Same to you, buddy. 

Just A Small Touch of Class

I think we can all agree that when you name your home furnishings catalog (or any other business) Touch of Class that you are probably overstating things a bit. I'm not sure how my husband got on the mailing list for a catalog filled with objets des arts that might have had a place in the homes of my grandmother's neighbors in Florida in the '80s. You may look at this site and think, "There are some cute pieces in here", and in fact, there probably are. But if you are the kind of person who needs to decorate right down to the toilet seat, I'm not sure I trust your judgement on these things.

Working On It

The technical issues have been resolved; however, the teething baby/no sleep/dirty laundry/too much homework issues are still on the table. So tonight's topic: George Bush is neither compassionate nor conservative. Please discuss amongst yourselves.

We Are Experiencing

technical difficulties at Bad Mama's House. Please stand by...

Shameless Fishing for Comments

Ok, the thing is, other people can wait between posts as long as they like, so that when they do finally post they are witty and entertaining and well thought-through. I have to post every day, and most days I have a brain made of cottage cheese going bad. So that's my excuse, anyway.

Peanut had her first three-meal day today. She's been ready for it for a while, but I always forget one until it's almost time for the next one anyway. It did not make her any less cranky, as I had hoped. I realized that if she eats three times a day, I will be spending at least an hour and a half every day feeding her, and that isn't counting preparation of the food (because I haven't been preparing food outside of taking the lid off the jar--but it is organic!). This is a somewhat depressing thought.

Which leads me into tonight's post question, the equivalent of a sitcom doing a clip show: What did no one tell you about being pregnant/birthing/caring for a baby that you think it would have been useful to know? My answers are as follows:

1. That being pregnant could hurt so damn bad. I mean, sometimes it hurts so much you can't walk, you can't even roll over in bed.
2. That while you may have gone without using a lot of over-the-counter medications for colds, etc. before you were pregnant, you knew you could if you really needed to, and so it is waaay different when you just can't. Also, that sometimes you can take them, even though you assumed you couldn't.
3. That having your husband in the room with you at the hospital isn't necessarily a good thing if he snores.
4. That newborns eat as often as every hour sometimes, and it takes them that long sometimes to do a complete feeding. Do the math, and you'll see why you'll be tired.
5. That babies can sometimes be perfectly happy sleeping no more than 20 minutes at a time, around the clock, for days and days.
6. That a baby can be working on the same tooth coming through for WEEKS before it finally does, and therefore be cranky for that long.
7. That there is really no point in trying to get a baby to sleep on your schedule, or really do anything at all on your schedule, before they are about 6 months old, because as soon as you think you've got it down they change.
8. That you really don't need most of the stuff on the layette lists at all, and most of what you do need you probably shouldn't buy until after the baby is here because whatever choice you make will be wrong for your baby for some reason.
9. That you can't nurse in a sling while you do housework -- it's a lie.
10. That your baby might not like to be carried in a sling, or a frontpack, or even rocked and cuddled.
11. That no diaper works on all babies all the time without leaking.
12. That babies can shoot poo out the backs of the diapers as high as their shoulders.
13. That this will happen the first time when you are holding them in public and don't have a clean shirt handy for either of you. Always have a clean shirt handy for yourself.
14. That your kid, the one you went through all the pain and diet restrictions and headaches with no Advil for, might not look the least bit like you.

That's all I can think of, besides the obvious "How much you'll love your kid". Any other suggestions?

I'm So Tired

I have all sorts of stuff to write about, and I can even remember it. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your perspective, although if it is the latter why are you here?), I am way too tired. This is all I can do, so Laura, you can count this day as a journal entry, because I'm here. Sort of.

Good-Bye to 1834 S. Pearl St.

So I am sitting in what used to be my room on the last night I'll spend at the house I grew up in. It wasn't supposed to happen quite so quickly, but it did and now I have to deal with it. My parents' divorce is final, and the house will be sold as of Friday.

I haven't really been back here more than once or twice a year since I moved out at age eighteen. At the time, I couldn't wait to leave. I didn't want to live with my family, and I didn't want to live in this small town. A month after I left, my room became an office. It's been a while now, and it is easy to get nostalgic for the people and places. I walked the dog across the street to the park where I spent my summers, and looked for evidence of the carvings we made in a tree before my mom told us it would kill the tree (it didn't). The tree had grown so high I couldn't see if they were there anymore or not. I ran into neighbors whose daughter was my brother's best friend. The mother came to coo over Peanut. The father has leukemia, and I only recognized him because of the dog he was walking, he's gotten so skinny and gray. I also saw the woman who was my best friend from the time we moved into the house when I was two until junior high, which is where everything changes anyway. She has a son, five months older than Peanut, who looks just like her. She, by the way, is a stick. I thought you were supposed to get fatter after high school, not skinnier? No one informed me of this rule change.

