This whole gym thing is new to me, I joined last week. A friend of mine is a member and she had a pass to join for the same rate she pays (around $30/month) plus no sign up fees or contracts, etc. I've been wanting to get back into shape. I don't want to be Aerobics Barbie or anything, I just want to have more energy and feel stronger. I used to be a runner. Throughout my later elementary school years and partially into my middle school years, I ran Junior Olympics track. I used to run track in school (up until 9th grade, and then I quit but tried again -- unsuccessfully -- my senior year). Now I can't even run a half mile without wanting to fall over...If I can even manage to run the whole thing. On top of it, I gained 60 pounds while I was pregnant. I'm nearly back to my pre-pregnancy weight (how old is Adrien now?), but I still have a whopping 6 pounds to go (JK about the "whopping"). So it's not that I want to lose weight, I just want to be more fit.

I think another reason I joined the gym is because it occupies time. It occupies at least an hour a day, and if I'm keeping myself occupied, then I won't be thinking about the obvious. I like that they have a Kid's Club; unlike some over-attached crazy mommies who never want to be away from their children, I think it's healthy for all parties if there is a small period of separation. Momma needs her time, and baby needs to learn that Momma will come back. It's trust for them, and breathing room for you. Everyone wins. As you know, I've recently started to knit. This is also a great occupier of time. Blogging ranks up there too. Whatever I can do to keep myself busy is great for me. I just hope I don't run myself ragged trying to keep myself occupied. I just really don't want to slip into that depressed slump again. If I find ways to enjoy myself (like those yoga classes at the gym I want to take or my knitting), then maybe I'll be too busy enjoying myself to get sad and stew.

Not only are nearly all of my every day friends pregnant, my Mom called yesterday and informed me that a friend from high school is due December 29. She's glowing she beamed to me...I replied a little snarky, but honest all the same: That's great, Mom, but I'm sure under all that glow she's constipated and got horrible hemorrhoids. My mom sounded a bit put off when I explained my lack of desire to hear of more pregnant friends. I'm happy for her, yes. But spare me the details of her gorgeous belly. I'd just started to show when my baby was snatched from me. My mom also got a little annoyed with me when I was visiting her. For some reason she felt the need to show me pictures of my Grandfather's wife's two kid's brand new babies. I have respect for their joy; but I wish my Mom would respect my feelings a bit more regarding the subject. She should understand; she's had many miscarriages. I'm sure there are many who feel annoyed with my present state of mind: but I don't really care. You can have some compassion or leave me the hell alone. Choose one, I don't really care.

Anyway, what else has been going on lately. I don't feel like I've been blogging too thoroughly about my day-to-day life lately. Every post is either a (meager attempt at a) scathing editorial on moms or me pouting out loud. Hopefully you all looked at my flickr account to see my pics. If not, do so now.

The Halloween costumes were made by Andi's mom. I haven't had time lately to sew anything...actually I don't think I've sewn since I made my wedding dress. We were the Rubbles from the Flintstones and Adrien even won "cutest kid's costume" at our play group's bash this past Saturday.

As I've said before, the Renaissance Festival was a blast. It amazes me how much differently I view the place now that I'm grown, as opposed to when I was a kid.

We've been thinking of putting our house on the market. Not so much that we think it will sell, as much as we just want to move. Our neighborhood is not bad, it's just not what we wanted it to be. We had the house built, and have only lived here since August of 2006. Andi and I really fear that our value will drop the longer we live here. The builder that built our house pulled out of the development a long time ago, and had sold the remaining land to another builder. A few weeks ago we noticed for sale signs in front of the new builder's model homes. Not to mention the fact that the new builder doesn't seem to have sold many homes or home sites within the neighborhood. Both builders have spec homes in the neighborhood that are unoccupied and not selling. We've also noticed some homes that seemed to have been foreclosed on since we've lived here. Those foreclosed houses have been snatched up by various real estate agencies; but all the same, there they sit. So, yes, we're worried that we're going to lose money on our house. At the time we bought, we didn't know anything about buying a house: or what we wanted. We were apartment renters, but knew we needed something a bit bigger with a baby on the way. As the cost of renting an apartment rose in Dallas, we found that we could buy for far cheaper every month. So we bought. We built. We have a cookie cutter house, but it is located right across the street from a brand new elementary school. I mean, that's got to count for something, right? We're just really worried about not being able to sell, or selling for less than we bought for. Do any of you know anything about real estate? We need help. Really, we need advice. We're going to start looking at other homes in the area...but our home is nowhere near being ready to sell. I can only imagine that our second hand furnishings would further push to diminish the selling power of our home. We have put laminate flooring in the office since we've moved in. Ugh, I dunno. It's sort of mind-numbing.

And other than that, not too much has been going on. Our anniversary is coming up this next Sunday. This next Sunday is also my first week to teach Sunday school for my class at church. I've got to find time to get together my lesson. We're going to be reading a book Eyes Wide Open, Looking for God in Popular Culture by William D. Romanowski...but I still need to go over the chapter and pull some discussion topics.

So I guess that's it for now.

Oh, and I joined NaBloPoMo, so you'll get a saucy little post from me every day in November. I apologize ahead of time.

Updates galore

Okay, so we went to the Arboretum today. It was tons of fun. I saw so much more of that place that I even knew existed. There was a concert going on, but I didn't think Adrien would fare well just sitting still in his stroller. So we meandered around the place with a friend.

My day is still productive, I think...although I've been online since I got home uploading pictures and whatnot.

I created a flickr account where you can go see all of my pictures from our recent adventures (Arboretum today, Renaissance festival, Halloween party, Knitting, Recent thrift store finds). So go check it out!

I'm off to knit more.

Let me know what you think of my pics!

Accomplished

I feel very accomplished so far today.

It's seven thirty-five a.m. and already I've been to the gym and ran a mile (well, .7, with the other .3 walked -- let's call it a mile, made husband pre-work smoothie, taken a shower, put on a pot of coffee, and put some eggs on to hard boil.

I'm going to the arboretum later.

For now, I'm at home in my pajamas...typing this blog.

I hope I don't hate myself too much for getting up so early later.

Maybe I can go get a few rows of knitting done before Adrien wakes up.

I feel accomplished already.

So, here's to you Mr. Buff-and-Cocky-Check-Out-Guy a the gym: I'm fully aware that when I was leaving I had just gotten there. No need to remind me of that. But I am just fine with my 30 minute work out. So eat it. :-P

Purl -- like the necklace?

So, ya know, all of my bitching and pissing and whining the other day about not having a hobby? Well, I took matters into my own hands. And damn it, I'm going to learn to knit.

It's supposed to be relaxing, right? HA!

So the whole thing started with a trip to the local library. I picked up the easiest looking how-to book on knitting I could find. Learn to knit VISUALLY, it touts. Okay, visual I can do. Then I picked up some other book about like The Seven Steps of Motherhood...but whatever. Next stop: the craft store. I browsed the wall of yarns for the prettiest looking ones I could find. I got one marled purple and blue type yarn and another green yarn. I bought the respective needle sizes recommended for each yarn type. I was very excited. They also had canvases 2 for $5.99. Those went in the cart too. I need to paint, right?

