a day in the life...

The girls lost TV privileges last night for not listening.  For three days, because that's the number that came out of my mouth with exactly zero forethought or consideration when I was doling out their punishment.  They're actually being punished because they poked a hole in Daddy's air mattress, by jumping around on it when they'd been told over and over not to do that, to lie down and watch their movie or we'd put it up.  It was patched easily, but still, when you don't listen and you break things that belong to other people, there needs to be repercussions.  Television and candy are the only currencies my children recognize and in my efforts not to give them food issues I'm trying really hard not to give them candy and treats as a reward for good behavior and, as such, I don't withhold those things when they've been naughty, either.  But TV, that magical rabbit hole, I can take it away and they feel it to their core.  They're like little junkies, and those first few hours without are always rough, but even more so if you don't have something else planned, which, of course, I did not last night as I capriciously bellowed out their sentence.  But whatever.  It's not like I planned the second kid, either - living life by the seat of my pants over here.

Cora is in a phase.  She'll be 3 in two short days, so I'm going to rely on the old fall back and straight up blame her wild behavior lately on her tender age.  She is wild, though.  WILD.  If you're reading this, maybe you've noticed the Instagram feed over there on the right - did you catch the picture of her covered in enamel model paint?  She'd been upstairs for a few minutes.  Geneva was up there too, but it's a large space for two little girls, and it's not unusual for them to play separately.  I don't know what I was doing downstairs - laundry, dinner, cleaning, drinking - but I realized I hadn't heard from her in a few full minutes.  I started up the stairs as I called her name, and I smelled it immediately - you know the smell, that fumey paint smell.  Oh shit was my only thought, and then she came around the corner and I said it out loud, "Oh shit."  Her right arm was a swirl of sticky purple and red and white and black enamel paint, the sort that comes in tiny glass jars to be applied to miniature figurines with tiny little brushes; her left hand was the same, up past her wrist, and her chin and cheeks were similarly styled.  Cora had found these 10 year old glass bottles on a shelf in a closet, unscrewed the lids, and had, I can only imagine, poured the paint into her hands and rubbed it onto her face and arms as if it were lotion.

In a blur, I checked her over with my hands and eyes the way a mom will, making sure she didn't have it in her eyes, her nose, her mouth - somehow, she didn't. I was yelling for Jimi at the same time, thinking in the back of my head, "He'll know what to do, he'll know an easy way to fix this, he knows something about everything."  When he put his head into the stairwell and saw us there, saw colorful Cora, I saw the oh shit in his eyes, and his words only backed that up - he had no idea was to do, and he sounded a little higher pitched than normal.  I don't want to say he was panicking, but he was close - he was scared, and that scared me too, but also, strangely, it made me calm down nearly immediately.  I used my calm serious voice, the one that is very matter-of-fact, and as he stripped her down in the bathroom, I walked into the kitchen, grabbed the Dawn dish soap and my phone and delivered the Dawn to the bathroom as I googled "how to remove testors model paint from skin".  The answer, if you're not interested in googling, is vegetable oil and glycerin soap.  We had vegetable oil, and the CVS up the road had glycerin soap I figured, so I left Jimi and the paint-covered child in the bathtub with a gallon-bottle of Crisco Vegetable Oil and headed to the CVS.  They had glycerin - not soap, but in a little squeeze bottle.  I figured it would work well enough, and it did, with the Dawn, and with poor Jimi rubbing and sudsing for nearly an hour.  He even got it out of her hair.

That's sort of the way it is with her right now.  The Friday before the paint incident, thirty minutes after I'd left to head over to visit a friend, she apparently decided to try to change her own poopy pull-up and covered the bathroom in shit.  I missed that completely, thank goodness.  Poor Jimi.

But yeah, 2 days before 3. She's sunshine and rainbows and silver linings - she wakes up happy every single morning; she's quick to tell me she loves me and that I'm her favorite and that I'm beautiful; when she gets in trouble she says "I'm so sorry, Mommy.  I'm so so sorry." But she's also into everything, like a little tornado.  She bounces from one thing to the next without a break in between.  I'm regularly surprised to find myself cleaning one mess while she makes another mess, again, for the 4th time, and we've only been home for an hour.  I should stop being surprised, probably, but how realistic is that?  I'm still ever the optimist, thinking all day at work about how much I miss my precious little angels and how they are going to be so sweet and loving and well behaved once I pick them up from daycare and we head home to a fabulous evening of family dinner, a game or two, maybe a walk around the block, then bath, story, bed...and then I actually pick them up and one of them is in a shitty mood and the other just wants to play but it's at the absolute most inopportune time because we're in a parking lot and there are cars and also other parents but I don't give much of a fuck about what they think but I do still care a little because i'm not going to yell "get the fuck over here right now!" the way I'd really like to do.  And then the pouty one pouts her way into her carseat as I wrestle the playful-turned-screaming-banshee one into hers and by the time I'm buckling myself into my seat I'm angry and my heart is racing and what the fuck I looked forward to THIS all day?!

But I am still an optimist, because some nights are nights like tonight, when Geneva had a good report from her teacher and was giddy with the praise, and Cora ran into my arms and hugged me and said "I missed you so much!"  We laughed our way to the car, the three of us, and got buckled without any breakdowns. Cora is newly forward-facing, so she can talk and interact in a brand new way.  We talked and sang the new Taylor Swift song on the drive home, then we danced to Katy Perry and Psy in the dining room until it was dinnertime, when we changed the playlist to The Avett Brothers.  Dinner was delicious, and so was the piece of Halloween candy they each got to choose from their stashes after dinner. 

They wanted to paint, so we made it happen.  Cora had a shower, then we played Baby Store.  We can't watch the store being built, aka them getting naked down to their underwear/pull-up (presumably because new babies are naked under their blankets?)  and into their blankets, so if we don't hear them the first time they call us to come shopping, or if we don't come to the store quickly enough, Geneva - who up to this point has given instructions to us in her lilting sweet voice "Pretend you wanted two little girls who were perfect for you but you had to go to the baby store to buy them and me and cora were the babies you buyed" - will break character and scream out in her angry voice "Mom!! You have to come buy us!"  When we go into the store (usually the living room), they'll be laying on the floor or on the couch in pretend baby beds, wrapped in bedsheets or quilts that have probably been found in the basket of clean blankets and sheets I've just carried up from the laundry room, where said blankets and sheets were just as likely to have been washed because they'd been drug across the floor by these two versus having actually been used as bedding on a bed.  They'll be goo-ing and ga-ing and making little baby-like noises, and my job as the mom is to walk up to each one of them, fawn over how precious they are, and then ask them if they want to come home with me and be my new baby girl.  They always say yes, and I never have to actually pay anyone - I just pick them up and carry them to whatever part of the house Geneva has designated our pretend home, and then we either play kitchen or start all over.  Sometimes Cora is already my baby and she and I go to the store together to buy her a sister.  Tonight the game was Jimi didn't want any babies, but said I could have some if I wanted them. I went to the store, picked out each baby individually, then carried her to her daddy, who cooed and gooed over each girl in turn. 

They were both thrilled with their game of make-believe, and didn't argue a bit when I announced bedtime/story time.  We read a PeppaPig story about George and his dinosaur balloon.  I held Cora a moment and snuggled her, but she wanted down - and promptly climbed over the rail and into her crib, where she covered herself up and said, "Goodnight, Mommy, I love you."  Jimi came in to pat her as he sang to us all. Geneva was mad when I said I was going to sit with her rather than lie down in her bed - I've slept in there a lot the last few nights at her request and my back is a wreck because of it.  She pouted, but I held her until she was over it and she let me tuck her back in without argument.  She told me she loved me, I fluffed her blanket three times, and the night, that part of my night, the awake electric bright white part of my evening, was over.

And here I sit with the dregs of hot tea turned cold, surprised at how long it took to tell you those things and at how good it felt.  At how good it feels.  These are the days I want to remember.  These are the stories I want to tell. 

Also:  Last night, Cora fell asleep early, so we sat at the table and ate dinner as a family of three.  We were probably 2 hours in to our television moratorium.  Geneva loved the mashed potatoes and asked for seconds.  She loved her family.  She was so happy to be eating dinner as a family.  She liked the green beans a little.  (These are all things she told us, verbatim.)  She and I played Go Fish after dinner until bedtime - we tied once and I won once.  She didn't even pout - she kept proclaiming how much fun she was having.  There's seriously something to this no TV thing.  I think our Netflix is suddenly broken...

Cuppa

Tea at 11. P, that is. Caffeine fee, of course.

Thinking. Always replaying. I could've i should've done that so much better...

Tomorrow I will...  Tomorrow, I will. I will, tomorrow.

What if tomorrow never comes?  What if I never do better than I did today?  What if today was my absolute best?

I know better.

It's hard. All of it. Everything. Even when it's easy, it's still hard.

And beautiful. And perfect. And everything I always said I'd always wanted.

Tea finished, hour late, alarm early.

Goodnight. Until tomorrow.

Today is a good day.

