Let's Do the Time Warp

Holy Shit. She's 1.

Don't See, Mommy

I'm sitting quietly at the dining room table, having just eaten a wonderfully terrible lunch (wendy's, and a cupcake from the Preschooler's half-birthday). Reading my email, catching up on blogs, allowing myself to get sucked into the time sink that is facebook. You see, the Baby is asleep, and P. is watching Backyardigans in her playroom while doing... something. I don't know what, and I'm really happy about this, this freedom to leave her to her own devices and trust that she won't hurt herself or one of her posessions.

It's been hard-won, this independence. It started with me being exhausted in that special progesterone-induced drowse that only a viable pregnancy can induce. P. would bounce around me trying to get me to entertain her and I would plead "please, just draw for a few minutes while I rest". Desperate not to blame The Baby for my inaction.

It continued with me being exhausted from baby induced sleep-deprivation. Trying to fit in breastfeeding/pumping/eating/resting into my day along with P. entertaining was a herculean feat. P. gradually learned that we would love it, really, if she would just ... figure out something to do. She could turn on her DVD player by herself (I dare you to criticize, you who haven't walked in MY shoes), get her crayons/paper out herself, get her puzzles out herself; as long as she didn't wake the Baby or wake a sleeping Mommy, she was free to roam.

Like right now, she's jumping up and down and dancing with the Backyardigans, quietly, sweetly....

"crack".

"What just happened, P.?"

"Don't see, Mommy!" < sounds of strumming >
Translation: I know I was doing something stupid and I don't want you to come in and be disappointed in me so if you don't see, it never happened.

Oh P, I don't have to see. I know. You were jumping up and down on your < insert breakable instrument here>, and it's cracked.

Oops I did it again

Aaaaand it's September. There was a headlong rush from the end of July to now -- filled with summer camp, many weekends on Cape Cod, and a camping trip to New Hampshire. Let' s not forget the DNC (yeah!) and the RNC (BOO!) (Which reminds me: put a sock in it). I discovered facebook at some point this summer and really got sucked into it in August. Then I poke my head up from the explosion of packed/unpacked STUFF in my living room and notice, holy shit, today is my 10th wedding anniversary!

I am learning that my lack of posts generally coincides with my general dissatisfaction with my life (for lack of a better phrase), and not really with my level of busyness. Let's face it, life with 2 kids under 5 is always busy, so I can't blame not posting on that! Rather, I just don't have anything "nice" to say. Or at least, I really don't find kvetching/bitching about my current state of affairs very interesting. Feel free to correct me, and quote my past complaining.

Okay, so what am I not whining about here? Well, Budgets. And Hemmorhaging Money to moving/children/fuel oil. The wash/rinse/repeat life of a SAHM. That moving has napalmed my social life. Struggling to add my 5 years out of the paid workforce in a meaningful way to my resume. Finding confidence in my ability to be a worker someone would want to pay to do something *I* want to do -- and that's not Insurance Sales. There are some people in my life who made the choice not to have kids (hear that Sarah Palin? CHOICE), and I find myself in serious envy of that decision. Do not get all jumpy, I love my daughters, but sometimes, I wish I had my disposable income/time back.

See? So very uninteresting.

Lessons

So we all know that "kids grow up too fast" and that we should "enjoy them at each age". Someone will say that and everyone standing within conversational radius will nod sagely. Nevermind that I've almost never agreed with this -- it's at best an admonition that you are thinking too negatively about what's happening (Johnny biting his friend? Don't worry, enjoy it. He's just expressing his frustration.). At worst, it's a desire to keep them from learning new things, to forever chain them to your side and screw them up.

What I've learned lately, from having the Baby, is that "kids grow up" (except when they don't). "Of course they do," I hear you saying. "What the hell are you going on about now?"

Well. With the Preschooler, I didn't know that kids grow up. I knew that she would get bigger, I knew that she'd learn to read, I knew that she'd learn to press my buttons. But I didn't KNOW, that like a helium balloon adrift in the sky, she would continue inexorably on with or without my input. I felt more like she was ball on a slight incline, that I needed to constantly nudge uphill and keep from rolling back. Constant vigilance.