I journeyed home where I put Adrien to nap and did the dishes. I could hardly wait to try my hand at knitting. I'd done a bit of it in textiles class in college. I sucked at it then. Maybe, I'd be better this time: I was really out on a limb here. Hopefull, even. The green yarn, that's what I tried first. It was too small and my cast-on stitches were to tight. I moved to a bigger needle. Trying over and over again, I could never get past the cast-on stitches. An hour later, I'd cast-on countless times and still had no rows to count. The purple yarn would be better. Yes. And indeed, it wasn't. Please note that just because yarn is pretty, that does not necessarily mean it's suitable for beginners. Quite the contrary, actually. This purple yarn has multiple widths to it. It looks a bit wonky, very erratically spun indeed. Back to the green yarn. Then Adrien woke up from his nap. I'd made no knitting headway.

Later that night, I could hardly wait for Adrien to go to bed for the night. I was (and am) determined to learn how to knit. If it kills me (which it might -- a friend of mine suggested I get a hobby not involving sharp objects). Two hours later, I had 5 rows complete. It was time to learn to purl, which seems to me like knitting -- but backwards. Anyway, it's supposed to be the opposite of knitting, whereby the stitches show on the opposite side of whatever you'd doing (henceforth, making patterns within the knit). One try and that and it was back to knitting. Better not press my luck.

So why knitting? Well, as stated previously, I had heard it was relaxing. I need to relax. I mean, haven't you gotten that I'm high strung already? Slightly stressed. I mean, who isn't? And then, I was on Etsy the other day and saw these wonderfully gorgeous way over the knee scrunchy sock/leggings. I thought they were too cute, indeed. Must have -- and they were something like $11.99 to boot. Had. To. Have. So I clicked, only to find out it was a knit pattern. I must learn to knit these wonderful creations, methinks. And alas, I did not bookmark these great leggings, and now I cannot find them...or I'd link you to them. But take my word -- they are amazingly eccentric and perfectly B. [Update! I found them! YAY! Here are the magnificent scrunchy stockings!]

So that was how it started. And it's going.

Please wish me luck and if you have any suggestions, let me in. I have to get past my fear of purling. Otherwise, I'll just be making nothing but flat, long, scarves.

Yay for hobbies, indeed.

The Pregnancy Police

Fuck.

Well, I mean, fuckin' a, man. Ya know? I think I'm getting better and then it all goes down the fucking shitter.

Am I the fucking pregnancy police or something? I mean, have the balls to tell me yourself. I'm not that horrible of a person am I? I understand completely, I mean, I wouldn't want to face me either: horrible bitch that I am. But come on. Have some sympathy and don't send someone else to do it. I thought the two of us were better off than that.

And then...

And then, when I thought it was all over and I was better, yet someone else in my life is carrying the spawn of their fucking husband. Someone with actual fertility problems. Not that I'm not happy. I can take that. I get that you are appreciative of your situation. You do not tread lightly with your current situation. Having lost a child before, you know full well it was fragile territory to let me in on your little 5 week secret. And at least I heard it from your mouth.

I just don't get how some people are pregnant with their third kid and whine about it...can hardly drag themselves out of the house. I mean, you know you're fucking fertile, woman! God damn it, just keep your legs together if you didn't want to have your third so fucking close to the last fat piece of baby you shot of your vagina. Don't cry about it to me. Do not pretend to come up to me and in hushed tones say "I'm pregnant" and expect me to share your surprise. Why the fuck are you surprised anyway? I mean, no birth control, three kids later...you know you're fertile! I'm not really a friend to you anyway, so I could have done without it. Anger was there. Sure, I wanted to slap you for whining to me about pregnancy like two weeks after I was forced to flush my beautiful baby down multiple toilets and have intra-uterine probes pushed around my vagina all day just to tell me that I wasn't lucky enough to have a viable pregnancy. But, like I said, I'm fine with that. I'm over it. I don't see you constantly. And your post on our message board about borrowing maternity clothes? I could have done with that too. But I can see where you're coming from with the "I've had the same clothes for three pregnancies now, and I'm tired of wearing the same thing" bit. I get that: but come on. Are ya' fucking serious? It is not a tragedy that you're pregnant. Be happy that you are able.

So I guess that's it. I have a friend who can't say it to my face, because apparently I'm a bitch and I don't deserve to hear it from her own mouth. I have a friend who tells me but is afraid I'll hate her (which I don't, more just that I'm upset she thought I'd be pissed off), and then I know countless others who are all magically with effin' child.

Everyone's fucking pregnant. Don't tell the pregnancy police! For God's sake! She's not stable and she's mean and bitchy, and oh poor her, she had a fucking miscarriage. She can't deal. Shhhhhh. I do have some level of poise. Give me fucking credit.

Back to me

Suffice it to say that we had tons of fun at the Renaissance festival! I mean, ass loads of fun. It was fun. However, that post is put on hold: husband has the camera cable in his car at work...so there will be no Renaissance report today. That is saved for later, possibly tomorrow.

But that's cool; I've got other things to blog about.

So Andi and I were havin' a little chat in the car on the way back home yesterday. I brought up a subject; however sore it may be. It's something I realized the other day -- an epiphany, if you will. I don't remember who I was talking to, or if I was talking at all. I could have been typing. Either way, I was asked about hobbies. Mine, specifically. And to my astonishment, I could not list anything but blogging. I have a huge list of things that I used to do, or things I would like to do. Nothing I actually do.

Andi thought it was sort of preposterous that I think I have no hobbies; even further that I'm upset by it...but just imagine: you have nothing that defines you. It's an awful feeling. In the spot where you'd generally fill out "about me" you have a blank. Sure, I could list ass wiping, couch potato, procrastinator, dish maid, personal chef. What service is that to me? I do not enjoy those things, and hobbies, I assume, should be enjoyed.

You paint, he insisted.

No, I like to paint, but do I actually paint? No. I have nothing to paint about.

You like to cook, he says.

I love to cook, but I have to cook.

He went on and on, insisting until finally, in desperation, he asked what it is I think I like to do.

Well, I like to paint...when I have something to paint about (which I don't). I like to cook...but is it a hobby? Cooking is not something you can just do. It has to be for a purpose; a meal. So that moves cooking from hobby to interest. I can sew, but I do not like to. I chose seamstress and fashion as a career, and how many people do you know that come home from a long day of their job and do yet more of it because they enjoy it so? None. So, I'm not a sewer. I hate scrapbooking...don't have the patience for it.

What do I like?

Well I know what I used to like.