I rode my bike last night.  Only for 20 minutes or so, but my butt is sore this morning, so it totally counts for something.  It felt so nice outside, and feeling that breeze on my face as I pedal along - I really love that feeling.  I told Jimi last night I wanted to get up and go to the gym this morning - some mornings he stays in bed while I get up with the girls, and I wanted to make sure he knew I had a plan for the morning and it required him to be up and at 'em.  (He's so good to me, I am trying really hard to not set him up for failure, and I know that if I hadn't said anything, and he tried to catch a few more minutes of sleep, I'd end up pissed at him for ruining my plans I made in my head and never shared with him.  That's not very fair, and he never does that crap to me but I do it to him all the time.  So I'm working on it.)  Cora had us all up by 6, and she and I were both super congested and coughy.  I nearly talked myself into skipping the workout, but dammit, that's what I do every other day.  If I want to feel better, to do the things I enjoy, like working out, I have to stop making excuses and skipping shit all the time.  I'm 37 and I've never stuck with anything I've started except this marriage and parenting these girls and I'm probably only sticking to these things because Jimi is just amazing and parenting isn't one of those things you can just quit doing.  So I went to the gym. I walked Finn first, even.  And then I went to the gym, and it was as awesome as I remember.  I felt strong and got sweaty and my muscles got that awesome shaky feeling - I love everything about working out except trying to get myself to go do it.

The girls are sweet today.  Loving and laughing and playing together without fighting and not whining.  I bought mini ice cream sandwiches and some fruit snacks at the grocery yesterday - they are a hot topic of conversation today.  Geneva has been asking for fruit snacks and trying to negotiate her way into some all day - the final agreement is she can have some with snack, at 10 a.m.  She has to eat her carrots first, though.  (She chose carrots - the other options were broccoli and cauliflower, but carrots won out.)  That's good - she eats carrots by themselves.  Broccoli and cauliflower require Olive Garden Italian Dressing for dipping, as does salad.  But they eat veggies, dammit.

Looks like we have a Costco trip in our future today; Cora needs more Claritin. I still need to address that laundry.  Oooo!  Tonight is Game of Thrones.  I love Sundays.  I love today.  I love this silly little life.

Priorities.

Oh, it was so good.  Almost all of it.  We went to the library for preschool playtime, where the girls listened to stories, played games, made crafts, and had a snack.  Then we went to the park.  Cora was asleep when we got there, so Jimi stayed in the car with her while G ran for the playground, and Finn and I hit the trail.  I let him off leash a little ways in, and it was going fine until he pooped.  I stopped to pick it up, he kept going and disappeared around the corner.  I called for him for a few minutes, trying to decide if I should backtrack or continue on.  I'd just decided to keep going when I heard his tags and saw his fluffy white tail bobbing along in the green of the trees.  To my pleasant surprise, he wasn't covered in poop.  I fully expected him to be covered in poop.  He likes to run off, find poop, and roll in it.  Good boy, Finn.  When we made our way back to the playground, Cora was just waking up and the girls were both ready for their hike, so we went back into the loop again.  We kept Finn on his lead this time.  G kept saying how wonderful this was, and how much she loved hiking with her whole family, and saying, "Thank you, Mommy, thank you, Daddy, for taking us here today."  She is so stinking sweet.  Cora wanted to run, which is good, because she's a slow walker, but when she runs she keeps right up.  She also wanted to run along the edge of the trail and wiped out a few times because of it.  I just knew the child was going to end up down in a holler, but she managed to keep her footing along the most treacherous parts.  (There were no treacherous parts.)  We stopped at the grocery on the way home and I ran in alone to grab the few things we needed, then we went home and the girls at ham and carrots and cauliflower and had a special fruit snack treat when they were finished.  Then I let them watch something, because we were all tired.  After their show, they played upstairs a little, but G really wanted to ride her bike, so Jimi took them outside while I stayed in and took a nap.  I've washed one load of laundry.  I've folded zero loads of laundry.  We had a great day, though, so we've got that going for us.

You may regret reading this. I'm almost sorry in advance.

I vacillate regularly between feeling like I'm absolutely fucking winning at life and feeling like I am a complete screw-up who does everything wrong.  I remind myself constantly that I'm doing just fine - I'm not in a competition, and if I was, there are people who do things wrong way more often than I do.  The more I talk to the women in my life, the more I realize that we're all the same, experiencing these same crazy thoughts and emotions.  When are we ever going to be "grown up"?  Is that even a real thing, or just some illusory crap we make up when we're little  - maybe growing up really is just a literal thing.  Maybe we just get bigger, not anymore put-together. 

I know that's not true, of course.  I know some people who appear to have their shit together.  Appear to.  It could all be a farce - they all have secrets I'll never know about that cause them secret guilt and angst, I'm certain.  Because we all do, don't we? 

I almost lost my blog.  Again.  That happened once before, years ago, when I was just home from Texas and trying to get my shit together after my divorce.  I talked a lot of shit about my ex-husband in that blog - no lies or vitriol, just flat out facts as I saw them, even the dirty ones - and, well, he didn't care much for that once he found it.  I have a bad habit of using the same passwords, and he had someone hack my shit and delete it.  I didn't have a backup. I'm still really sad about that when I think about it, which is almost never.  I wrote something about my Granny that I'd really like to still have.  And I'd probably like to reread some of that tripe at some point, maybe.  Maybe not.  It'd be nice to have the option to ignore it. 

This time it wasn't that sort of thing.  This time, I had an expired credit card linked to my domain registration, and then couldn't remember the admin username or password to log in and make the necessary updates.  For weeks, I tried every few days to reset the shit, and for weeks, Google returned the same frustrating message: We cannot verify it's you.  WTF Google?  Did you not just send me a fucking message to this fucking account? 

Whatever.  So my domain expired on July 24.  I got a final notice on Wednesday, and so I decided to make one last-ditch attempt, vowing that I'd then call the helpdesk and talk a live person and make them fix my shit.  I'm not sure what different links I clicked on this time, but there in the middle of the screen I saw what I needed: "Your domain name may be (domainadmin@____)".  What the hell, I figured - I went back to the login screen...sure as shit, there it was.  Ta Da! 

And that's the story of how I secured my domain registration at least through 2019.  Goshdang I tell a great story.  :/


 

Timing is everything.

Today is February 28, 2016.

Ten years ago today, my world...the go-to line here is to say "my world shattered", or "my world fell apart," but ten years out, it doesn't feel like that anymore, so to write that feels fake and overly dramatic.  Ten years ago today, my first husband, whom I shouldn't have married in the first place, told me he wanted a divorce.  My whole life I've heard things like "You forget the pain of childbirth," and I always thought that was probably bullshit, until I went through it twice without pain meds and realized a few months out that the details of the pain were fuzzy and that it doesn't seem like it was all that bad when I look back.  I know that's bullshit, because it hurts like hell, but time softens the razor edges.  Heartache is like that too - it gets dull with time.  I guess that's why it feels disingenuous to claim my world fell apart back then, when he said those words to me.  I still remember those words: "Fuck it, I'm done. I'm coming back to El Paso, I'm getting my shit, and I'm done."  Or something like that.  That's probably not an exact quote anymore; it's been a long time since I remembered that day in any real detail. 

The truth is that by the time he said those things to me, I'd been hoping for so long that he'd say them that it was a relief they were finally out there.  So while I was scared and sad and heartbroken, I was also relieved and excited and ready to start a new life.  I was shaky with the anticipation and dread of it all; the dichotomy was so strong.  Change is always scary, even when it's good for you. 

In the aftermath of that breakup, my mom called me brave.  Of all the words she's spoken to me, those are the ones I carry with the most pride.  My Momma thinks I'm brave.  Because I moved away from home, across the country, to be with a man I loved...and because I moved back home, across the country, when he no longer loved me.  It would be easy to shrug it off, to diminish the chances I took with both of those moves, to say I'd been foolish, not brave.  Momma is right, though; I was brave.  I can totally do hard things. 

I quit my job this past Friday.  The one I used to love.  The one I'd come to refer to as a "soul-sucking whore".  I'd like to tell you that I was a brave badass and told them all to go fuck themselves before I walked out without warning, but that's not how it went down at all.  Not even a little bit.  The true story is that I started job-hunting back in November.  I created a brand-new badass resume; the benefit of doing all the things for nearly nine years is that it gave me a ridiculous amount of experience and crazy skills in so many different aspects of running a business - I am an absolute rock star on paper.  I went on a few interviews, one of which I bombed spectacularly.  That threw me into a funk for the end of December and most of January, so I stopped job-hunting and started eating instead.  I gained 15 pounds in 4 weeks, and avoided my friends for the better part of two months. I decided I'd stay where I was until annual bonuses came out in March, then I'd start looking again. 

Instead, a man called me in late January.  He said he'd found my resume online - one of the jobs I'd applied to in the thick of my search required creating/uploading your resume to the site, and I'd made it searchable because, you know, why not?  I never expected anything to come of it, and I was completely skeptical of this guy when he called me out of the blue.  But the work was similar to what I've been doing, and he said he could meet my salary requirements, so I agreed to meet him for an interview.  I liked him right away, but I was leery, and still licking my proverbial wounds from my magnificent flop back around the holidays. I asked questions in the interview such as "how often do your employees cry at their desks?" and "what's the worst part of this job?" and "how much time do you require from your people after hours?"  Things I probably never would have said if I'd been courting them, but I'd decided I was all out of fucks and if this guy didn't like me, it was no skin off my hide.  I hadn't gone searching for him, after all.  I didn't follow up with an email or thank-you card; in fact, I didn't even call him back on the day I'd said I would.  But he called me, and wanted to sit down again, so I met him and his right-hand-gal at the local Vietnamese restaurant for lunch one day.  I liked her, and I liked her answers to my crazy questions, specifically the one about crying at your desk - it was as if I'd grown a second head.  Apparently that's not normal stuff in normal jobs?  Who knew?