My room has a gray carpet and walls so pale pink they are almost white. This was my choice, after I was told I couldn't paint the walls black because it would hurt the resale value. Fifteen years later, the new owner, a single woman, plans to change everything anyway. She is either covering or filling in the pool (why buy a house with a pool and then demolish it?), ripping out all the landscaping (actually a good thing - my parents weren't big on yardwork and it shows), and completely redecorating. It isn't that I'm so attached to the decorating, I guess. It is that it seems like my history will be obliviated somehow. It bothers me enormously that Peanut won't get to see the house I came from, or sleep in the room I slept in. I know many people don't get to do this, so I'm not quite sure why I wanted it for her so very much. Maybe it is all the changes in my family that I never would have expected ten years ago. All but one of my grandparents have died since I was eighteen. My parents separated and then divorced after thirty-plus years of marriage. I got married, had a baby, bought a house ( the last two in the last year). My remaining grandfather is going to be going into an assisted-living facility soon, and his house will be sold too, the house where I took my first steps. Maybe if I was still living in this town, it wouldn't be a big deal, but I don't. My mother is moving to the city where I live now, and my father won't be staying too long in my hometown either. I will have no reason to be here anymore.

Most kids nowadays don't live in the same place their whole lives, with their parents working at the same jobs. They don't get to play across the street from their houses while still in kindergarten with their mothers still inside the house, checking periodically while doing dishes. They don't go to school with the same kids from pre-school to high-school graduation. Seeing my house go I think is a reminder that Peanut won't get to experience what I think were some of the best parts of my childhood. She'll get different ones, ones that I hope she'll one day be nostalgic about too.

One of the frequent commentors here (if you can call any of them frequent), is Carlos, who also grew up in my hometown, though his memories are not so fond. I think, though, that it won't matter when his old home is gone too. It somehow makes me feel more like an *adult* then even having a child did. In many ways, my childhood will be gone in a few days in a way it never was as long as I could come home.

It's a good house. It had its leaks, but it is a wonderful Home.

Really?

Who is looking at my blog from Singapore? It says, right on my stats page, that someone did. That's cool.

A Cop-Out

I am belated in responding to the earlier comments on what kind of blog this should be. Thank you Claudia, Anna, Stacey, and Jo (and Carlos) for your thoughts. I've kind of decided that really... I won't decide. I let another two friends in on the site, but I honestly don't think they're even reading. I will tell my mom that I have it, but she wouldn't know the first thing about how to go about finding it. My husband knows I have it, and also knows I prefer my privacy, and I trust him. I'll copy both he and my mom any particular post I would like them to read. And I'll work on outside writing, so Mom and T. can go ahead and read other things and be proud. So if I want to vent, I can. I've never been someone to share intimate details about my marriage to just anyone else, and since there is at least one other person reading this that knows T., I wouldn't consider writing anything about it I wouldn't tell a friend, and admit to T. I talked about.

I used to write in journals, years ago. I would write anywhere, in all my notebooks, on stationary, backs of envelopes, wherever and whenever I felt the urge. I reserved the most private of my thoughts and weird story ideas for a journal that I never bothered to hide, because what kind of person reads someone else's journal? Well, my boyfriend did. More than once. I know this because he would then decide that we needed to discuss what he'd read. This, understandably I think, dampened my enthusiasm for writing anything down, so this blog is an enormous leap of faith for me. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed writing, and I really want to continue it.

Claudia, I'm afraid anyone looking here for discussions of Eastern European economic policy will be sorely disappointed (if you are looking for it, please check out Claudia's blog Halfway Down The Danube, which is very interesting and has pictures of her adorable kids too). As much as I'd like to talk about things like politics, there are so many people that do it better than I ever could that I'm not particularly inspired to try myself - it's more fun to read their sites. So I'm stuck with stories like the following:

Tonight, Peanut rediscovered her ability to do raspberries. So nursing has become a wet adventure. I made the mistake of laughing when she interrupted a nursing session to blow raspberries on my breast, and now she thinks it is a fantastic fun thing to do, and ends up not finishing a meal in less than an hour. She has also decided it might actually be useful to roll from her tummy to her back - she has been able to do it for a while, but has stubbornly refused to more than a handful of times. We crouch over her, dangling toys, "Go Peanut! Yay, Peanut! You can do it!", with crazy grins on our faces and artificially chipper voices. We are genuinely pleased she's doing it, but really, it is only exciting for so long.