I used to like painting. Getting lost in the canvas. Going to concerts; small venues even...staring up at the artist until I got lost in the sea of music. Analyzing every lyric to the fullest. Lying in bed with a loved one for hours on end; CDs on rotation. Contemplating the meaning of life and lyric. I used to love the runway...the shows, the art. Real life artwork being poured into apparel. The designer's creativity and eccentricity oozing out of every stitch and seam. Poetry; small fragments of my reality boiled down into exquisitely eloquent and off beat stanzas...holed up in a notebook and kept for my eyes only. Boys wearing eyeliner. Boys wearing skirts. That exquisite median between anarchy and conformity. Watching indie flicks late at night; alone at the cinema. Deep conversations. Deep. Not the sort I find myself having these days. Making music; my guitar in hand...strumming aimlessly for my own benefit.

I like to make things, I tell him. I never make anything anymore. My music is silent, my canvases empty...I have no ocean of lyrics to be lost in. No one who cares to be lost with me. Spending some time in the fashion industry jaded me slightly. I hate fashion. I have nothing to write about in full stanza, nor broken prose. No notebook to keep it all holed up in. No deep conversations; my lips are silenced. And alas, I do not care to swoon for any other boys besides the one I've already captured: my husband. My creativity is drained. My livelihood is gone.

I do not care to define myself merely as mother or wife. The thought of that bores the shit out of me. Lately, I seem to find myself among a hoard of women who have no further aspiration than this. They have no self. They are mom. They are wife. They are nothing more; they are boring. Somewhere along the road of life, they've lost their own ambitions...replacing them with what they should want or do. But that is nothing for me. I do not want that. I don't want that life. I never wanted to be called mother; never wife. And here I am: I am called both. It's fine with me, but I refuse to let those labels rule me. Neither are definitions I want to truly define me.

If that is all I have, I do not have much, for I have no self.

I need myself back. I'm so far from what I used to be, that I'm not even sure I can get back. What is self? What are you? What defines you? I'm not sure what defines me now. But it sure as hell is not solely mother or wife.

I am better than those titles alone. I belong to my soul. I refuse to let those labels decide my day to day actions. And I refuse to let anyone contain my spirit.

Now, if I could only live by my own words...and not in fear of them.

I'm still trying to figure out how to be mom and myself at the same time.

To the Renaissance Festival!

This evening, our family will be heading to my Mom's house...actually my Grandpa's, but I digress. We're heading down to my Mom's house, as a belated birthday gift to my Mom. Adrien and I were supposed to travel there a few weeks ago, but I had the stomach problem and Adrien had the upper respiratory/double ear infection problem. Needless to say, neither of us was in the best of shape to be up for a four hour car trip.

Yes, you read right: four hours. I don't live in one of those tiny New England states whereby it takes only a few hours to cross the entire state. Oh no. I live in Texas. You could drive for 10 hours and still be in Texas. It's expansive. The second largest state. I digress, again.

So anyway, we're gonna saddle up and head for my Mom's house so that we can go to the Renaissance Festival tomorrow. It's very exciting for me. Up until I was 19, I was able to say that I'd been to this festival every year since I'd been born. My parents loved this place, and took me accordingly. When I was younger, I'd get all excited to go and I even saved up my allowance so I could buy a costume to wear. I love it there -- the gynormous turkey legs, the merriment, the costumes, the shows. All of it. It's also safe to say that my childhood trips to this place are some of the only happy memories I have of my parents when they were still together. Even still, after my parents divorced, I was still taken every year...generally either by one parent or the other, or on the happy occasion that I'd get to go twice that year; once with each parent. Maybe that's part of the reason I cherish this place so. Happy memories from my childhood are not abundant.

I remember waking up early one morning when I was five or so and springing into my parents bedroom to wake them up. Let's go to the Renaissance Festival, I begged. I really wanted to go. My parents tried to explain to me that it wasn't yet the time of year for the festival, and alas, I'd have to wait. I remember pleading with them that I'd pay for the whole thing, so long as we could go. I even remember getting my piggy bank -- it was full of pennies, of course. Yes, I loved this place then, and still do a great deal.

I supposed it's the magic of it all. As a child, you see the fairies in their costumes, and to you, they're real. You see the jousting tournament taking place and get caught up in the action. I'm sure I wanted to be the Princess the knights were jousting for...and to me, the Princess wasn't an actress in a costume: She was real. I think I've always felt as though I don't belong in this modern age. The Renaissance Festival was the perfect place for me to pretend (just for a day) that I wasn't in this day and time. It was an escape from reality, and I always hated to leave at the end of the day...but even Cinderella's magic wore off eventually, and she was forced back to her reality. After I'd gone each year, I remember hardly being able to wait for the next. And the next year came, the excitement and revelry were there again...no matter how fleeting the day was. For that one day I was at the Renaissance Festival took me out of whatever crap I was really having to deal with back in the real world. Just as I thought as a young child that I wasn't cut out for this modern society, I knew entirely too much about what went on in the lives of adults. The Renaissance Festival was my place to be a kid. No wonder I wanted it all the time.

I still see this place as magical. Even now, I can't wait to enter the gates there tomorrow, because it remains mostly the same as it was in my childhood. I remember all of the excitement and magic, and now I can't wait to share that with Adrien. I've told him about all the dragons and fairies he'll see there...all the fun he'll have. I know he doesn't have the slightest clue what I'm talking about, but I can't wait to share this wonderful childhood experience with him.

I hope it's as magical a journey to him as it is to me.

The cheese analogy

The people came. They stayed. They left.

Amazing, isn't it? The last one left around 2pm, and that ain't bad considering I was being more than just the happy hostess.

Remember the one I mentioned that had camped out at my friend's play date? Well she left around 1:30pm. She even eluded to "staying a while" at the last play date (in which instance I looked away from her and averted conversation). I was quite relieved when she'd left. I took in a deep breath and proceeded to tell the last girl there that I was carrying a lighter load with her absence. Indeed, I was. We'll call her Camper. Camper is strange. Nice, but strange. Her teeth are muddled with white and grey. Swirled, I'm sure, from either a lifetime of bad oral hygiene or lack of fluoride. She beckons from Missouri. Her husband works for a pool supply company. She's strange. Not someone I'd become best friends forever with.

The woman who left at 2, however? Well she's a new addition to our group, and someone I could (maybe) see myself being friends with. The problem with this mommy group thing is that it leaves little to no room for friendships. It's all about the kids. Every mom there says that. But is it really true? I know, for sure, that I didn't join the group when my son was a spry 6 month old so that he could go romp around. No. I joined for an excuse to get out of the house and socialize with other humans who did more than just coo and poop. It's not to say that I haven't made a few friends and many acquaintances through this group. I have. In fact, I'd venture to say I'd have no friends at all if it weren't for our meet ups. I just have to wonder to myself: How many friends is enough? And what defines friend from acquaintance?

Well, I tell you, a lot determines whether you are called friend or acquaintence in my book. I'm still not quite sure I have any true friends. I do. I know. Some of you reading this may balk at what I've just written. Hear me out.