Less than a week after that lunch meeting, my (now former) boss called me into his office.  A VP had sent out an email (presumably while hung over from last night's scotch binge) that basically said I was incapable of doing any portion of my job correctly or effectively.  He didn't start the email off that way - in a style that is very much his own, he was responding to a problem I'd highlighted on one of his pet projects, and in his efforts to deflect blame, his message devolved into an attack on my professional reputation I've worked tirelessly to build for the last 9 years.  Thankfully, only my boss and direct supervisor were copied.  Thankfully, my boss knew better.  Thankfully, my direct supervisor, when confronted by my boss to discern if there was any truth in the accusations, could not provide a single solitary circumstance in which the VPs words would've been true.  I went home that night determined that I was going to find a way to be gone within a month - I could not work there anymore.  If that drunkard was saying untruths of that level about me in an email to my boss, who was he speaking them to out loud?  He was going to ruin me professionally within the company, and I'd spent too many years killing myself for that place to go out like that. 

The next morning, at 8:30, I received a phone call with a job offer.  With a twelve percent base salary increase.  With monthly bonuses.  Company paid cell phone.  Immediate vacation, insurance, retirement.  I waited until the following Monday before I turned in a four-week notice.  In retrospect, I should've given the assholes two weeks and been done, but I'm too dedicated for my own good, I guess. 

I'm hesitant to use words like Fate or Destiny, but it sure does feel like things in my life have a way of working out with excellent timing.  And I'm not religious, so I don't like to throw around the term Blessed very often, but more and more I find that's the perfect word to describe my life and the things that happen to me.

My divorce from my first husband was finalized September 29, 2006.  Jimi and I started dating less than a month later.  Ten years later, here we are - house, dog, two beautiful people we made with our love for one another.  It's amazing to me how different today was compared to that day a decade ago.  Everything I wanted back then is everything I have now.  My life today is the reason I was able to walk away then - my determination to have THIS life rather than THAT life.  Every tear was worth it; as in childbirth, every wave of pain was worth the life that was born from it. 

I'm so thankful my ex-husband was more brave than I and was able to say those words that set us both free from an unhappy marriage.  I wouldn't have this if he hadn't done that.  And I am so thankful for this life. 

I begin my new career on March 7 - I'm taking this next week to clean my house, declutter my head, have lunch with girlfriends, buy some business casual clothes, and, of course, celebrate the 3rd anniversary of the birth of my beautiful eldest daughter.  It's a celebration, yo! 

Life is awesome.  I can't wait to see what happens next. 

Saturday

Blogging on the go?  Can that be a thing?  Probably not. There just aren't enough hours.  Today it's a thing though. Look!  Words!  Blog! 

I want to be a woman who does things.  Blogging.  Cooking.  Painting!

I bought canvases and oil paints and a wooden pallets and some brushes and a desktop easel.  I know nothing about oil painting. This should be interesting.  I've wanted to paint with oils my whole life. Time to make it happen. I'm not getting any younger.

What are you doing today?  If you weren't doing that, what would you rather be doing?

"I'm gonna start blogging again," she said.

Heh.  Famous last words, spoken on this blog no fewer than at least once or twice before, I'm pretty sure.


Guys, I'm on fire.  Not Literally.  If I was literally on fire, I would be stopping, dropping, and rolling.  Swearsies.  My heart is on fire.  That sounds like I have heartburn, which is not the case because I am not pregnant.  I'm not pregnant!  Saying (typing) those words makes me very happy.  What a different world from where I was 5 years ago.  Time changes everything.  Right?  Or do all things stay the same?  Either way, as desperate as I was to be pregnant five years ago is as glad as I am today to not be pregnant. 

What were we talking about?

I'm going to change the world. 

(Save this page to a favorites somewhere.  You'll want to come back to it again one day and you'll be all, "I'll be damned.  She said she was going to do something.  And she did.  Good on her.")

I don't know how just yet.  But I'm going to.  I can feel it.

I imagine my kids will be a bit older when it happens, when it all plays out, when all of my hard work comes to fruition.  I think that's probably the case because, well, I haven't started anything yet.  That's not entirely true; I have a load of towels in the washer.  Towels are not earth shattering or world changing, though.  Maybe they could be for someone who'd never seen a towel before or known the absorbent joys of towels, but I don't think towels are going to be my claim to fame.

How do you want to be remembered?

What did you do today?  If all you were remembered by was what you accomplished today, how would people mourn you? 

I had a really good day today.  I've had a few of them in a row, in fact.  I feel good.  I feel capable.  I feel strong.  The guilt and shame and self-hate are pretty quiet.  The anger isn't flaring as quickly, as easily. 

I'm 35 years old.  When I was 14, I thought I had the whole world figured out.  I continued to believe that as I got older, even as my opinions and experiences changed and grew - each time I learned something new, each time I experienced something I'd never experienced before, I still walked away feeling like I had it all figured out.  I never considered that I don't actually know anything, which is why there are so many new and unique things out there to experience and learn.  Am I making any sense?  Probably not.  That's okay. The point is that i'm finally realizing...what?  My place in the world?  How small I am, how insignificant?  I'm realizing how much I don't know, how much I can never know, and that scares me.  Things like who really shot JFK and did aliens build the pyramids and is God real - those aren't answers I'll get in this lifetime.  And I don't know if I believe there's another lifetime to be had, so that scares me.  I'm scared a lot.  People scare me, mostly.  I'm afraid of the people I love dying.  I'm afraid of people not liking me.  I'm afraid that maybe I'm wrong, that maybe people aren't actually inherently good, that they won't usually do the right thing when they are presented with the opportunity and means to do so. 

I have this theory that if I could just sit down, one on one, with all of the "bad guys" out there, I could explain to them why they should stop being mean and start trying to help.  I could hug them and let them cry out their hurts and sadness and pain, and I could tell them that it's all going to be okay, that we'll start fresh and it will all be just fine.  Everything can be fixed.  I could fix them some vegetable soup and cornbread and a big glass of milk and they could just sit and eat and feel safe and not judged. 

But, you know, reality.  I mean, seriously.  Some of those people don't even think women are human.  And then I get jaded again, because how do you start a dialog with people like that?  And the problem is so deep, I don't know that it can be solved.  That sounds too flip for how grave it is for me to say it.  How to do you fix something so broken? 

Jimi told me early in our relationship that I have a young soul.  It was a polite way of saying I'm naïve, I figured.  I am naïve.  Extremely so.  I want to believe everything you tell me.  I want to judge you on your intentions.  People keep telling me that's a bad idea, it's unsafe.  I was going to agree with them.  But you know what?  It's not always a bad idea, or unsafe.  Sometimes it's what a person needs.  And sometimes it's dumb as shit.  My problem is that I don't have the filter to distinguish between the two.

Hurt people hurt people.  Happy people don't hurt people.  Right?  Is it that simple?

I'm getting too deep.  That's not where I wanted to swim to tonight.  Can we raincheck this discussion for now?  I have other things I wanted to get to.

I think i'm going to run for political office.  Not really.  I would love it, except for all the work that comes along with it.  I'm so lazy.  Seriously.  Or maybe i'm mistaking lazy for tired.  For intellectually unstimulated. 

I can't be a politician because I can't remember anyone's name, and i'm incapable of schmoozing.  Something happened to me along the way, something that broke my confidence.  I suspect it was the deep shame I felt when I miscarried.  That also is not what I came here to discuss.  Why do I keep taking all of these detours?  Raincheck again, please.

I want to help people.  I want to do something that makes peoples' lives better.  It may sound trite, but I genuinely want to win the lottery so I can travel the world doing cool shit while also managing several charitable trusts.

Can I tell you about my day?  This is my blog. Of course I can tell you about my day.  Last night, Geneva pooped on the potty.  (That didn't happen today, but it's my blog, so I can mention it if I want to.  it was the first time.  It's a big stinky deal.)  Then, I worked until the wee hours of the morning to knock out a project i'm pretty sure my boss thought was probably impossible.  His boss emailed me to thank me for my efforts.  And I woke up to an email saying I'm now officially a Starbucks Gold Card Member (may take up to six weeks for actual gold card to arrive with it's balance of $4.59). And then, I came home to a mail that said American Express just upped my limit.  Fuckin' A.  (I had bad credit left over from bad decisions for a pretty good while, so it feels really awesome to have really good credit for a change.  We're considering maxing out everything and "disappearing", but realize that is impossible because we have kids and responsibilities and shit.)  And my husband was nice, and my kids were adorable and sweet, and dinner was good, and I know what I'm wearing to work tomorrow...it was just a really, really, exceptionally good day.  I should've bought a lottery ticket.

Tomorrow, I'm going to change the world.  Or at least get started on figuring out what exactly it is that i'm going to do to change the world.  If I have an extra minute. 

If you have an extra minute, talk to me.  Please?  In the words of RadGuy, UR THOTS?

Breathing deep

Things I Know Are True:

 

Jimi loves me.

 

My parents love me.  Family - aunts, uncles, cousins - I have people who love me.

 

I am a great mother.

 

My girls are amazing miracles full of wonder and delight and I am so lucky to get to be their mom.

 

I am smart.

 

I am pretty.

 

I am a good person.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

I'm working this week on trying to not worry about things that I cannot control.  On setting boundaries.  On remembering things that are true, and not allowing myself to hold space for things that are not. 