Then B. came along, and suddenly we were in the midst of reflux and food intolerances. When I let go of the crushing disappointment of not being able to breastfeed B., I had a freeing, calming, wonderful epiphany: This too shall pass. B will grow up. She'll learn to eat. Her gut will learn to tolerate food. She's on the path. I don't know any 20 year olds (who haven't had some traumatic injury) who don't use the toilet, feed themselves, know some social interaction strategies.

Think about it -- most of the people you deal with in your life are adults. They don't change much. They are what and who they are already; they're fairly predictable. If you're thinking about friends you've known since you were kids yourselves, you changed and grew along with them and so probably didn't notice the changes that were going on. Nothing really prepares us for the reality of kids. They're little cameleons. Trying things out, learning what's acceptable and what's not. They're change artists.

And so you can get seriously wrapped up in the minutiae of raising them. You're cruising along for a few weeks or months with a status quo, and suddenly the cameleon pops out a new color. Most often out in public, when you are totally unprepared. (Ever seen a parent staring at their child as if it has suddenly sprouted two heads? Yes, I said "it".) You spin your wheels for a few days: "What the fuck is going on? Something's different. Why is it happening?" Then it hits you. "Oh, we're wearing a new color. Shit." And "Wait! I liked the old color! It was predictable, dependable, cute." Finally, "Right. Time to find the complementary Parent color."

What was I talking about? Oh yeah. They grow up. If you don't like a color, just wait, stay consistent. A new one will come out soon enough.

Blackmail

"I'm not going to be your friend anymore."

I looked up to see the Preschooler's playdate buddy (A.) walking out of the bedroom, with the Preschooler (P.) in hot pursuit. P. busted past A., into the playroom and claimed the child size vacuum cleaner before A. could, to which A. responded again: "I'm not your friend anymore." P. came to me and told me what happened (ah the naivete -- not realizing that Mommy can hear you in the next room...), and so I asked "why did A. say that?" (non judgemental, trying to teach P. how to deal with conflict). P. and I reasoned out that A. really did have prior claim, and so without further prompting P. went back in and said "Here A., you can have a turn first." To which A. said "Okay, I'll be your friend now."

Ah, the blackmail starts early with us women.

How do you explain blackmail to a Preschooler? All I know is I'm going to try, because I think it's important they understand what they are doing to each other. The future ramifications are huge.

Intersections

Every day as I drive to pick The Preschooler up from camp, I go through what I thought was a rather simple intersection. It's one of those islanded Y's that branch off of a busy route. I come up the bottom of the Y and take a left turn onto the busy route, which can be challenging depending on the traffic level. On the way back, I come down the left-top Y branch, which is just a merge for me, super easy.

I often wonder why people don't slow down an inch and let me out (never mind I live near Boston, and we are the WORST, most aggressive drivers in the country). The people on that road know how difficult it can be to get out, as they're usually on that road ALOT. I happen to subscribe to the pay it forward theory of driving -- be nice to people so they'll be nice to someone else. It also makes me feel better in general and less like using my car as a weapon, but that's another post.

Very often when I'm coming through the return trip, someone is turning off the main road from the other direction and threatens to run me over (they have a yield). It's pretty irritating! I wonder what the heck is wrong with them that they can't see through the very open intersection and that their sole job is to YIELD.

It wasn't until one day I happened to be coming home from yet another Preschooler birthday party and came through that intersection from the opposite direction that I caught a glimpse of the problem. Now I was the one on the main road, turning left across traffic into the right-top Y part of the intersection. I poured my concentration into turning across the fast-moving traffic and found myself in the intersection almost missing the yield to someone merging off from the other direction.

Oh.

And I now had another answer for why people don't slow down to let others out: the intersection is at the crown of a hill, and the road curves up to meet the crown. You don't know the intersection is there, or that there's someone in it, until you are on top of it. To slow down there would not be a good idea.

Hm.

So now I am thinking about how all those platitudes that all mean basically: don't bitch about something until you've done it too.