Friends, to me, are people who you can go to with your darkest secrets. You tell them everything without fear of judgment. Moms? Well there's always fear of judgment from other moms. I mean, it's the nature of the beast. When you're a mom yourself, it leaves your personal life and parenting skills open season for judgmental fodder. So can you really, truly, befriend someone who could be judging your every movement? I don't know. But I try. Why? Because I'm lonely, I guess.

I miss friendships. Those ones where you are just flat out bored so you put in a phone call for some good talkin'. I miss sleep overs most, I think. Those get togethers of yesteryear, whereby you and a few other friends get together, stay up entirely too late and can hardly fall asleep due to the amount of gabbering. Boys, gossip; everything is talked about in full circles. Over and over again. It's a smattering of girlish nonsense. And I miss it. I really miss the friends I had to partake in those sort of things with. Can we just be honest with each other? Not when there's this motherly facade to keep. It's all about saving face...not reality.

Friendships these days seem to orbit around our own family lives: talk of boys has turned to talk of husbands...gossiping is relinquished to "can you believe so and so's kid acts like that?" It's really shallow, and more so than ever, you're left wondering what the others would say about you if you weren't present. The friendships of my today are framed in and ruled by the trappings of family life. Family is front and center, and somehow that leaves friendship to the fringes of personal socialization. I'm not saying that family shouldn't be the most important thing...it should. But why is it seemingly impossible to also hold friendships that cater to my needs? I need friends. Close friends.

This little matchstick edifice of a social circle I've gotten myself into bores the shit out of me. Bores me.

So, when the 2pm-er was lingering, I was happy. I recently found out that she was a painter. Or she calls herself that. OH my brain screamed...someone that shares something with me!!! I must latch on now. Friend alert! Friend alert! I was screaming full force at myself like that robot from that show. But the latch-on-nows soon turned to DANGER WILL ROBINSON, DANGER!

As desperate as I am for friends that I can have deep conversations with (outside of the, "so...how many times does little Evie poop every day?"), I offered nearly everything up to my possible new BFF.

Does your little one like chicken nuggets? I can cook some! So I did...eventually. But only after I was backhandedly asked "So...when's Adrien going to eat lunch". Apparently I wasn't preparing said mechanically separated chicken soon enough. Oh, I thought you'd be gone by now, I don't really want to cook any, I was just being nice.

Oh it is late, I replied. I want you as a friend, but I want you to leave right now.

And I promptly shoved some in the microwave...along with some peas and carrots. At this point Camper was still lurking. Her little one is too young for chicken nuggets -- I didn't offer any. Camper and 2pm-er sat at my kitchen table feeding their little ones. As if my scones and pumpkin biscuits hadn't been enough, 2pm-er starts to rummage through my pantry and fridge. I offered some pinto beans from the night before. Not to mention the fact that you just ate 2 of the nuggets I cooked for my own son.

Do you have any cheese, asked 2pm-er.

You can have some of this...I explained. And before I could offer a sensible portion, she'd cut off a 3 inch by 3 inch chunk of cheddar and was downing that...all the while her beans were heating up in the microwave.

Then she left the ziplock of uneaten cheese on my kitchen island.

I ate beans too.

Midway through this meal, Camper said it was time to go. And that's when my load lightened...slightly. I saw Camper off, and 2pm-er was still around.

After she'd finished with her beans, she was still rummaging about my kitchen. My fucking kitchen's not your personal grocery store, get your own food, bitch. I kept my smile going. I was really fishing for some friendship here. My nerves were being tested; my hospitality over extended.

If it's something sweet you want you've already eaten a million scones, fatass I have ice cream sandwiches.

I saw those. I never keeps snacks around like you do. I have no self control.

Oh really, I thought you had boat loads of control Miss Beans and nuggets and scones and biscuits and scones and I don't drink coffee, and I don't keep snacks, blah blah blah.

Oh, I said...I like snacks.

It went on and on. 2pm-er turned from possible friend to someone to stay away from.

If you eat half of the block of cheese I have left, what would you do with my friendship? I can't have someone as a friend who will constantly take more than their share...because, you see, I'm the one who will keep giving and giving. I'm like that. I hate takers. And you, Miss 2pm-er, are a full fledged taker.

2pm-er also kept commenting on how small her house was compared to mine (I only live in 1800 square feet, it's not a mansion, or FANCY as you called it).

She reveled at how my fridge has the freezer on bottom. She'd never seen one of those before. And that must be why she took half of my cheese.

I have purportedly fancy things, as she says. I suppose she thinks I'm all up for the taking.

I'm not all up for the taking.

Why's it so fucking hard to find real friends who don't want more of you than you're willing to give who eat you out of house and home, yet don't take the coffee that you offered?

And I supposed that's the cheese analogy. If you find yourself in the same boat with someone who is more than willing to see what all they can get out of you, then get out of that boat as soon as possible: it's going down.

No one drank any of my coffee but me. It wasn't gourmet coffee. It wasn't fancy. It was just a pinnacle of social offering, and no one partook. I should keep that as rule: those who do not drink my coffee will always take half of my cheese.

Don't touch the cheese, bitch.

The people are coming, The people are coming!

I have people coming over tomorrow. Real. People.

I mean, people that I'm not all too familiar with. Our play group has these snazzy little Mini-est Member Play Dates, and tomorrow is my day to host at my home. I don't want to clean my house, but I have to. I mean, a girl can't really have people over to a dump, can she?

I want my house to smell nice and I want it to be nice in general.

But let's get this straight: I'm not cleanin' it to the bones. That will only serve to ensure that I have to tidy beyond the fullest before the next get together. And we don't want that, do we? No.

I resolve, today, to clean my home to the point of normalcy and not beyond it. I don't want these moms I barely know to think too much of me. I want them to see what I've got, not despise it, but not feel pleasant enough about the situation to want to stay all day.

At the last Mini Play date -- held at my friend Erin's home -- two of the members made it their mission to camp out all day long. They stayed from 10am to a little after 4pm...which is, in fact, ridiculous. I will have it be known that no one will be staying past 1:30pm, whereby Adrien needs his nap and Momma needs some breathin' room.

I don't have a perfect house to present. It's not decorated just so. In fact, I'd hardly count it "decorated". I have a few random things hung on the wall...a wrought iron cross on the wall in the living room, a painting done by Andi's grandmother above the mantle. I do have my mantle haphazardly decorated with various Willow Tree knick knacks and candles. But my house is not model by any means. The carpet has stains. The furniture is all hand-me-down (except our bedroom suite, which no one will see). My walls are all (for the most part, save the blue office) the same color off-white the builder slapped up on every surface. The landscaping that is out front has weeds and grass growing throughout it...but the grass is freshly cut and the sidewalk edged. My home is rough around the edges just like me: relatively new, but not all dawled up for the everyday event.

So I want to send the right message to these moms I hardly know (save one, Erin, who's a good friend): I am not perfect, my house is not either...and that's a perfectly planned affair.

I will be the happy hostess and serve pumpkin biscuits and cranberry-almond scones (yes, I'm ripping a Starbucks recipe off -- but better, of course). I'm not doing it to be June Cleaver. I'm doing it so they'll realize just how much culinary talent I have.