 

Starting tomorrow, I've got to start working on my temper, too. 

 

I'm angry, a lot.  Way more than I probably reasonably should be.  For no good reason, usually.  Today, I couldn't find my tennis shoes.  They weren't where I thought I'd left them.  So I tried to look under the pile of dirty clothes on the floor by the bedroom door.  And i got mad at Jimi because there are three hampers full of his clean clothes right there, but no empty hamper for dirty clothes.  And so i threw the pile of dirty clothes into the middle of the bedroom floor, searching for my missing shoes that were not under the pile of dirty clothes, which only made me more mad.  There were tears.  I yelled.  Jimi told me to leave the house because he just couldn't even with me.  Geneva told me she didn't want me to be angry.  My heart broke, but I still had all of this fire inside, this madness that I needed to get out somehow, but breaking windows isn't an option and i can't really throw things at all because moms don't do those things and so I stomp and make passive aggressive comments under my breath toward my husband and my kids who aren't doing anything wrong at all, mostly I'm mad that they're just like me, leaving shit laying around and not picking up after themselves and not being very good housekeepers in general.  Maybe my life's problems would be solved with a housekeeper.  But probably not.

 

 

I got mad last Saturday night over pizza.  It was 9 o'clock, i'd just put a frozen pizza in the oven, thinking I had at least an hour before Geneva would want to go to bed - Uncle J was over!  as soon as I set the timer, she was hollering for milkies and ready to sleep.  I told Jimi I had a pizza in the oven and asked him to check it when the timer when off, then disappeared with G for our bedtime ritual.  An hour later, Jimi was waking me up, telling me my pizza was done...  oh, I was so mad!  Why did he wait 40 minutes to get me - he knows I fall asleep when i'm trying to get her down!  I stomped into the kitchen, pausing to look into the living room and see that Cora was still awake.  Awesome.  And then I saw my pizza, lukewarm and not fully cooked.  I turned the toaster oven back on and put it back in, but i was seeing red.  Uncle J left at some point, and apparently I freaked him out so much he asked Jimi later if I've ever hit him.  I haven't.  I'm not violent, just loud.  Not even yelling-at-other-people loud, and I certainly don't call names or anything like that.  I do stomp, though.  and slam stuff around.  and lately i'm prone to bursting into tears for very miniscule reasons. 

 

I need to get a hold of myself.  this sort of behavior is not acceptable, as I would say to Geneva. 

 

My head gets all cluttered.  There's so much - work, home, kids, husband, family, myself! - so much to do and remember and think about all the time.  So many balls to juggle.  When I drop one, or fear I may drop one, I'm so hard on myself, believing, in the moment of fear and anxiety, things that are not true, worrying myself to the point of a sick stomach about things that haven't happened, things that probably won't happen. 

 

 

Every woman I talk to about this says, "Me too.  Yes.  I understand.  I know."  That helps.  It really does.  It doesn't fix it, but it eases my mind.  It's not just me.  Maybe I'm not losing my mind.  Maybe I'm not crazy as a loon.  Maybe every little thing really is gonna be alright.

 

Jimi is awesome.  I know I say that a lot, and I take it for granted a lot, but when times get tough, he's always right there with the right words, and the truth.  He's really good at telling the truth, even if it's something I may not want to hear.  I love that about him.  It makes me feel safe, because I know that he is honest with me so we can always be on equal footing.  I don't always give him that same courtesy because I think by not speaking my mind i'm sparing his feelings, but then I end up acting like an asshole and the whole thing becomes way bigger than it needed to be or would have been if i'd just told him what was bothering me in the first place.  I'm working on that too, as part of my boundary-setting/worrying about things I can control exercise.  Jimi and I have had some really good talks on our way to work this week, and he's offered some introspections I hadn't considered - like how everything in my life is different today from how it was three years ago.  Hell, from a year ago!  I've had another baby, we have a willful toddler, my job changed entirely when I returned from maternity leave in January, and it's only gotten more stressful since.  That's a lot.  There are a lot of stressful situations I've been facing all at once, and it's no wonder the pressure is starting to catch up with me. 

 

...Deep breaths. 

One thing at a time. 

Don't worry about it if you can't change it. 

Deep breaths. 

Change what you can. 

Do your best. 

What are you really upset about? 

What is the root cause of your frustration? 

What can you do to change the situation? 

Deep breaths. 

Is this reaction setting a good example for the girls? 

Deep breaths. 

 Set boundaries. 

It is okay to tell someone what your boundaries are. 

It is okay to remind them if they forget and cross your boundaries. 

It is okay to have boundaries. 

Boundaries are not rude or mean. 

Deep breaths. 

You cannot control the emotions of others. 

It is okay if someone doesn't like you. 

Deep breaths. 

Remember how lucky you are. 

Remember the good in your life,

add it up - there is so much. 

Deep breaths...

 

 

Deep thoughts on a Friday night.

I started writing something dogging on myself, but I decided not to do that.  I spend plenty of time feeling bad about things I've said or done or not done or mistakes I've made- I don't really need to rehash or delve into it here.  No one really cares, and it'll just make me feel like shit.  Why do that? 

Why do we do that?  Wallow in our imperfections?  Or is it only me?  I think it's probably not - lots of people are making money off of other people feeling bad about themselves.

Ugh.  I don't even want to talk about this.  Why do I keep talking about it?  Let's change the subject.

Once upon a time, in another life, I had a best friend.  Her name was Kat, I've mentioned her here before, but I'm not going to link to any of that shit because who really cares and I know how it all went down, so whatever.  The thing is, I don't know if Kat and I ever actually liked each other.  That's not completely true.  It sort of is.  I don't really want to rehash all the details -

the tl:dr of it is that I was always jealous of her, from the very beginning. Everyone liked her more than they liked me.  Her hair was prettier than mine.  She had big boobs. 

People wanted to be her friend, whereas I desperately wanted people to want to be my friend. 

This angle just occurred to me, and is so deeply true and raw that it brought me to tears.  No shit.  Mainly because I'm still that little girl inside, the one who just wants someone to play with her, to be her friend...


(there's a rabbit hole!  let's go down it...)
  If I were to go to therapy, this is the part where I'd talk about how it probably goes back to when I moved into the advanced program in 4th grade - brand new school, no friends, and as it turned out, I was the dumb one in the class.  All of the kids had gone to school, at an advanced level, their entire (4th grade level) educational careers.  Then here I came, with my suburban middle-class public school run-of-the-mill education, and I didn't understand their new math or Spanish teacher who spoke actual paragraphs and expected you to not only understand but also respond.  WTF, this world was brand new and I was really bad at adapting to it.  None of the kids liked me, and none of them wanted to be my friends.  I was round and freckled and awkward with too-short badly permed hair and I was a tattle tale and a goody two shoes and wanted to be teacher's pet, but I think even Mrs. Vittitow didn't much care for me.

I was thinking of fourth grade the other day.  I'd heard a story of a kid who lost her mom to some sort of prolonged illness when she was 10, so her only memories of her mom weren't good ones, because her mom was sick and dying for two years, and so her temper and patience were in short supply and she often reacted poorly to the little girl being a little girl.  It made me so sad; my heart breaks for the little girl who grew up without her mom to hold her and sing to her and teach her things and who doesn't remember good things about her mom. But my heart is also broken for the mom, because you know that's not how she'd want her daughter to remember her.  She was sick. I don't know the details and I wasn't there, but I know most moms really love their kids and only want the best for them, and wouldn't want their only memories to be bad ones. 

Anyhow, so i'd heard this story, and I couldn't stop thinking about how lonely and sad I was in fourth grade, when I was about 9 or 10, and my mom was my only friend.  No kidding.  My mom. The one who said she couldn't be my friend BECAUSE she's my mom.  I was so overwhelmed with the love, I had to call her.

"I was thinking about that time you went on my class trip with me to Huntsville AL because if you didn't I wouldn't have had any friends at all and it would have been an awful trip for me."

"I don't remember anything like that.  I remember the trip, but I don't remember going because you didn't have friends."

"I probably never admitted that to you until just now.  It's the sort of thing I wouldn't have wanted to say anything about because I was too embarrassed.  But I didn't have a single friend in fourth grade.  If you hadn't gone on that trip with me, I would've been miserable.  I'm so glad you were my only friend, Momma.  I love you."

Let's come back to present day.

Oh goodness.  It took some effort to remember where I was going with this when I started out. 

I have some really awesome women in my life right now.  Women with whom I feel no competition, because I know that I am enough and I do not have to compete.  Women who are beautiful, but I am not jealous of them because I am beautiful too.  Women who are brilliant and intimidate the fuck out of me with their massive expensive brains, but who I am not afraid of because they teach me awesome things and will only help create a more interesting and amazing village for my daughters.  Women who live life to the fullest and inspire me to make the most of every day.  Women who work so hard to make loving homes and happy memories for their families. 

The part that blows my mind is that I genuinely feel like these want to be my friends.  I think they actually like me.  I know i'm not supposed to care what people think, but anyone who says they don't feel better when someone likes them is a liar.  The fact that these women like me makes me feel awesome.

It's really late, I've lost my point a hundred times and i'm still not sure I ever got back there, but i'm tired and I have to go to sleep.  Sweet dreams internet world. 

Now tell me how awesome I am.  ;)

I'm going to start blogging again.