Don't tell someone how to live their life.
Don't tell someone how to grieve for their loved one.
Don't tell someone how to parent their child.

Grief

So this is rapidly becoming a grief blog. Huh.

A friend of mine started blogging after the death of her daughter. She also had the foresight to get herself into therapy immediately. Both of which were either not an option (blogging) or not something I realized one did after a death (therapy). Instead of starting therapy, I bounced in and out of my doctor's offices, freaking out about this ailment or that one, convinced I was going to need an appendectomy, or that I was coming down with bowel cancer, or that I had systematic candidiasis. I finally found an internist who patiently scheduled me for tests and then said "I can't find anything wrong with you, perhaps it's time for therapy?"

I was actually relieved. Oh, this could all be in my mind? Phew. And then confused -- why, now, after the death of my mother (I hear you rolling your eyes, smacking your forheads, Duh!) was this happening? I was relieved she was gone. No more ridiculous battles that were about to culminate in me cutting her out of my life. No more tense phone calls as she tried to talk to me as if nothing was wrong. No more sobbing into Mr. LSG's shoulder after a confrontation. Gone was the overarching feeling of being grossly misunderstood, by my own mother.

My therapist did what therapists are supposed to do, I suppose. I cried. She listened. I raged. She listened. And one day, I looked out of the window and saw... sunlight. Blue skies. Puffy White Clouds. That's the day I stopped seeing that therapist.

There have been other therapists since then, and I now know what to do in the event someone else dies. But I can't help wondering, if blogs were around when Dad died, would I have been able to use this as a grief tool as well? I could have gotten the poisonous thoughts out. Mom's all-too-brief courtship of her second husband and hasty chucking-out of all things Dad, my wedding, my first relocation to London and Mom's final bout with melanoma all would have been rather juicy topics, and frankly, things I would like to have written about then so I could look back now.

I thought this blog was going to be about my life now, but almost every time I write something it comes out through my grief filter, which makes me realize I have unfinished business. It's not like I don't know that, as I watch an Alzheimer's drug ad and think about how I will never (get? have?) to go through that with my parents, or every time I see one of those crown air fresheners in the back of a car I think of my Dad and one of the last conversations I had with him ("What the heck *are* those things, anyway?").

Interesting.

Events

I am sure you all have them, moments in time that you remember with such clarity that you can relive them in your mind. Those of my parent's generation often point to Kennedy's assasination as one of those moments. They'll ask "Where were you?" Out will come the story from that person's point of view. It's like time telescopes down, from the normal running to some perverted second by second, breath by breath time. What sounds like it might take a few hours, really only took 10 seconds or 5 minutes.

My (growing) list, in chronological order:

1. Space Shuttle Challenger I was home from school on a snow day, watching the shuttle launch on TV (back when shuttle launches were newsworthy, preempting all TV). I remember seeing Challenger disintigrate and not believing it, and running upstairs to tell my brother, and he didn't believe it either.

2. The Fall of the Berlin Wall This was in my first year of college. I walked into my dorm room and saw everyone gathered in front of our little 19inch TV (a luxury in those days!) watching Regan say "Mr Gorbachev, tear down this wall!"

3. OJ's verdict Posting our wedding invitations will always be inextricably linked with OJ being declared Not Guilty.


Of course, the most important to me was the moment I knew of Dad's death. My boyfriend (now Mr LSG) and I had just spent the weekend at massive Phish concert, The Clifford Ball, renting a Winnebago with some friends and enjoying a little crunchy hedonism at the apex of the summer. We drank, we watched the concert, some smoked, the guys wore mumuus. We laughed (gagged, swore "Never Again!") about emptying the waste receptacle of the Winnebago before returning it.