That's it. My brain is officially empty for the night. Probably because T. is watching Adult Swim in the same room, and, while very entertaining, it is enough to deaden anyone's brain. Quote I just overheard: "Like my hydraulic penis. Which is huuuuge".

And I Swear...

that Chris Noth was drunk while presenting at the Emmy Awards tonight.

I've been watching too much television.

Let Us Not Speak Of Today's Game

So how's the weather where you are?

My Name is Carrie, and I Approved This Message

Read Today in Iraq, and please tell me why he is winning. On second thought, don't. It is too depressing.

There she is ... Miss Don't-Know-Jack

Ok, so I'm watching the Miss Americ@ pageant (why? Because I'm a masochist, okay?), and the swimsuit competition came on. I haven't seen this spectacle for a few years, and honestly, I'm confused. What really is the point of this part of the contest? All of these women have bodies I would love to have. What is the criteria used? Would a short and curvy woman who was still obviously in good shape score as high as one who is tall and slender? I can see why it is kept, because it means ratings. I can even understand some of the rationale for including it in the scoring--it takes time and effort to keep yourself toned and slender, even if you are genetically inclined towards that kind of body. But I want to know what you get points on. The best able to smile without showing how much you hate being there with tape holding your ass up?

What really got to me, though, is the little quiz portion the final five contestants had to go through. It was multiple-choice, and the topics were mainly civics and current events. All the contestants knew where the next Summer Olympics were being held: Beijing, China. But only ONE, just ONE, even with the choices of 1920,1925, and 1930, were able to say when women got the vote in this country. As far as I'm concerned, if you are supposed to be a role model for America's young women and win thousands in scholarship money, you really ought to know something like that.

It's only 5 percent of the score, while the swimsuit part is 10 percent. And the scholarships total $40,000. Guess I should have taken fewer English classes and more Physical Education ones in school.

¡Viva La Mexic0!

Today is Mexic@n Independ3nce Day. I am reminded of this because I live on the main drag of my city, and currently there are about a hundred cars and trucks with Mexican flags waving, driving up the street honking their horns. This is actually a much bigger deal in Mexico than Cinco de May0, which more people in the USA know about and celebrate. I attribute this to the fact that it arrives in September during football season, and that it doesn't have the date in the celebration name, which means Americans can't remember it.

Excuse Me While I Whip This Out

My kid is way more excited than my husband is when I take off my shirt. I don't know that this is a good thing.

My Daily Self-Righteous Rant

I was on Meetup.com tonight, looking for playgroups. I ran across the Attachment Parenting playgroup in my area. Their introduction reads: Meet other parents who don't take the easy way out of parenting. Whether supporters of Breastfeeding, Child Led Weaning, Cloth diapering, Homeschooling or Co-sleeping all are welcome here.

All, apparently, except parents who don't do those things because they are taking the easy way out of parenting.

Look, I cloth diaper, eat organic, co-sleep, and exclusively breastfeed. All of these things were the choices I made because they feel right for me and they work with my lifestyle. Frankly, for me they are the easy way to parent. But it pisses me off that this group of people seem to think that those that didn't make those choices are copping out, compromising their children for convenience's sake. Who the hell do they think they are to make that kind of judgement? Besides, cloth diapering, for example, has nothing to do with attachment parenting, and I think it is a stretch to say homeschooling does either. This is exactly the kind of judgemental bullshit I moved here to get away from.

I won't be joining.