It's nearly 11 p.m. on a Monday night.  Our first Monday back to work after a week-long stay-cation. A week long staycation that was intended to be an opportunity for Jimi and I to catch up on some things around the house - laundry room organizing, painting, maybe a bedroom revamp. We went to the park nearly every day, and the zoo once.  We kept the girls home with us every day but Friday and we were a family all together for 8 whole days and it was wonderful.  We got our house in order (mostly) on the day the girls went to the sitter because it was Friday, the end of the week, and we couldn't possibly enter into our weekend with our house in the state it'd become while we were busy playing all week.  Nothing was painted, nothing was organized (wait- i did organize the pantry. I'm counting that), nothing was revamped.  But, hey, we spent a week together as a family.  There will be time for painting and organizing and revamping when my girls aren't tiny anymore and no longer believe my attention is the most important thing in the world.  All my life I've wanted to be the moon and stars for someone.  Now I am.  For two.  My goodness, it's a lot of work.

So yeah, I had a baby.  Back in November.  Wow.  I'm a bit late with that announcement, I guess.  Poor baby.  I've got a birth story for her drafted and saved on here somewhere.  I'll post it eventually, I promise. I have to.  If I don't, it'll give her a complex.  "You wrote about G but not about me!"  Nah.  Not happening.

Her name is Cora Jaymes, and she's beautiful and perfect in every way.  She arrived at 8:43 a.m. on Saturday November 15, 2014 weighing in at a whopping

...

It's 11:15 Monday night.  :)  Cora weighed 9 pounds 1.6 ounces at birth, and was 22 inches long.  She's also had a stuffy nose for the last 3 months and it seems to be coming to its peak here lately.  I had to step away just now because she got choked on phlegm in her sleep and started coughing and gagging.  She and Geneva share a room now (as of 2 weeks ago - we finally moved our 19 pound, six month old baby into a crib and out of the bassinet!), so whenever the baby starts to stir, I'm in there as quickly as i can be so she doesn't wake Geneva with her cries.  Also, it's a good idea to respond when you hear your infant gagging.

All of my worries were so dumb.  I gave that last push, the one where you've decided "I don't care how bad it hurts I just need this to be over!" and you give it everything you've got - I gave that last push, and she was out and on my stomach and I looked down at her little purple warm body and saw that sweet little face and my brain was like "Oh.  Of course."  She's my girl, my daughter, my flesh - of course I love her as much as I love Geneva.  Of course it's just that easy.  Of course.  It makes so much sense now, on this side of it, but my mom-of-one brain couldn't grasp the concept.  This love thing, it's fucking powerful.

I can't catch up on everything now, not in this one post.  And maybe there's nothing to catch up on.  We've been living - this time has been so much easier than the first time, but that's not to say it's easy.  Cora nursed easily, but constantly.  My maternity leave was 8 weeks of plopping G in front of something "educational" on Netflix while I nursed our newest family member.  Knowing that cluster feeding is a thing, and that it will pass, saved my sanity this go-round.  Also, placenta encapsulation.  10/10, would do it again.  Jimi's been awesome, as expected.  I think Cora's his favorite, but mostly because she's a sweet cuddly little baby and Geneva says no and screams and demands that "mommy do it".  She's the most awesome 2 year old that ever 2'd.  God, she's cool. Seriously.  Her vocabulary is out of this world, and she speaks so clearly.  She has amazing thoughts and comments and observations.  Well, maybe not, she's 2.  But she's really cool for 2.  She is incredibly polite, and i'm so very proud of that fact.  She says "Thank you" and "Please" and "I'm sorry" in context and with feeling.  She loves her little sister.  She is a typical toddler and throws tantrums a few times an hour, but man, you wave that baby in front of her and it doesn't matter how serious the pout, her face breaks out into an amazing smile full of sunshine and love and she literally starts to coo and goo at Cora.  She hugs her and kisses her and plays with her and takes her toys and tells her stories and is always concerned about "where's baby at?"  Cora, for her part, is an equally awesome little sister. She loves her big sister and watches her every move, and I expect we don't have long before she's mobile.  She cut her first two teeth this past week - we've been anxiously awaiting that day for months, because, as I said, she's been snotty for three months. What else do you blame a snotty happy otherwise-not-sick baby on other than teething?  Cora is going to be a coppery redhead, I think, and it looks like her eyes are going to be a stormy blue or brown.  She's fair like the rest of us, and favors Jimi more than Geneva does.  You can tell they're sisters for sure, and there were times early on when I would watch her nurse and swear I was seeing baby Geneva all over again, but they are each beautiful in their own unique ways and don't really look a whole lot alike.  And I am going to have to be so careful about how I comment on this in front of them, but oh my god Cora is so big compared to Geneva!  Cora is hanging out in the 90th percentile for weight and the 100th for height, whereas G has always been real comfortable right around the 50th percentile mark for both.  There's only a 10 pound difference in their weights right now.  They are 20 months apart.

I can't wait to watch them grow up.  They're beautiful together, and I get to help them and watch them blossom and become the amazing women they're going to be... I'm so excited that this is my life, my journey.  I am so incredibly blessed.  What did I ever do to be so lucky, to deserve such riches?

So that's why I'm going to start blogging again.  Because I've missed too much already, and I don't want to miss more.  I won't get it all, but if I can get even a small snippet of the awesome that is this moment, right now, well, it's a worthwhile investment.

It's 11:52 p.m. on the first Monday after vacation.  The alarm is set for 6 a.m., but my human alarms will ring out at 2:15, 4:00, 5:30 and finally at 5:58 with "Mommy! Milkies!"  (Yes, I'm still nursing my toddler.  STFU about it, okay?)  I've had two beers in the last hour it took to write this and I'll be honest, I've got a bit of a buzz.  A rare reminder of what it used to be like back when I could drink more than half a beer before it got to hot or, more likely, forgotten.  I've missed writing.  It feels good to do it again, like going to the gym after being away for a while, but with more beer and sitting and less sweat and moving.  I'll have to do it more often.  Also, should go to the gym.

I want to go back and edit, but editing is for suckers.  Or people who've had less than 2 beers.  G'night, friends.  Sweet dreams.

We're still kickin'...

Does this thing still work? 

Longest blogging hiatus ever, I think.  My bad.  Life is busy. 

Geneva is 16 months old.  Walking, talking, an absolute joy to be around.  Being her mom is the coolest thing ever.  Baby number 2 is 24 weeks 3 days, still cooking and expected sometime in November.  And she's another girl.  :)  YAY!  No more new things to buy!  We have no idea what we're going to call her - so far she's referred to as "this one" and "what's-her-name".  Yeah, she won't have any issues at all, I'm sure. 

Jimi's good.  I'm good.  Work is hard, but we're both still employed, so that's good. 

I'd love to get back to blogging again, but I make no promises.  Free time is in such short supply, and when I have it, these days I use it to nap or let my brain not think too hard as I browse Reddit. 

I hope you're all well, if there's anyone out there still checking in from time to time.  :)  TTYL

I'm back, baby!

I've finally purchased a new laptop - I can blog at home again!  YAY!  I'm pretty excited about this purchase - it's a great computer, and it was extremely affordable.  It'll be nice to have a working computer in the house again - my Kindle has done a great job keeping me connected to the internet, but it doesn't replace a laptop. 

Thanksgiving was wonderful and exhausting all at once.  We spent the day getting ready and making a sweet potato casserole (why can I never remember that sweet potatoes leak?  You have to put something under them, Natalie, or they'll spooge all over your oven!), then headed for his cousin's house around 3.  They had an amazing, delicious spread, and I ate until my little heart was content.  (And then Laura Jo and I went for a walk, because I was going to die if I didn't get some of that food settled.)  I missed out on eating pie because I was too full, but Tracy was kind enough to send some home with us - a piece of apple and pecan.  Two days later, it's still in the kitchen waiting for me, but today may just be the day. 

Our evening was spent over at my Aunt Melissa's, where we played cards and perused Black Friday ads until one in the morning, at which point I was completely wiped out and finished and told Jimi, "We have to leave NOW."  Pam said I was getting grouchy - I wasn't grouchy, I was just done.  I'd socialized as much as I was physically able to socialize, and I needed my bed. 

I feel as though I've officially been welcomed into the world of Motherhood.  Jimi's cousins' wived descended upon me as soon as we arrived and started asking questions about my pregnancy and birth plans, and regaled me for hours with their birth stories and experienced mom-talk.  My aunts did the same.  It was a noticeable change - usually we all exchange pleasantries and catch up, then I flit around from group to group, mostly following Jimi around and talking to the menfolk.  Not this year - I was stuck to my seat as my birth preferences were questioned and doubted and poo-poo'd, as horrible scary NICU stories were told, as tales of mastitis and clogged ducts were shared.  If I never hear "Just wait and see - you'll change your mind" again, it'll be too soon.  I heard that on every subject - especially when I made the mistake of admitting I'm aiming for an unmedicated childbirth.  (Cloth diapering got its fair share of laughs, too.)  Why do we (women) do that to each other?  Experienced moms should know better than anyone how scary this time can be for a new mother.  I'm looking for support and encouragement and advice, and instead I get a snicker and a pat on the head as if I'm a fool for thinking I can do this any way other than on my back with a needle in my spine. 