Mr LSG and I checked our voicemail after arriving home, because this was before cellphones were ubiquitous. We actually had a cellphone, one of those book-sized bag phones, but had neglected to give the phone number to our families because, well, it was before you thought to do that. Even now, I can feel the creeping dread as one by one the messages became gradually more tense -- starting with "Hi it's mom please call" and "Hi it's your brother please call", leading to "I don't know where you are but your father's been in an accident" and ending with the painfully terse "please call as soon as you can". From what I now know, Dad was alive when the first message was left, and dead by the last. I remember my legs giving way, the pit in my stomach, the whirling silence in our (dark, we hadn't even turned on the lights yet) apartment. I sat on the (off white, wide wale corduroy hand-me-down pull-out) couch while Mr LSG called to find out what was going on. His look when it was clear it was bad. Me saying "no no no no" and the long stunned drive out to my Mom's house.

There. I've just relived it.

Warnings

There are a few things I wish I knew before we decided to try to get pregnant. In my more desperate moments, I imagine myself going back in time and having a chat with my pre-TTC (Trying To Concieve, in the lingo) self:

1. You will never again have time off. Oh, sure, you'll get some occasional moments where you don't have a child hanging off of you, when you achieve escape velocity and find yourself in a space (car? store? mall? town? state?) where your kids aren't. But, you'll never get to just Blithely Walk Out The Door ever again. So, make sure you enjoy it now. At 10pm, just because you can, leave the house. Go outside. Walk down the street. One night, just stay up until 3am (or 4, or heck, even 5!) and then go to sleep and -- here's the really awesome part -- wake up when you want to. Revel in the fact that if you get yourself hungover, you don't have to still get up anyway and make breakfast and change that disgusting diaper.

2. Sleep Deprivation is torture. Yeah, you know it in an intellectual way now, but after the kid you will be on a first name basis with it. You will learn to dread a night waking the way you dread shots. So enjoy the unbroken sleep you are getting now, cuz it's a thing of the past.

3. Pregnancy is NOT easy. At least not for you. You're going to miscarry, twice. The miscarriages will leave you unable to invest in any gestation until about 24 weeks have passed, and even then you will be unable to plan for the baby until you begin to panic that you have no diapers and the baby is due in 2 weeks. Your second pregnancy will end poorly, and leave you with anxiety attacks for years to come. Your fourth pregnancy will be so uncomfortable that you will wonder daily what the fuck you were thinking.

4. There will be days that you will wish you didn't have kids.

5. Fortunately, there will be many more days you can't imagine not having kids.

6. The second child is 4x more work.

Installations

Mr LSG and I were putting together The Baby's crib last weekend. The Toddler, who is not a Toddler any more but rather a Preschooler, wanted to help so badly that she even said "Please?". So, we gave her little jobs to do -- carry this sheet here, move that stuffed animal over there, put The Baby's diapers here. She soon realized that we were fobbing things off on her, and the important work was being done in the middle of the room where the nuts and bolts and crib pieces were scattered on the floor.

By this point, the only thing left to install in the crib was the support for the mattress. It's a metal frame laced with springs (little finger catchers) and metal side supports that scissor open and closed to raise and lower the mattress base. Yep, I said scissor. Little finger choppers. Luckily, she usually respects us when we say "this is a Mommy and a Daddy job," which we very quickly deemed this little project.

But she Really Really Really wanted to help. She held the bolts and wing nuts for us, handing them to us as we needed them and watching us hold the screwdriver to hold the bolt still while we turned the wing nuts. "Mommy, I can do it!" She proclaimed, anxious to try before it was all done. I reminded her that it was a Mommy and a Daddy job, not a Preschooler job due to the sharp edges on which Daddy had already managed to slice his finger (oh yeah, such a safe crib. Actually, this part of the crib is out of reach once installed).

She thought about it for a little while, and then piped up: "Only Mommies and Daddies screw."

Sensitive

This weekend, Mr LSG and I went to see our first movie in the theater in at least a year. We chose Iron Man, partially because the reviews were good (Mr LSG) and partially because of Robert Downey Jr (me). Unfortunately, I didn't know the backstory of how Iron Man -- the character -- came to be, or I would have thought twice. You see, depictions of torture and I don't mix. I can still remember watching Reservoir Dogs and having to leave the room when they were cutting off someone's ear -- I can hear the moans of the character as I type. And that was 10 years ago.