Crack for Carlos

I spent almost four hours this morning writing the story of my pregnancy and Peanut's birth for my essay assignment instead of sleeping. It is something like seven pages long, so I'm not sure if I will be posting the whole thing here, or some abbreviated version.
I have told this story in bits and pieces online, over the phone, and in a brief synopsis to people who say "what's wrong with her?" For the record, never use those words when asking about a child's differences. "What happened?" is, I think, acceptable, because something did happen, but absolutely nothing is wrong with her. I don't mind being asked, I do mind the implication that she is somehow defective.
My daughter has been diagnosed with Arthrogryposis Multiplex Congenita. I am leaving the letters the way they should be because I want people to find this place if they are looking for it, because there aren't a lot of active sites out there about it. The name means multiple joint contractures from birth. Peanut was in a frank breech position throughout my entire pregnancy, meaning her feet were up around her ears. Her knees were locked in a hyperextended position, her right foot was clubbed, and her right hip was dislocated. None of the joints from the waist down, except her toes, have the range of motion they are supposed to have. Her thumbs and one index finger are also affected, and she can't really use them. She can't pull her arms straight above her head, or bend backwards very far. Her arms are very small and a little short compared to most babies. She also has an eye condition that sometimes goes along with this, where her left eye doesn't move in all directions, giving her a cross-eyed look sometimes. She was put in hip-to-toe casts at the age of six weeks, and wore them for the next three months. She now wears removable splints that she will have for the next several years. Her legs are skinny and obviously look "different", with odd dimples at the knees, and her right one is shorter than her left because of her hip dislocation. Her feet look different too: one is long and slender, the other is short, wide and curved. Her legs now don't quite straighten, but don't bend more than about 30 degrees unless we bend them for her, and then only to 90 degrees. She cannot put her feet in her mouth like most babies, and is just now, at seven months, able to bear any weight on her legs. She needs at least two surgeries on her legs and hip, and possibly one on her hand, within the next year. Her surgeon promised us that by the age of two, she'll walk and run like any other child that age, but she'll never have a normal range of motion.***
She is alive, however, her brain MRI was just fine, and she's the prettiest little girl in the world, to boot. You can see the pictures, and you can't deny it, can you?
The link in the title above contains information about Arthrogryposis, as well as information about a baby girl with Arthrogryposis abandoned in a hospital in Ecuador after her birth and who is now up for adoption. I know some people who read this blog are interested in adoption. Please take a look. If I could take her, I would in a heartbeat.
**UPDATED: Well, the surgeon was a little off. During her surgery to lengthen her quadriceps muscles, he discovered she had a lot less muscle tissue than it appeared from the outside. At well past two years-old, she is able to stand in full-leg braces, and take some steps behind a walker, but she's a long way from walking and running like any other kid, if she ever will. We'll keep working with her, and keep our fingers crossed.

Insert Clever Title Here

My writing instructor must not have children. Otherwise she would know requiring daily writings for someone who had an infant and an infant's laundry responsibilities was very mean. In the absence of a better post, here's another cute picture.

99 Bottles of Beer On The...Whoops

To the man who fell off his bike into the median in front of my house tonight:

Riding your bike home from the Player's Tavern while stinking drunk may seem to be a fantastic idea, but it really isn't. I do wish to thank you for not getting behind the wheel of a car, and I'm glad you aren't really hurt.

Cute!

Love Me

I am officially obsessed. As you might have noticed, I got a hit-counter for this blog. As I write this, it has 5 hits, 2 of which I think are from me. I went from not being sure about having a blog because I'm kind of a private person to an attention-whore who just wants hits and comments. When I realized that people I have never spoken to have started to read this, the pressure to be entertaining mounted, though as you can see I am resisting it admirably.

So in order to get more comments, I am asking a question. Dear Readers, if you have a blog, do your friends and loved ones have the URL? Or are you using it as a private place to vent? I am asking this because I would really like my mom to read this. She would think it was very cool, as she has always wished I had become a writer. However, what if I want to complain about her? The same with some of my close friends or my husband. God knows I don't have that much to talk about that anyone would be interested in, so my only chance might be slightly entertaining rants about how they are irritating me. How often do you find yourself using your blog for this sort of thing? If your friends/family read it, do you find yourself censoring yourself a lot?

And Carlos, why don't you have your own blog yet?

Some People's Children

My friend Nikki wanted me to blog about a conversation she had with a co-worker recently, so I will.

The discussion was about a college town in the South, a little hip and funky. Though by all outward appearances this co-worker, whom I shall call Freak because she is one and I can't think of anything witty, seems a little hip and funky herself, she isn't. Freak doesn't like this town because of the kinds of people in it. As an example, she mentioned seeing a young man begging in front of a natural foods store. Apparently he told people he was begging for money to buy soy milk. Nikki and I both think this alone is hilarious, but Freak does not. "If he wants to live that kind of lifestyle, he should go out and just get a job!" We also agree that the proper response Nikki should have made was probably, "you mean the lactose-intolerant lifestyle?" but instead she asked if she would prefer the young man be asking for money for alcohol. "Well at least he would be honest then" was her answer. So while Freak was apparently unsure of the man's motives (is he a secret alcoholic or a unemployed vegan?), it was the final nail in the coffin of Nikki's desire to have coffee with her anymore.

Trust me, this is far preferable to all the sad things I otherwise had to blog about. Not sad things I am personally experiencing, but to people I care about and the world in general. And Nikki, I thought about using a fake name for you too, but you wouldn't have liked any of my choices, I'm pretty sure. Thanks for the topic suggestion.