I don't mean to bitch, I know their intentions are just to share their experiences.  I reminded myself over and over again that my pregnancy bares no resemblance to theirs - no scares, no bed rest, no complications for me, so far.  (Fingers crossed it stays that way.)  As I told them, this has been the easiest, most uncomplicated thing I've ever done, and that's completely contrary to what I expected.  If my body can handle pregnancy this well, I'm inclined to trust that birth is something it can handle well, also.  I trust my body, and I honestly feel that an unmedicated birth is the way it's supposed to happen, and that if I let it, my body can do this on its own.  I am not crazy for thinking this way, dammit!  Women birthed babies this way for thousands of years before doctors started strapping them to tables on their backs.  I can do this, and not because I'm a martyr or tough or want bragging rights, but because it's the way nature intended and I don't see any reason to fix what ain't broke. 

Okay, I'm off my soapbox. 

We're going shopping today for fabric and paint for baby girl's room, and planning to start her room transformation tomorrow.  I need drawer pulls and switch plates and a colorful rug.  I can't wait to watch this room come together; I can't wait to fill it with diapers and onsies and soft things for my daughter. 

My daughter.  If I think on those words just a second longer than it takes to say them, my eyes get misty.  I love her so much already.  It still fills me with a sense of disbelief that this is all happening to ME!  I have a big ol' round belly full of baby.  I can feel her flip and flop and kick and punch.  I've dreamed of and imagined this for so long, and now it is my reality, and that just blows my mind.  I'll never stop being in awe of this miracle we've created. 

Speaking of my big ol' round belly full of baby, clothing options are becoming more and more limited by the day.  It's still not awful - one day last week I wore and outfit comprised completely of pre-pregnancy clothes; proof that Jimi and Kim may be onto something when they say I buy my clothes in too-large sizes.  I'm still wearing two pair of pre-pregnancy pants, but they hardly count, as they're designed to be stretchy, what with their elastic waistbands and and polyester blends.  I have two pre-pregnancy sweaters that I wish I could wear every day, but the rest are too short now and don't fully cover my belly.  I've got a great flowy red shirt that's not maternity but totally could've been, so it's worked into the rotation regularly.  I had a couple of button-ups that still fit two weeks ago, but I fear that will not be the case the next time I try them on - the buttons were a bit strained last time I wore them.  Momma's bought me two maternity shirts (but I hate one - don't tell her - it is too low-cut and doesn't completely cover my dumb ol' bras) and I am now the proud owner of one pair of big-front-stretchy-panel jeans (that are actually really cute so long as you're not checking out the stretchy panel) and two pair of maternity yoga pants, which are going on the list of "Things That Prove God Loves Us".  I'm going to have to break down and buy some more long-sleeved warm shirts, but I think I'm going to be able to make my britches situation work until the very end.  I don't know what I'm going to do about a coat - mine still zipped last week, but that won't last much longer.  I'm not buying a new one, so I guess I'll just have to  hold it closed and hurry from the car to the office. 

Baby showers are being planned - looks like we're having two back-to-back in January, one hosted by the infamously sweet Maggie, the other by my Aunts.  (Stay put, little girl - no early appearances, okay?  I'd hate to miss a party thrown in our honor!)  Momma & Daddy are buying the crib (sort of a family tradition - Granny and Papaw bought the cribs for nearly all of their grandbabies), and Stacy and Jessie are passing down to us tons of baby things, so we won't have to register for a lot of big items.  (That hasn't stopped my wonderful research-driven husband from registering us for a $300+ stroller, though.  I fully expect we'll be purchasing that one on our own.)  I've been told we should start registries EVERYWHERE, as apparently there are tons of freebies and goodies given out for doing so, and plus, using that little scanner gun is fun.  I guess we need to get going on that pretty soon. 

It's all happening so very fast.  That second pink line showed up in June and it felt like it'd be forever before I had a symptom or a sign that it was real.  Now all I can think is "how will we get this all done in only 12.5 weeks?!" 

My left leg is starting to ache.  I think it's the way I'm sitting in this chair; I should probably get up and do some yoga stretches.  My hips hurt all the time - and what's up with the sore knees?  I sound like an old woman trying to get up or down into a seat, and getting out of bed the half-dozen times now required each night is an acrobatic feat.  Poor Jimi - he's sleeping on a sliver of mattress, pushed all the way to the edge by my belly and its accompanying island of pillows.  He's said that he'll need to break out the camping mattress any day now - his plan is to sleep there, with it pushed up next to our bed, so I can have the space I need to be comfortable.  I hate the idea of him being exiled from his bed, but I love him for understanding that drastic measures may be required some time in the next couple months. 

He's just the best man in the whole world.  I can't express enough how good and sweet he is, how loved and adored and appreciated and special he makes me feel.  We've been carpooling for the last two months or so because his truck is down, and when we get home each evening, I head for the heating pad while he stops in the kitchen and begins making dinner.  He's pulling more than his weight when it comes to household chores and cleaning, and encourages me to rest and take breaks when we're working on projects together.  He's a dream partner in this pregnancy, and I feel so fortunate that I have have him by my side. 

(Sometimes I find myself shuddering inside, imagining how my ex-husband would've compared, had we managed to get pregnant in those months that we tried.  I really dodged a bullet, man.) 

Okay, gotta go, it's shopping time.

(I'm so glad I made this purchase - it's good to be back to my blah blah blahing.  I want to have a record of this experience - I mean, it's only the neatest thing I've ever done.  Ever.)

Be Back Soon...

Puppies and skittles and unicorns and glitter.

Life feels like sunshine and kittens right now. 


Jimi is everything I could have ever dreamed up, but so much better than what my limited imagination could've come up with.  He asked me a few days ago to find him a few dad-to-be books, and when I placed the order tonight and told him they'll be here Wednesday, he exclaimed, "Daddy books?!  Yay!" with genuine glee in his voice.  He's pampering me in just the right ways, and forgiving with extra swiftness my crazy mood shifts.  He laughs at my cravings as he goes along with my every meal suggestion.  He tells me even more than usual how much he loves me, and how special I am in his heart.  I feel so fucking safe.  I feel so incredibly loved. 

Daily, a moment will flick a switch in my mind, and I'm instantly reminded of how amazingly fortunate I am to be right here, at this exact place in time, with this exact set of circumstances.  I don't know why I get to be the recipient of all of this, why I am wallowing in plenty when so many struggle just to have enough. 

My life is a dream I couldn't have dreamed better if I'd dreamed it myself.  If I'm sleeping, never wake me. 

I had another baby dream Friday night.  A fussy little boy wrapped up in yellow and bright blue, trying to suckle at my breast, being passed from my Mom to my Aunts and back around again.  I still didn't get a good look at his face, but I could tell he was way cute. 

Momma brought us our first baby gift today - a book to record milestones, from pregnancy through 5 years.  "You probably won't fill it out, but maybe you will," she said as she handed it to me.  (Neither Brother nor I has a baby book from our formative years - she started one for each of us, but didn't get far.)  I'm going to make an effort.  We'll see how far I get.

I did not mean to stay up this late.  Time for sleeps.  Sweet dreams!

They say this happiness is just the beginning...

Oh my goodness.  That was breath-taking. 

There's a heartbeat!  and little legs and little arms and a funny-looking head and a heart that beats and beats and beats!  One hundred and sixty-seven times a minute, that little heart was beating!  Baby Trogdor (that's what we're calling him for now, Trogdor the Burninator - don't ask why because i don't know the answer, it's just what we've claimed for four years that we're naming our first born) is measuring exactly on target, at 9 weeks and 1 day, with a due date of February 20, 2013.  

I'm so overwhelmed.  I'm so full of love and happy that I feel like I'm going to explode.  I can't stop tearing up.  I'm so relieved.

I took the day off work, but Bossman changed the game plan last night and asked me to come in for 2 hours, because he and our Ops manager were going to be offsite - he gets nervous about leaving the place "unattended".  So I worked for two hours this morning, which was probably a blessing in disguise, because I was an absolute nervous wreck, and can't imagine the shape I would've worked myself into had I not had other things to focus on.  (I didn't sleep well at all last night, and was so nervous this morning that my stomach and chest were both hurting.)  Ten o'clock finally came, and off to the doctor I headed.  I had just enough time to get to the office and be maybe 10 minutes early for my appointment - so of course I drove past my exit.  And of course, because I was panicked about missing my exit, I chose to take the next one, which was another highway, which meant I had to drive an extra 2 miles before I came to the first exit where I could turn around - and of course that exit was one of the busiest in the city, so of course it took all of my wiggle-room time to get turned around and back on target.  But I got to the hospital, and I got into the parking garage, and the little old lady in front of me, of course, came to a complete stop at every turn in the garage.  And of course, she also took the last available spot in the entire garage.  So I made my own parking place, on the roof, in front of two other people who'd had the same desperate idea.  I was pissed off and fuming and frankly didn't give a flying fuck if they towed my car - I had to get into that office for my appointment!

I was right on time.  Well, if on time means walking into the lobby at the time my appointment was scheduled.  Close enough, right?

Jimi was already there, and we didn't have to wait long before they called us back.  Thank goodness, they did the ultrasound first - she explained, "I'm going to take some measurements and then I'll turn the screen so you can see, but first I'll tell you what you're waiting to know - there's only one baby in there and it has a strong heartbeat."  Whooosh! - There went all my pent up fears and worry and nervousness I've been harboring for the last 5 weeks.  Those few words took the scared away.  And then she turned the screen, and I saw my baby wiggle.  She hit a button, and suddenly the room was filled with the sound of my baby's heartbeat, and then came the tears.  I gasped - I'd been imagining this moment for weeks, when I'd let my mind go down that path - but it was really happening.  I'm growing a whole another person, and he has a heartbeat! 