Anyway, let me try to explain my sensitivity. I *feel* the pain that the actor is portraying. In that instant, my mind flashes an image of it happening to me or someone I love. I know it's coming sometimes, but often not. Usually, I'm just cruising along, watching the spectacle, then WHAM! Full technicolor image of my fingers being twisted off. I can feel the water filling my lungs and my last breath leaving. My kidneys disintigrating under that blow from the villan's steel tipped boots.

Mr LSG (and others) watch me go still and silent, cover my eyes, sometimes moan a little and wonder what the heck is wrong. It's just a movie, for goodness sake! It's not real. I remember watching Titanic, a full year after my father had died. I thought, cool, CGI, great SFX, let's go! And about an hour in, I thought "whoa, this is a huge mistake" as I watched the terror and tragedy unfold. A corner of my mind was still able to appreciate the mastery of Cameron's creation, but the other %90 of me was sobbing as if my heart was rending anew. I was LIVING the tragedy with the actors. I can still see out of the corner of my mind's eye my best friend and her husband watching me sob with a mix of humour ("isn't this funny that we're tearing up in this disaster movie") and shock ("wow, she's really coming undone").

Now that I have kids, the mental images have gone in a new direction. Just watching the news can send my Demon of Imagination into fits of ecstasy. For instance, a story of a sect in India that drops infants from a two story building onto a stretched sheet as an initiation rite of some sort has me imagining for days my children meeting that fate. The images pop into my mind unbidden and unbanishable. I can barely pay attention to the story to find out that the kids aren't harmed bodily by the drop because I'm imagining the terror they feel. Now you know why I refuse to watch Michael Jackson dangling his kids over a balcony. As my stomach does a million flips, I squeeze my eyes shut in a vain attempt to stop my brain from finishing the accident-in-waiting.

Is this visual sensitivity down to Mom and Dad striking disaster/horror movies from my view list, preventing me from growing a thick mental skin? Or was I always this way and that's why they didn't let me watch those things? My Grandmother used to refuse to watch "nastiness". I used to think she was just old. Now I wonder if she was sensitive too. I do know that after Dad died, I suddenly had to strike death from my movie/tv show theme list as I just couldn't handle it. Especially if the theme was Daddy-dying-leaving-daughter-to-bravely-soldier-on. Anyway, I can't ask my parents any of these questions, so I'll never know. (There, did you feel the pain? The loss? It's always there. Like an iceberg, the raw exposed tip is there, worn down by the years, not a sharp or as big as before. But the large, gaping pain is underneath the surface. You may think you are avoiding hitting it, but man, it's too big.)

Still Searching

There's a church nearby that is looking for a priest. They've been looking for one for at least a year now. I know this because I drive by once a week, and there's a rather large sign outside in the parking lot that says "SEARCHING FOR A PRIEST". This isn't terribly noteworthy to me, really, other than the method of looking for said priest. I thought there were committees to set up and internal organizational dictums to follow. I didn't know that one could just advertise for a priest and one would magically (divinely?) show up. (Full disclosure: I have a thriving disdain for organized religion. I was shocked -- shocked! -- to read somewhere that %95 of the people of the world believe in God. In my ego-centric world view, I thought that at least half of the world felt as I did.)

However, the last time I drove past the church there was an addendum to the sign. Someone had petulantly added to the top of the sign these equally large red letters: "STILL". As in: "Goddamn it, we're STILL looking for a priest." Or, "I know you drive by every day and this sign has faded into the scenery, but don't ignore this, we're still searching."

Do they think that priests looking for a - what, parish? - church drive around looking for big signs? Do they think that someone (like me) would say "Hey, I just happen to know an out of work priest!" And in the Boston area, isn't that dangerous -- any out of work priests may be that way because they um... took liberties with altar boys?

Disabled Parking

There's a new TV show called "What Would You Do?" that turns Candid Camera on its ear. The premise is to create an awkward/uncomfortable social situation (with actors, natch) and then film the innocent passersby as they respond (or don't). One blurb I saw when the show first came out was of a pair of friends having lunch in a restaurant and 'catching' another friend's boyfriend having lunch with and kissing another woman. Does she confront? Does she tell? Her solution was to text the boyfriend that she saw him cheating, which I thought was a masterful stroke. Dude, there are eyes everywhere.