I want them to swoon.

And then promptly leave.

Procastination?

...Well that's my middle name. My first one too.

I've known about a speech I have to give at BOTH church services tomorrow (less than 12 hours away) for a month -- at least. Here I sit, with no idea what to say. I've been "guided" in a topical direction by both the pastor and by a member of the Stewardship Committee, yet have no exact words on the tip of my tongue; no type flowing from my fingers -- save this entry, of course.

I have a crap load to say, unfortunately none of what flows through my head is suitable for a speech at church.

I should take some advice from one of the shows Adrien watches and just Think, Think, Think. But I can't.

It's been an eventful day, to say the least, and I'm quite frankly pooped. All I can think of is I bought ice cream sandwiches. I bought ice cream sandwiches. I did buy ice cream sandwiches.

I've eaten one. Now I think I may eat another.

Food for thought.

And then there's this little (tiny, insignificant) thought floating about in the chasm of my temporal lobe:

I'm praying to God saying, "Please Lord, don't let me start any other day with a call to 911 because my son's leg is wedged between the vertical slats that make up his crib. Because, God, ya know? When I had to start today that way it really put a damper on my poor little son. It put a damper on me. I cannot stand, for my son's sake, another bout of hysterics whereby my son is trapped in any way and cannot be free, save by four medics at 8:43am. No, Lord, I cannot have visions of the jaws of life cutting through my son's crib again (when in reality it was solved by an allen wrench), for it is that those visions and his pain were far too much, indeed. Thanks for everything else, though. Thanks for sending the medics in such a speedy manner. Thanks alot...really. Oh, and I think Adrien would like to thank you for creating men to in turn create chicken nuggets and ketchup. Thanks for ketchup. Amen."

See? Procrastination. And yes, that's a true story. I'll blog on it fully, later. And no, there were no jaws of life.

Blatantly B

So, I feel like my writing is slipping. A recent post by Candace at not that i don't love my kids has put into perspective my motives for writing. Of course I love getting hits, etc. But now I'm paranoid that I'm trying too hard. I believe I'm over thinking my posts -- most likely in this case too.

Anyhow, as a result, I was reviewing some of my older junk...the stuff I was writing like 70 some-odd posts ago. When I had literally 2 or 3 readers.

And here it is, Blatantly B. Blatantly bitchy, in most cases.

Here.
Sheila
Attack of the UberMom
Corn Syrup = Poison
The Next Jane Goodall

I mean, all of my stuff rocks your socks, I know. But I've tried to boil it down to my utter best.

(Belly laughter ensues, followed me assuring you that I was JK, Yo!)

...sure.

Pop Culture Counterpart...or not

Husband: Isn't that Bruce Springsteen?

Me: That's Elvis Costello.

Good Credit Report Vital to Good Mothering

Dear Lady in my play group:

I would like to know why, when responding the question of the week via message board, you felt the need to elaborate far too much.

When asked what the sequence of events would be like after you'd won the lottery, you -- as many of us did -- replied pay off debt. That is not an abnormal answer at all; very logical, indeed. It was what came next that was a little puzzling to me. You felt the need to follow "Pay off debt..." with "...under 3k". Now, why you felt the need to make that teeny tiny amount public knowledge is beyond me. I view you as a better mother due to your low accumulation of debt.

I believe -- as an organizer -- it is only fair that we allow mothers with good credit reports into our little group.

PS: I would also like to know how it is that your daughter escaped the play area and made her way fully up the escalator the other day at the mall while both you and your husband were present; neither of you missing her until some lady caught her and was screaming "Who's baby is this?!?" on her way up the escalator.

Sincerely concerned,

Me

Ode to food

I'm so flippin' hungry, but I've already eaten a meal...almost four hours ago. I want to eat. Not just eat, I'd like to binge eat. I think that all too often I daydream about all the stuff I want to eat. When I get there to eat, my appetite is so small that I can barely fit down half my plate of food. I guess that's alright. But what's a girl to do when she likes to clean her plate? It's such a satisfying feeling to eat. I love eating. It wasn't always that way, and still ebbs and flows as the weeks, days, hours and minutes of my life pass. My relationship with food is sticky. A little crusty around the edges, possibly. Taboo-ish, maybe. I don't hide the fact that I used to struggle with an eating disorder from anyone. And you -- yes YOU -- you may even have that little snippy thought in your head when you see me: Oh, she must never eat. But I do. I assure you that I do. And I eat a lot...or I used to.

Growing up I never had to watch what I ate. I know, you hate me. But blame my father's genetics. I could eat nearly everything in site (and most often did) with nothing to show for it. I was always an active child, and for some reason I actually liked to eat healthy. I remember disliking candy when I was little...I'd ask Santa for fruit rather than candy in my stocking. Nearly all of my Halloween candy would go uneaten, and only half of what was eaten was consumed by me. The rest was the work of my father's sweet tooth. One of my mom's favorite anecdotes is of me gnawing on broccoli through the plastic bag at the grocery store. She swears that it was my voracious appetite for veggies as a baby that drove this event and not my voracious need to chew on whatever I could get my infant hands on. Whatever the case, it was a parable of my early years. I was pretty healthy with my food choices...food wise, anyway. It's not to say that my emotional reasoning behind eating or not eating was healthy.

When I was 14, I was introduced to the word diet. I had a modeling contract. I had inches to lose. Places to tighten. A 14 year old being sent to a personal trainer. Then came emotional eating. When your own mother snaps at you about the carbs in a cracker you dig out of the pantry as a snack one afternoon, eating in secret becomes the norm. Guilt ensues. Calories are counted. And somewhere along the way, I ate (or rather didn't eat) my way to a lifetime of disordered eating. In retrospect, my eating was most likely always disordered. But that is another post entirely.

I remember the scary lady who was my "personal trainer" for a day. I remember all too well the words she said to me the one and only time my mom took me to her gym: You should view food as fuel for your body and nothing more. Nothing more? I started to bawl and the trainer was confused. She didn't understand why this had upset me so. It upset me because the thought of eating as a mere way to give your body fuel to burn took away this huge comfort. Eating was the teddy bear I had clung to in hard times. I love the way eating makes me feel. I love the food. I love the tastes. I love the smells. I love the social aspect; having that steak and eggs with my dad at that tiny country diner when I was 11 was so nice. I remember reporting valiantly to him that I'd cleaned my plate and eaten all of it. I love the memories food created in my mind. Looking back throughout my life, my memories are often earmarked by the food that was consumed at that moment. I can remember the taste of my Gran-gran's potato salad like it was yesterday. The mustard, the relish, the feel of the boiled egg in my mouth. She passed away long ago, and I'll never be able to physically taste her divine potato salad again, but the exact flavors and feelings are there; etched permanently in my memory. I love the way food fills you. It fills your senses; it fills your tum. It's instant gratification personified. I love food. Even through the tides of my hatred of food within my lifetime, I've loved it. For without true love, there is no true hate.