The rest of the almost-3-hour visit is a blur of questions and congratulations and tests and blood draws.  My doctor has prescribed progesterone suppositories and a daily baby aspirin for the next four weeks to further reduce any risk of miscarriage.  I would've submitted to anything, I already had all the information I came to get.  I was walking on air, and they could've forgotten me in the lobby between call-backs and I wouldn't have cared because I'm growing a baby and he has a heartbeat. 

They gave us three ultrasound photos to take home - I texted one to family and a few friends and my phone proceeded to blow up.  My Daddy - I think maybe he's more excited than Jimi and I are.  When Momma learned she was pregnant with Brother, I remember listening to Daddy call everyone in our phone book to share the news.  He did a repeat of that today, I think.  He loves babies, and he's so excited for his first grandbaby to finally be on the way. 

I guess I can start to think of this all as being really real, huh?  I guess now I can start to get excited? 

This is one of the happiest days of my life.  It feels surreal.  I'm so fucking happy, I could just pee. 

Wanna see a picture?  Baby Trogdor's first close-up:

Ain't that just the cutest little baby-to-be you ever did see?

Gosh, my heart is just so full. 

WOW, what a weekend!

What's that?  The weekend's just beginning?  Oh.  So it is.  I'm sorry you didn't get to start yours on Wednesday.

We're just home from an amazing night at the swimming pool hotel.  The what, you ask?  The swimming pool hotel.  You know, the one where they have a swimming pool IN your hotel room.  Here, let me show you what I mean:

See?  Our very own pool.

The hotel chain is called Sybaris, and I've been dreaming of spending a night there since I heard of it 4 years ago.  It was totally worth the wait.

I imagine everyone in the world is reading Momastery these days, because that Glennon is one smart cookie.  I found her blog over a year ago, the piece called A Mountain I'm Willing To Die On, and last March she posted Birthdays, wherein she tells the story of her first birthday spent with her husband and how he didn't know what her expectations were and she was so disappointed.  Instead of brushing it under the rug, though, she made the brilliant move to *wait for it* talk to her husband, and explain why birthdays are a big deal for her and that celebrating special occasions is something that makes her feel loved.  That post encouraged me to give my requests to Jimi regarding this year's birthday - and man, did he outdo every one of my expectations.

Wednesday night, he presented me with a smallish package, wrapped in red paper dotted with multicolored Christmas trees, with a card tucked in under the hand-tied pink fabric bow.  He gave it to me early, saying I'd probably want to take it with us for our overnight trip on Thursday.  I thought it was a vibrator - we went to the naughty shop a few weeks back and there was a great display of high-end vibrators that the sales lady claimed came with a 10 year warranty.  Have you ever heard of such a thing?  Turns out the warranty is really only for a year, girlfriend just didn't know her job too good.  Anyhow, I wasn't willing to drop $120 on a vibrator that night, and when we came home we discovered that you could find the same thing on Amazon for $70.  Score!  Except I never did buy it, because, well, do I really NEED a $70 vibrator?  So yeah, I thought that's what was wrapped in the Christmas paper.  It wasn't.  It was a kindle fire.  Holy crap!  A kindle?!  I couldn't believe it.  I spent the next few hours playing with my new toy - ha!  That sounds funny after talking about vibrators.  But yeah, I "bought" some free e-books, discovered our Amazon Prime account allows me one free book rental per month from the online library, ordered a protective cover for the kindle, bought that new First Aid Kit album and uploaded it to my cloud (I have a cloud!), played Angry Birds for the first time.  LOVE.

(And I'm the girl who swore, when e-readers came out, that I'd never own one.  Books are where it's at, I said, and no electronic device can ever be as satisfying as turning the pages on an honest-to-goodness, made-of-paper book.  Um, yeeeaahh...unless that electronic device can also allow you to surf the web, read blogs, stream Pandora...  I often say dumb things.  Let's just leave it at that, shall we?)

For the last few days, Jimi'd been telling me "We're going to Indianapolis and catching a train up to Wisconsin and back.  An overnight train ride!  We've got a room on a sleeper car, and there's a dining car - I think it'll be fun."  "Uh huh" with a side-eye was my response.  I didn't buy it.  I didn't know what he had planned, but I didn't think that was it.  In an effort to get the secret out of him, I told him yesterday morning, "If we're really going to be riding a train all night, I'm just wearing yoga pants and a tank top (no bra) and my grey sweater." (My friend Angie calls this get-up "fat ballerina".  Or maybe that's only when you're wearing leggings, not yoga pants.  Either way, it's my favorite outfit and I always giggle at the idea of me as a fat ballerina when I wear it, which is every day I can possibly manage to leave the house without a bra.)  Jimi just shrugged his shoulders at my comment and said, "So long as you're comfortable."  I sorta expected him to argue - I mean, what about the nice dinner part of my request?  So I sat on the bed to be packed a bra, a nice sweater, some clean jeans, a comfy dress I like to lounge around in - I figured we probably didn't have reservations somewhere with a dress code if he was letting me leave the house dressed like a fat ballerina, but I didn't want to find myself with no options if we did actually end up somewhere that frowns on yoga pants in public.  Jimi comes in, sees my to-be-packed pile and sighs, "What are you going to do with all these clothes?"  "Just in case," I say.  He put aside the sweater and the dress.  "You won't need them.  Trust me." 

He was right.  We were naked within minutes of the above photo being taken.  Actually, he was already naked from the waist down - he saw me starting to take a picture and ran for the bathroom.  Oops!  I'm not used to a wall full of mirrors.

Ten miles outside of Louisville, he told me where we were really going.  At that point, my interest in a fancy sit-down dinner was gone - I wanted to get to that pool as fast as I could.  We got into Indianapolis an hour and a half before our 6 o'clock check-in, so we went to the Wal-Mart down the way for provisions.  There was a Noodles & Company across the street that promised a quick meal, and it was conveniently located in the same shopping center as a liquor store and a naughty shop.  On a whim, I popped into the naughty shop and bought a grab bag of novelties while Jimi bought the booze, and we headed off into the sunset toward our evening in the Den of Sin.  (The grab bag was an awesome impulse buy.  That's all I have to say about that.)

Our suite was amazing.  For starters, you're in your own building, so you don't have to worry about hearing your neighbors gettin' freaky in the middle of the night.  When you walk in, the pool is on your right, and I expected to be hit in the face with an awful chlorine smell, but there's a wall of windows dividing the suite in half and the door opens to the living/bedroom section.  To the left of the door was a massage chair (!!), an electric fireplace, and the entertainment center in the corner.  There were two club chairs and a round table along the side wall, and then the king-sized bed on a light-up platform jutted out at an angle into the room.  A flat-screen TV hung just above the massage chair, and could be turned in any direction for your viewing pleasure.  (Free porn on 3 channels.)  The carpet was plush and freshly vacuumed, and there were two soft robes waiting for us on the bed.  (Available for purchase, $75, buy one get one free!  We didn't come home with robes.)  The mini-kitchen had a small fridge (complete with bag-o-ice in the freezer section), a microwave, coffee-maker, a couple of mugs and champagne flutes.  There was a huge two-person whirlpool tub, his and her sinks, and a bidet!  Have you ever used a bidet?  Me neither, till last night.  I was impressed at the selection of toiletries they offered - toothbrushes and toothpaste, Bath & Body Works shower gels and shampoos and conditioners, cotton balls and Q-tips.  I don't stay at hotels very often, okay?

Then there was the pool.  They've got several different options when planning your stay, and each has a different sized pool.  Ours was 16 feet long, 4 feet deep.  Not enough for diving or actual swimming (though it did have a swim jet, I don't think it was powerful enough to actually swim against; I kept running into the wall.), but plenty big for hanging out naked in the 92 degree water with your honey.  The next time we go, we're hoping to stay in the suite with the second floor loft, with a slide into the 22' pool below.  How awesome would that be?  Really awesome, that's how awesome.  A pipe system hidden by fake ivy rained water into the middle of the pool - we expected it to be cold water, but it was shower-temperature; Jimi loved it, I thought it was a little too hot.

There was a normal shower in the bathroom, but in the pool portion of the suite there was also a glassed-in shower cave that doubled as a sauna.  Jimi liked to sit in the steam for 10 minutes or so, getting real hot and sweaty, then turn on ice cold water full blast through the four overhead shower nozzles and the hand-held sprayer.  "Like the Norwegians," he said.  Yeah, I prefer to go from steam to pool, not steam to ice, but I'm probably just a wimp and doing it wrong.

Remember the kindle he gave me?  Their sound system included a jack to plug into it, so we were able to pipe music throughout the entire space.  They didn't offer free Wi-Fi - I imagine most of their clientele aren't interested in surfing the web much during their stay - but my phone can act as a portable hotspot, so we were able to stream Pandora all night.

Jimi is smart and suggested we sip on a concoction of lemon booze, orange juice, and champagne all night, and it was delicious.  (I would've drunk more champagne, though, if I'd realized he'd paid $35 for the bottle.  I'm more of a $12 champagne girl, and I prefer the sweeter ones over the Brut.)  We also had crackers, and filled the mini-fridge with hummus, cheese, and a tray of fresh-cut fruit with vanilla-bean cream cheese dipping sauce.  And a mini cheesecake, which I somehow completely forgot about until I was packing everything up this morning.  THAT is how awesome our night was - I forgot about cheesecake.