I don't watch the show, but briefly saw another ad a few days ago whilst fumbling for the TiVo remote. The ad was a blurblet about one of the "bits": obnoxious woman parks her BMW in a handicapped spot and then takes on a passerby who chastizes her for it. The ad has stayed with me, and here's why: *Every day* as I pull into the parking area at The Toddler's preschool, there is a person retrieving a (her?) child who parks in the one clearly marked disabled parking spot. Every day I get to watch her walk/jog/bounce down the pathway and scoop up the child into a big hug, then ambulate her non-disabled self back to her minivan and go.

The first time I saw it, there were no available non-disabled spaces, so I thought well, okay, for the 5 minutes you're inside... but that quickly faded as I watched this woman, day after day, pull into this spot when every single other space was open. I even check out her van for a disabled placard or license plate in the hopes I'm missing something.

Now I'm not a crusader or anything, but this really irks me. Never mind the fact that she's not disabled (unless insensitivity has been classed a disability). I was recently an uncomfortable pregnant person and could, many times, have really used the shorter walking distance of a disabled spot. In fact, I think that pregnant people should get a temporary placard. The monumental - and rapid - changes to the body during pregnancy certainly incapacitated me a few times. But, I never park in disabled spots because I'm not an asshole I have functioning legs and can walk unaided.

So every day, I think about how I can confront the issue. There's Confused: Just go up and say "really? you're disabled?" Or In-Your-Face: "Don't park there, beyotch!" Or Instructive: "Now I don't know if you know this but that's a DISABLED spot, you can't park there." Or Passive-Aggressive: leave a note on her car/ stick a "THIS MEANS YOU" note to the bottom of the sign/call the school and complain.

In the show blurb, the passerby confronts the BMW driver. I wish I had the chutzpah to do that.

Apologies

"You'll understand when you have kids of your own...."

I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize profusely to -- well, a bunch of people.

To my mother: I am still very angry with you, don't get me wrong, but I now see how you thought you knew best what I needed even when I was 25. I cannot imagine the day when The Toddler is no longer in need of my constant supervision. Her current forays into independance ("I CAN DO IT MYSELF!") strike fear into my heart fill me with joy, until she shears off a hank of her hair with her big-girl scissors, just as I did when I was her age.

To my friend IG: I apologize for all the things I thought ("Why can't she fold that mountain of laundry?" and "taking away a bedtime book is not an appropriate consequence for refusing to put on one's shoes in a timely matter") when I visited your house after #2 came along. I'm typing this in very close proximity to my own clean and dry mountain of laundry that I fully intended to fold when I came downstairs. Unfortunately, surfing Gap dot com for clothes that my 4th trimester body could fit in was more interesting.

To my colleague LB: I know I walked too fast when you were newly pg and I wasn't. I frankly couldn't believe that you could be winded/unable to move at a normal pace. I'm so sorry! And, when you came back to work, I remember many "Mommy Brain" comments that I just dismissed as excuses. Welllllll, now I Get It.

To the woman on one of my many business flights I took while still DINK, whose child put the noxious in obnoxious. I'm sorry for the evil stares I sent your way. I now know that you were doing your best, and sometimes your best is ignoring the little demon spawn you find yourself related to lest you huck them a few rows away.

To those wielding strollers I refused to give way for before The Toddler was born, I now understand why you needed right-of-way: encouraging a laden stroller to bob and weave in pedestrian traffic is impossible.

I'm sure I have more overdue apologies. I'll apologize for that and say that when my Mommy Brain melts away and my Real Brain fires up again I'll remember what I have to apologize for and give it another go....

Fire

I'm driving in my car,
I turn up the radio.

The baby is crying
The toddler says "NO!"
She says she doesn't like it
and girl
the situation is dire

'Cause when I drive -- oo oo, crier!