And so, here I am. It's nearly midnight and I just polished off a big fat sugary bowl of cereal. I'm not sure if I was truly feeling hunger at that moment, or if I just wanted something to fill a void within me. As with any vice, some is never enough and more just leads to that vicious cycle again. I never trust my hunger. I don't even know what true hunger feels like. That feeling was gone long ago -- either ignored long enough or filled up enough to never appear fully. For it is, I think, when I do feel hungry I am confused. I'm disoriented by my own silly relationship with an inanimate object that seems so alive in my mind. I often wonder what eating is like for people with normal relationships with food. Moreover, what's it like to not even have a "relationship" with food? What's it like to give fuel to the machine only? To stop when full? To eat when hungry? To recognize hunger as need? To recognize hunger at all? I wonder. Daily.

I love food and I love to eat. Right now I could eat and eat...and eat. I don't think it's hunger that's driving this urge. Whatever it is, I feel compelled to eat myself out of house and home. Everything. I resist, however, because I know better. A lifetime of restricting and recent illness has left me incapable of doing in excess the thing that I look to in these times. It's not to say that it's a bad thing...it's more to say that I'm mourning the current space between myself and food. My appetite is shrunken due to my shrinking stomach. The bad gallbladder that left me vomiting for a week has now betrayed my innermost yearnings: to eat enough to fill all the holes I have inside my heart. Since it's not quantity I am currently able to go after, it must be quality I've sought out. Instead of eating tons of food, all I crave are all the horrible things one should never want to begin with. Junk food.

Yes, I suppose, everyone's got their vice.

Shame, shame, shame

Shame on me, actually.

I'm just really paranoid now, since I've had some pretty nasty comments left in the past.

I would like to thank all of my loyal readers, though.

And I sincerely apologize if I offended any of you. I hope not.

Please visit the comments for this post and see any reply I may have made to you.

(That means you, Momof3! :-D ) I hope there's no hard feelings.

Seven things meme

I've been tagged by Missy at The fill in the [prefix]-est thing I saw today to write seven things about myself. I will then, in turn, tag seven others. The other seven people I'd like to tag are:

not that I don't love my kids
Kelly's Korner
Much to do about nothing
Baby Love Slings
mix'd equally
The Things we do
Would you please date my friend?

So that was kinda difficult -- rounding up all the blogs I read. So here we go -- 7 things about me:

1. I really can't stand laundry that is clean, yet goes unfolded...however I hate folding it and am generally the one that lets it sit.














That is a basket of unfolded laundry sitting in my bedroom at this very moment.


2. I love Vans shoes. But I hate how much they cost.














Me and Adrien's shoes. Daddy has some too -- but they're at work right now.

3. I really don't care what I eat or how fat I get most of the time -- until I start to gain the weight.

I thanked my husband for bringing me a pint of Blue Bell's Rocky Road Ice cream the other night. I want to get fat, I assured him.

4. I like to indulge in girly things, but I'm a total tomboy.

I'd like to get a pedicure and then afterwards, I'd like to go camping.

5. I like really loud rock and roll music. My favorite memories are from being front and center at concerts...

That's a friend and I outside of a concert -- a very long time ago. I'm the one on the left.

6. I am a painter and I consider myself somewhat of an artist.

If you don't like that painting, please feel free to -- take a deep breath and...blow it out your ass.

7. I never wanted children -- EVER. I never wanted to get married -- EVER. But I couldn't imagine my life any other way and I thank God every day for my wonderful husband and superb son. I love you guys!

Day at the Arboretum...again

We went to the Arboretum today.

No face painting this time, though. We'd (the mommy group) had forgotten it was Columbus day. I didn't even want to see the face painting line. The big kids were out in droves. There was a Eddie Coker concert going on too -- he was a riot! Schepps Dairy was there giving out free cartons of chocolate milk. Adrien got to have his first taste of this crack-for-kids. He loved it. Surprisingly, he managed to drink straight from the carton and not spill any. WOW. I'm not even sure I can do that, and I'm over 11 times his age. Check out some pics:

Chocolaty goodness in every gulp.

Here, Mom. You try!

I'm smiling because I'm checkin' out a hot chick.

We had fun. We visited the petting zoo this time and of course we got to play in the fountain. The fountain at this place is really cool. It has four humongous frogs at four corners that shoot water into the middle. In the middle there's a globe with other little things that shoot water up. The little ones have so much fun playing in it and getting all wet. Only in Texas would it still be 95 degrees out in October. Isn't it supposed to be fall? Remember the farm I said I thought I saw them setting up last time we went? Well it turns out, I was partially right. They have a hole walk-through exhibit featuring a "chocolate tree". There are different interactive stations that show the kids how chocolate is made from the tree all the way to the factory. You get a pass for a free sample of Dove chocolate at the end too. I guess that's a bonus.

I hope it starts to cool off soon. I bought some Perfect Autumn Pumpkin candles and other home fragrance stuff from White Barn Candle Company the other day. So now the house smells like Autumn -- but we still have the AC on 75. When will it end?

Everything here in the household is slowly getting back to ordinary (ordinary as in my own personal definition of it). I'm finally getting around to getting some things cleaned up (with the help of Andi, of course). I think I'm going to have to take Adrien back to the doctor though -- we've finished the round of antibiotics (last Thursday) but he's still tugging at one of his ears. I hate ear infections. I feel so sorry for him. I really don't want him to be in pain. But all in all, everything is good.

But really, I hope it cools off soon.

Things that go CRUNCH in the night

As a friend and I were leaving a Pampered Chef party this evening, we heard a distinct CRUNCH CRUNCH sound as we walked down the pathway from the hostess' home.

The hostess, being polite, walked us out with some brief conversation to go home on.

As she heard the crunching she commented, "Oh those snails. I guess they come out of the ground."

The leaves I thought I'd heard crunching were in all actuality snails being smashed beneath my feet.

I've taken a note from Missy in illustrating the event.

...I tiptoed the rest of the way down the pathway to my car.

Five steps to grief

I think I'm stuck between 3 and 4. Step 3 and step 4.

Step 1: Denial, numbness, shock

Step 2: Bargaining

Step 3: Depression

Step 4: Anger

Step 5: Acceptance
http://www.uiowa.edu/~ucs/griefloss.html

Those are the most common reactions to grief, and all in all the steps in the process to accepting the loss you've been faced with. I linger between depression and anger on most days, mostly in and out of depression. I'm over the anger -- mostly. There wasn't much to the denial part of it. There's no denying what's happening when you see it all being flushed down the toilet. Even when the doctor wanted to wait a few days to see what was happening, I was sure. I knew the moment I saw the spot in my panties. I knew I was losing the baby. It was hard to swallow at least, and at my worst I'd curl up in a ball on the floor and scream. I remember slipping in and out of numbness and pain...always in shock. The physical pain was easy to deal with. It gave me something to focus on other than the emotion of the situation...and my son, Adrien, gave me something to hold onto rather than the intangible bits of tissue I was being forced to flush away.