Wednesday night we had dinner with my family for a cousin's 16th birthday, and around the table upon our arrival went choruses of "Nat, you look so good!" and "Nat, you've lost a lot of weight, haven't you?" and "Oh, you look great!"  Always nice to hear, and I'm hearing it more often these days and that's really nice.  But I've not really SEEN the difference yet.  Sure, my clothes fit differently, but I've still not been real sure what all the fuss is about.  I saw it last night, in the full-wall mirrors.  I stood there in the bright lights and saw my naked self.  I see what they mean when they say what they do.  I do look good.  I mean, I'm still carrying some extra baggage, but compared to where I've been, I look great.  I recognize my body, the one I remember loathing when I was 16 and had that ittle bitty pooch and now look back on with longing because my only pooch was little and alone.  I'm not down to just the one yet, but I'll get there.  I can see, now, that I'm making progress, and man, that's great motivation.  I laid on my back last night, on the plush carpet, and put my hands on my hips.  Guys, I have hip bones again.  I can actually see them and feel them.  I was pretty bummed a few years back when I realized they were missing.  Last night, I felt sexy.  I spent something like 18 hours naked in a room full of mirrors, and I felt sexy.  Fuck yes.

We spent hours in the pool, floating, kissing, laughing.  We played silly water games and did handstands.  We talked and talked and talked. We fed each other fruit and took turns sighing over the awesomeness of the chair massage.  We watched some porn reality show on the Playboy channel and laughed at the chick giving a blowjob to the strap-on.  (Seriously, what's the point?)  

I'm just so happy and glad that Jimi took us on this little excursion.  I'm flattered by his attention and generosity.  This one night away, it was like a refresh key for the romance portion of our relationship - there was nothing in the world except the two of us, and we had a comfortable, fun setting where we could relax and wallow in being in love.

On our way home today, we stopped at the outlet malls and I bought myself a new dress.  Jimi says he needs to give me more excuses to dress up, and as he dropped me at the fitting room with an armful of frilly frocks, he headed toward the Tools & More with this: "Don't just try them all on and decide you hate them and give up.  Find a dress.  We'll go out."  Yes sir.  I found a dress, but not until he came back and picked it out for me.  He dresses me so much better than I dress myself - he knows while the dress is on the hanger if it's right for me; I'm doing good if I can make that distinction while I'm wearing it.  Clothes shopping is typically a horrible experience for me, resulting in a complete meltdown of my self-esteem and extra beer and junk food consumption.  Today it was fun, though.  The 14s fit, and I may have been able to get into some 12s if I'd really wanted to push it.  My favorite dress was a gorgeous red number that wasn't in my size, but was in a 10, and so I tried it on anyhow.  The bodice was too tight, but it didn't look as awful as I'd expected and it wasn't uncomfortable and it would've fit well in another few months...I almost bought it.  I sorta wish I had, now that I'm thinking more about it.  I may go see of the local store has my size.  I really loved that dress.

Jimi humored me and let me spend 20 minutes trying on rings in the discount gold and diamond outlet.  I don't dare let myself read into that, or that he said, "I'm glad to get a better idea of your tastes, to know what you like best."   I hate that the rings I like the best are the ones I don't want because for their price, I could nearly build a Sybaris-esque master suite onto my home.  (Which we're seriously considering, by the way.  That's how we're spending the first lottery check.  When we win.)  Honestly, when it comes to rings, all I want is the wedding band, yo. 

And then we drove home and kissed the puppy and the kitty and lived happily ever after the end.

I started this post right after we got home, maybe around 5ish.  It's after 9 now.  Jimi's been sleeping for hours - he says he pulled the bottom fitted sheet off the mattress when he was pulling back the covers on his side of the bed last night, and he never got it back on all the way, so it balled up underneath him all night and was lumpy and so he didn't sleep well.  That's not the hotel's fault, he does that at home too.  Even if he'd slept as soundly as I did, we didn't sleep long enough, there was too much excitement to be had.  I'm probably going to be in bed myself before too long - it was a fantastic night, and I'm appropriately worn out because of it.  My arms and legs and back have that good I-got-a-good-workout stiffness and soreness from so many hours in the water.  I feel relaxed and calm and happy and in love.  I'm content with my world, right here, within these walls.

32 is already better than 31, and it hasn't even officially started yet.  



 

Don't read this. The sirens just went off.

Dinner was at Momma's tonight.  Every time I'm with her, I want to be closer to her.  When I'm in her presence, I'd agree to almost anything, so long as it put me closer to her. 

I found myself watching her tonight, looking for signs.  Signs of where I've come from, and where I'm going.  I see my lines in her lips and eyes - hers are where mine are going.  I want to know everything she's ever seen, touched, tasted, heard, thought.  All of it.  I could spend the rest of my life by her side and not know it all.  Especially the parts she doesn't want to share.  Which is most of it, I fear.

She knows Zanzibar.  Z-bar, she called it.  She used to do shots there, with so and so from the hairdresser board, back in the seventies.  Do I even know this woman?  She said we should go there on my birthday, and do shots.  My mother.  "I can't do shots, Momma, I get too drunk."  "Me too, Nat.  You do those five dollar things they sell in the test tubes that aren't very strong, then you can do a bunch."  WTF?  Are we really having this conversation?

The stories my dad tells with passion, she doesn't remember.  Daddy says he has the letters to prove it, Momma says, "we need to burn those" and my heart skips a beat - Daddy's promised to protect and save them for me, but what if she really does get to them first?  My beginnings are in those words, and there's a door there to the people my parents were before they were parents, and I desperately want to know those people.  She wouldn't really burn them, would she?

My great-grandmother is 99 years old.  She's recently been admitted into a nursing home with dementia.  For 20 years, I've had this idea that one day I go visit her with a tape recorder and ask her to tell me all of her earliest memories - what it was like as a teenager during the depression, how it was to birth 9 children at home, did she really have to boil the laundry?  What did she do when she had her period?  What was it like to be celibate for 40+ years?  What was the truth behind that story about the time she cut her hair and her Daddy cried?

It's too late for my questions now.  I've missed my window.  My Granny's gone too, and with her the first-hand account of how she met and fell in love with my Papaw, who, seeing her for the first time, pointed at her through a diner window and said to his buddy, "That's the woman I'm going to marry."   I'll never be able to get clarification on that raw egg she said saved my Aunt Pam's life when Pam was just a baby and barely able to hold down any formula.  What was it like when she went to the hospital, when they shocked her with electricity for having what is now recognized as postpartum depression?  Raising teenagers in the late 60s, early 70s?  Finding out at 40 that you've got a degenerative disease?  Losing the love of your life after 43 years when your plans for the day included lunch and fishing?  Learning, by accident, that you have cancer, and deciding not to say anything to anyone because all you want is to be reunited with him?  Granny said her peace, I suppose;  I wish I would've listened more closely.  The words I remember first, these days, when I remember her voice, are "There's no use crying over spilled milk."  I remember my outrage, "You're SO MUCH MORE than spilled milk, Granny." 

These women in my life.  These strong, deep women, who've taught me so many lessons, but it feels like I was only barely listening, and then, just on the surface.  Now I find myself wanting desperately to know more, so much more - but so much is lost, gone forever.  

My Momma's still here.  She has so many things to tell me, about all of her wonderful adventures, and she doesn't even realize.  She's a hard shell, but she'll talk to me one of these days.  I need to go around more often - not just to get her stories, but because I love her probably more than any other one person in the entire world and it makes her happy to see my face.  And I love it when she talks to me.  I love her voice.  I love holding her hands.  I love putting my arms around her and feeling her bony little shoulders.  I love the way she feels when she hugs me, even if she is a little stand-offish sometimes.  I love how nice she is to me, and how she's always supportive.  She told me tonight that I sing better than her and I think I've never received a higher compliment; her praise is worth a hundred times the value of the most precious metal. 

Twenty minutes, that's how long it takes to drive from my house to hers.  I let weeks and months go by without a visit - sometimes I saw her more when I lived in Michigan.  I am ashamed. Every time I see her I say to myself, self, from now on you will see your Momma at least once a week, and then I do nothing; I don't go see her, I barely call her, I am pathetic and horrible.

I keep thinking there's going to be a day that comes where a switch is thrown and all of a sudden I have to see my Momma three or four times a week and I will be a good and diligent daughter...and then I think, yeah, that'll probably happen when I have a baby...and then I think, but what if I don't ever have a baby?  Will there be no switch?  Oh, and holy crap, I'm a terrible person for not giving them grandkids yet, what if I never do, I'm a horrible daughter...


And I have to admit, I'm always sorta worried that there really is a Heaven like Granny and Papaw described it, and they're totally watching me when I'm masturbating, and I wonder how they'd feel about that, because I know that they'd fucking hate that I've had all that pre- and post-marital sex, but we never really talked about the masturbation thing and I hope that they look away if they're given the option to watch. 

And now that I've typed that paragraph out loud, I may never be able to masturbate again.

Which is sort of a shame, because now what am I going to do with that 8 minutes of my lunch break?

And now I can't believe a post that started out about a visit to my parents' house for dinner has turned into a discussion about my sick or dead grandparents and then masturbation...

Um.  'night.