She had a hold on me right from the start
She has a grip so tight I can't tear it apart
Her pixie smile makes me play the fool

Her eyes they dance but her mouth, it drools.

Laurie Berkner and The Wiggles
Dora and Diego

Baby
you can bet we listen all the time
Their words are happy
but their words they lie

'Cause when I drive -- oo oo, Crier!

Praise

I'm driving back home from The Toddler's gymnastics class with both kids. The Toddler is saying "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, can I watch my DVD at hoooooooome?"

#2 is crying because when we walked into gymnastics to drop The Toddler off, the maelstrom of children running around (never mind the "No Running in the Lobby" signs) and intermittently screaming (why, oh WHY do kids feel the need to do this? Oh wait, I feel the need to do that sometimes) has woken her out of her post-milk sleep, and she's been unable to fall back asleep.

I'm trying, fitfully, to listen to NPR and Tom Ashbrook discussing when/if HRC should back out of the race. All the time contemplating the mind-crushing tedium (see crayon conversation below) that is my life.

I pull up to a red light and stop. And hear from the back seat:

"Good Stopping, Mommy!"

I'd like to say that it made it all better -- it didn't -- but it did make me smile and feel good. Nothing like a little praise, genuinely given, to knock you out of your downward spiral. That and a mocha latte, a sunny day, and a good night's sleep.

**********

"Mommy? I need some crayons."

"You have lots of crayons in your bucket."

"But I need them to draw!"

"C. You have a bucket FULL of crayons. Go get them."

"Please? I need some crayons to draw."

"Listen. To. Me. Get your plastic bucket of crayons. You have plenty in there to draw with."

feet padding over to playroom. bucket of crayons rattling. feet padding back to me.

Smiling, hopeful face turned up to me: "Open this please?"

bucket opened, feet padding back to playroom. Ahh. peace.


10 minutes later, I realize I need to go make sure she's drawing on paper, something I can no longer count on after the birth of #2 and the Sharpie Incident of 2008.

Eyes Wide Open

quick catchup : we've had baby #2, she's 3.5 months old. Is primed to sleep through the night, and may in point of fact be doing so tonight.

So why the holy fuck am I awake? It's 12:30 AM.

I'll tell you why.

For 5 years now (The Toddler is now 4 years old) I've been posting on a forum with women I met on an infertility website. We "met" when we were all looking for others who had had a miscarriage or two and were still trying to conceive (TTC, in the lingo). Specifically, our little subgroup was TTC without the benefit of a blind faith in God. Or at least, the organized religion so creepily prevalent in the US and online in these infertility communities. You know the kind: "God had a reason for taking my baby" or "I have an angel in heaven".

We've all moved on to have at least one child per by now, and over the years have accumulated more miscarriages, a few siblings, and one deadbaby (baby who was born, lived about a week, and died). Let's just say that we're close in the way that only shared misfortune can accomplish.

Lately, the conversation on our forum has been peppered with political talk, as one would expect in an election year/era/epoch. One of our members is so in love with BO that she's been blinded to all else in that Cult of Personality way that I can imagine JFK brought out in his supporters back in the day. It's neat to see because she's not a US citizen (yet), but is so fired up about her candidate that she volunteers, standing out in the freezing weather to support him and exhort people to vote.

But, I misspoke. She only wants you to vote if you are a BO supporter. Otherwise, "just stay home". Oh, and if you're undecided, "just stay home". Don't mention HRC or you're likely to get some over the top bashing of the lady, with lashings of vitriol.

What's keeping me awake? Today this friend accused HRC of having "no morals/values". Having finally had enough of the anti-HRC comments, I asked her to refrain from the negativity. And got attacked for it. So now in true flashback to middle-school-just-been-bullied mode, I'm thinking of all sorts of things to say, points to make, and treatises to write on this subject. Interspersed with "go to sleep you stupid fuck, either you're going to be awake in 2 hours feeding a baby or you're wasting your first full night's sleep in 9 months." And yes, I'm counting the pregnancy get-up-to-pee-every-2-hours as broken sleep.