Bargaining isn't something that comes easy, but it's most of what occupies your mind while you're lying in bed at night and your brain refuses to rest. You replay the scenario countless times in your head. You wonder what you did to cause it: you're sure that you in some way caused it to happen. And even when your OB swears that miscarriage is such a common occurrence that it will happen to nearly every woman during her child-bearing years, it's hard not to feel like you're the only one. When you find out about others, and how many others there are, it seems like some cruel joke...or even worse yet, like a downplaying of your grief. I know, personally, that when someone would hear of my situation and they felt the need to relate an anecdote (be it their own loss or someone they've known), it only played further into the thought that it was inevitable and it would, inevitably, happen again. It seemed like around every corner there were more and more women who hadn't just suffered this experience once, but multiple times. At other times, it felt like my sadness was being passed off as a common occurrence, and therefore minute. I know that isn't the case, but one becomes very self-involved at these times...and that's alright, too. I remember all too clearly the blaming of myself. After all, who else's fault could it be? It had to be someone's.

And then, there's depression. I'm no stranger to it, having been diagnosed with clinical depression early in my life. There's nothing about this sort of grieving that can be fixed with any medication. Medications are for chemical imbalances and other neurological misgivings -- not miscarriages. My in-laws took Adrien for a few days so I could have time to myself. I felt selfish sending him off that way, but I was incapable of taking care of another human being. I could barely take care of myself. Those two and half days are such a blur: I spent them on my anxiety medication, in and out of bed...most constantly in my pajamas. I tried hard not to sit still for too long. I attended a play date without Adrien that was being held at a friend's house. It was good to sit and talk. I remember the coffee being exquisite. I went to Burger King with a friend afterward. It was good to keep going. Too long alone and I'd start to think too much. I push myself so hard and so fast those few days that I think I ran myself into the ground. If I kept going, nothing would have time to catch up with me...and it only recently has.

Anger was a constant for a while there...in more ways than one. I was angry that it had happened. I was angry that I couldn't find out why. Sometimes you don't get any closure, and I'm not sure if that makes it a harder pill to swallow...but it sure as hell feels like it. The weight of uncertainty and guilt push down on me every day. Back to the bargaining again -- the constant guilt that maybe I did something wrong. Or maybe just the fact that it was my bad genome that caused the death to occur. I was angry that my sister in law could so easily become pregnant so soon after my loss -- in her first month of trying. I think "jealous" may be more suited than "anger". I was angry that she was plastering her pregnant status all over MySpace for the world to see. I was angry that she would have the new baby and I wouldn't. Why did she get joy when I was getting pain? Short lived was my anger, and it soon turned to shame. Although I feel my anger was founded and her actions were brash, she too soon learned what loss was all about. There's a horrible part of me that things her blighted ovum was a blessing to our family: we won't have to endure as she and her husband rejoice in new life. We'll all grieve together, respectively. Maybe she has a new perspective on how it felt for me to read her constant I'm Pregnant! updates via bulletin on a networking site. Maybe now she'll understand why I asked her to change her screen name when it read (nothing less than) Pray for a healthy baby. She refused to change her screen name and insisted I should pray for her: she was praying for me. It was easy to channel my anger at her. So easy to throw things and want to hurt myself when I found out she was pregnant. It was harder, however, to deal with the anger I felt for myself...and for my husband who's feelings I couldn't understand. I could hardly see outside the scope of myself, how was I supposed to understand anyone else's feelings? Anger was the easiest step. Being angry is easier than hurting.

Finally, acceptance. I'm not sure if I'll ever get to that point. I'm sure it will become easier to deal with, but I'm not sure I'll ever accept anything that happened. How can you accept something when you're not even sure why it happened. I wish I could say I had some sort of worldly perspective on how to achieve this heightened state. Somehow, I just think it's like Nirvana: something to strive for, but impossible to reach when you're not at peace. I don't think I'll ever accept; merely learn to live with.

So here I sit, perched between depression and anger. I'm only just now letting it catch up with me -- sitting still long enough to allow the pain to seep in. Lying in bed with my husband earlier, I started to cry. I want my baby back, I sobbed. He asked if I as ready to try for another. I'm not. I'm terrified it will happen again. Besides, I'm not through grieving yet. I think I've just begun. I keep running away from it, and it's finally catching up. I've resorted to buying things to try to block it all out. Maybe If I buy enough possessions, I could build a wall to keep it out. Maybe If I find enough things to keep myself occupied, I'll be able to outsmart it. I doubt it though. I think it's catching up with me very quickly...and I'm afraid.

Oh, yes.

I just went shopping.

I just spent entirely too much money.

It was amazing.

Attack of Hydrogemommy.

Okay, so I'm not on an eternal quest to be the perfect mommy. I think that went out the door long ago. I'm also not on any sort of quest whereby I pretend to be a perfect mommy the whole way through. Why? Well I'm fallible for one, and second, I don't like to pretend to be something I'm not. That takes too much work...and I -- my friends -- am a slacker.

I've got it clear with myself that I am not perfect, nor do I try to be. Or do I? I always end up feeling horrible about the most trivial things. Things that all lead to one sum: lack of perfection. For instance, I've been sick a lot lately and as a result have been lacking in the culinary department. I readily admit that I'm not the mom who always cooks the most nutritious of meals, but I do cook every night (generally). Well not lately. I can't count how many times we've went out to eat or had fend for yourself night the last few weeks. I most likely can count (on one hand, no less) the number of nights I've cooked: two. I would say three, but I'm more sure it's two. I've cooked two nights out of the last how many? Not only does that make me feel like a crappy mom, but a crappy wife to-boot. Mommy guilt and wife guilt. Does it get any better? Another example is painted picture perfect right before you -- or rather before the screen in front of which I'm sitting...wearing my pajamas...at 3pm. I'm still in pajamas. At 3pm. I amaze myself. My kitchen is a mess; a jumble of dirty dishes and mail we forgot about...little bits and pieces of electronics and uneaten baby carrots turned projectile that were long ago lost under the fridge. What else do I have to feel less-than-perfect about? Ah, yes: the laundry. What laundry does get done almost assuredly is washed and dried by my husband. What's worse is that it then sits, laundered, unfolded in some basket in my bedroom. When it does get folded -- out of annoyance by either myself or my husband -- it generally gets flip flopped from laying on the bed to back in the basket. I mean, how hard would it be to hang it up or put it away? Apparently very.

But mostly, I feel bad about not cooking. Last Wednesday before Wednesday night church I dropped by Sonic to pick up a kids' meal for Adrien so that he could actually eat. I never thought I'd be doing that. I never thought I'd be offering a corn dog and french fries to my son as a viable meal. We have dinner served at church on Wednesday nights, but I'm so busy with my assistant director duties that I can't do that and keep up with a toddler...so I guess a corn dog was a good solution? Then on Sunday night we had the new member dinner at church. We weren't sure what was going to be served so we stopped by McDonald's to pick up a happy meal for Adrien beforehand. He was happy -- I was guilt-laden. I mean, I used to never even eat McDonald's myself...and feed it to a child? Well that was just blasphemous! But it's something that happens frequently now. Not frequently as in every day -- just frequently as in a few times/month. I used to be the mom who was astonished when I heard of someone feeding a 9 month old Eggo frozen pancakes for breakfast...oh wait, I still am. I was at McDonald's once not too long ago and saw a mom feeding her child who was under a year old french fries...you have to know what I was thinking at that point. But then I realized that I was feeding my just over a year old kid french fries.

That's it -- I refuse to turn into hydrogemommy.

I wonder how it is that my journey toward raising a child not chemically altered by the likes of fast food or growth hormones took such a sharp careening turn straight for it? I'm not sure, but one can only assume I was driven there by sleep deprivation and good dose of reality.

Poop Stamp

Max got out of the fence last night. I called the micro chipping company to report him missing. About 30 minutes later we got a call from someone saying that they thought they had our dog. They did. Andi met the guy at the elementary school across the street to retrieve the beagle. Thank goodness the guy who had Max was nice enough to want to meet us to return him at 11 o'clock at night...and nice enough to call the number on his tag. But seriously: I was so afraid he was going to get hit by a car. Ohmigoodness.

So anyway, Adrien and I went to the Arboretum today. It was so much fun! Generally when we go with the play group, we've always gone on Mondays -- Mommy and Me Mondays. Mondays are always packed. This time, however, we went with the group on Tiny Tot Tuesday and there were not many people at all. Generally the face painting line is a mile long, but today we only had to wait a very short time. Actually, I hadn't planned on getting Adrien's face painted at all because he's so little, but my friends talked me into it. I'm glad we got it done, it was too cute! It lasted for about 45 minutes or so until we went to play in the water fountains, and then of course it we running down his little face. It was cute while it lasted though. Take a look!

My little Punkin' head. Everybody say awwwwww.

The Arboretum was fun. They have pumpkins set up everywhere and all sorts of fall-themed decor. The flowers are, of course, great....and it looked like they were setting lots of new fun stuff up. From what I saw, it looked like they were getting ready to set up a little farm area complete with grain silo -- but I could be wrong. All the little kid-sized buildings of whatever they were getting ready to set up -- silo or no silo -- were wrapped in plastic and crews were getting ready to assemble whatever it was. So much fun. It definitely looked like Autumn, but it sure didn't feel like it. It was hot as all get-out.

So I was getting ready to leave for the Arboretum this morning, packing up a picnic and snacks; cutting up strawberries. I had heard some rustling in the living room, but didn't pay much attention. Adrien was busy watching The Koala Brothers in the living room. Suddenly, Adrien walks into the kitchen -- naked as a jay-bird -- and hands me his diaper...which is full of poop. I was astonished. Before I could grasp the situation at hand and dispose of the diaper, Adrien was on his merry way back into the living room to watch more TV or something. He was on his way toward my carpet. No sooner than I could grab him and keep him on the tile in the kitchen, he's already made his way onto the carpeting, apparently falling, leaving a poop stamp right in the middle of my floor.

What was it I was saying the other day about Adrien generally not pooping on my floor?

So I'm still recovering. Adrien is just dandy though. I don't remember if I blogged about it -- I don't think I did -- but Adrien had/has two ear infections. I took him in for his wheezing, and low and behold found out he had ear infections. Another round of Amoxicillan. Yay. He seems to be doing better. As for me? Although I don't think I'll be dying any time soon (from my gallbladder anyway), It sure as heck feels like it. I'm at least functioning now...and so far I haven't barfed since last Wednesday. I'm just getting these horrible, debilitating pains at the bottom of my sternum/top portion of my tummy randomly. They strab straight through to my back, and as it's worst travels all the way up my throat. I guess I should get in to see the doc...but I really don't want to. I'm going to have to. I only have three pain pills left for the pain -- and they're technically outdated...although they still seem to work. As you can see, it's been a while since I've been in for my gallbladder. I just get sick so frequently, I figure what the heck, ya know? About a year ago when all of this started, no doctor seemed to know exactly what do about it. As I said before, it was mentioned that I should maybe get the tiny useless organ removed...but I don't want to go through surgery. No fun. But this pain and nausea isn't fun either. Oh well, it's an easy way to lose weight.

I am not.

There are many things that I am not. I am not super organized. I am not a complete neat freak (any more). I am not obsessed with the way I look. I am not good at math. I am not as well traveled as I would like to be. I am not a person who likes Brussels sprouts. I am not an avid reader. And, perhaps, I am not a pet person.

I've come to discover this over the past few days.

It's a strong possibility that I am just not cut out for a pet. My father rather forcefully gave Andi and I a chihuahua puppy when we were still in college. His wife had gotten it and then decided she didn't really want it, so therefore I just needed it. After all, I'd had a chihuahua growing up who had died right after I'd moved away to college. So I took it in. When Simon (the chi) was about 7 months old and I was about 4 months pregnant, Andi and I decided we couldn't take care of him any longer. I worked long hours and so did Andi. The poor little guy was alone all day...and he just didn't deserve that. Simon had bonded with Andi's dad, so we sent him to live with Andi's parents. He still lives there to this day and is very content. He had 17 acres to run around on, after all. So, then, Andi and I thought perhaps we were more of the cat type. While visiting my Mom one January afternoon, Andi was outside and heard the cries of a kitten in a tree. He climbed up, saved it, and soon we had a cat. A little black cat named Freddy (short for Freddy Mercury). A cat -- great! we thought. The perfect pet from all perspectives: self sufficient, perfectly capable of self potty training; not the most needy of animals. We had to get the one cat that had separation anxiety. After we'd had Freddy about two weeks or so, he had to go. The straw that broke the camel's back was when Freddy yowled all morning long after Andi had gotten in the shower. The darn cat was upset because he couldn't be in the same room with Andi for 10 minutes. It sounds very sweet -- but let me assure you, at 5am when you're 5 months pregnant and have a job where you're on your feet all day, it is anything but sweet. Freddy went bye bye. We haven't had a pet since...and I've been very reluctant to get one. I didn't want pet odor in our new house. I didn't want dog or cat hair everywhere. Adrien, however, loves dogs. We thought the dog would be the perfect addition to our family.

Last night, that perfect addition vomited over and over again all over our carpet, woke us up repeatedly overnight and escaped from the back yard at 3am after he'd woken us up and we assumed he needed to potty...the 3am waking was right after the midnight waking. I called the vet about the vomiting, by the way. They said beagles just get "worked up" sometimes. I think he vomited a total of five times or something. We had to remove his water and food dish because he'd go drink water and then throw it up three minutes later. I'm talking copious amounts of doggy vomit...all over my white carpet.

That's how many nights in a row now that I haven't gotten any sleep? I think I've figured it out: I am not a pet person.