Rationalization

I am weak. I spent half an hour this morning holding my seven month-old in front of the TV, while she ate (sucked on) potato chips. But it is ok because it was Sesame Street, and sweet potato chips with no salt added, right?

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety-Jig

We're home. I apologize to those giving me a hard time for not writing immediately upon my return, but I just drove for two and a half days (should have been two, but we were twice given bad directions and ended up going the wrong way on the interstate for about 4 hours total) with a teething baby with diarrhea, a dog who was terrified of me and any vehicle with its engine on, and my father, who once didn't talk to me for two years for some still unknown reason. Hurricane Frances slapped us in the ass with a wet towel on our way out, I imagine for being so cocky about missing it over the weekend. It absolutely poured rain on us through the mountains and into Kentucky. Not fun driving.

I had a question about the barbecue. Eastern Carolina barbecue is a peppery vinegar-based sauce that contains no ketchup or mustard, served with pulled pork -- never beef. It can contain molasses and/or brown sugar, but it is thin and not sweet, and nothing like the ketchupy sauce you find in the grocery store. The whole hog is slow-roasted in a pit with this sauce, and the meat just falls off the bones and is sometimes chopped. We went to a place called Bullock's in Durham, NC, which always has a long line even though I am told there are better places. The only problem with eating-in at a barbecue place there is that they serve no alcohol, and you do miss the beer. There were twelve of us, counting the baby, so we ate family style, meaning big plates of all the food is just set around the table, and refilled when they empty.

You start out with hush-puppies, which are fried blobs of cornmeal batter seasoned with onion. Usually they are served with seafood, but they are a common starter at barbecue restaurants in the Carolinas, like tortilla chips and salsa are in Mexican restaurants. When they are dipped in honey butter I could eat them all day. Then the plates come out. The standard meal consists of pulled-pork barbecue, Brunswick Stew, coleslaw, and green beans. Brunswick stew was originally made with wild game like rabbit or squirrel, but now it is usually made with chicken. Every time I've had it it also contained corn and lima beans, although the ingredients tend ot vary depending on where you are. Dessert is usually banana pudding with a Nilla wafer crust, and maybe some kind of pie or chocolate cake. Here you can find another discussion about what the typical meal is like. My husband's family has been in North Carolina since colonial days, and this is how they eat their barbecue, so that's what I know.

As mentioned above, Peanut is FINALLY getting her first teeth. She's been having bumps pop up and down on her gums for months, but now at least one tooth is out and clicking against her toys. She won't let me look or even feel, so I can't tell if there is more than one. She has had the trots for the last week because of it. This isn't good as we just discovered her diaper rash was caused by all the "skin-soothing" ingredients used in her conventional disposable diapers, and the only kind that doesn't bother her is an insanely expensive unbleached brand found only in the organic food stores, none of which is open 24 hours a day. Yes, we normally use cloth diapers, but I wasn't going to haul poopy cloth diapers across the country for a week, and frankly hers don't hold it in well anyway. But yay, she has teeth! I am kind of sad to lose that gummy smile, though.

The dog was attacked pretty promptly upon arrival by the big bully cat (also from North Carolina, actually). She is happily chasing butterflies in the backyard for now, until I figure out how to keep them all from killing each other. Any suggestions would be much appreciated. She barks viciously at my neighbors when they pull into their driveway, so I'm sure we won't be getting any party invitations from them anytime soon, as well as at things I can't see. She does not bark when someone comes up to the front door, or around to the fence gate, which is when I want her to bark. That's ok, I guess. At least she's cute.

Pig-pickin' time

I am here, safe and sound, with no hurricane in sight. Imagine that!

T's family is very sweet, and completely enamored of Peanut. There are presents for her from her grandmama's neighbor and even her grandmama's Realtor, and she's being charming to everyone she meets. She was an angel on the trip down -- I was far whinier than she. My mother-in-law bought us a barbecue dinner last night. I know I probably gained 10 pounds, but they're a delicious 10 pounds. If you've never had Eastern Carolina barbecue, you are missing something wonderful.

The perfect girlfriend is not here. She decided at the last minute to go to a friend's wedding instead. I would like to think it is because she found the idea of meeting me too intimidating. I do not deserve this reprieve, of course, and to be honest, I did actually want to meet her and thank her for the lovely baby clothes she sent for which I have yet to send a thank-you note.

I have, however, been receiving some predictable assvice regarding the raising of my child (To be fair, this rant involves comments that have been made not just here, but other places too). Can we all get something clear here, if it wasn't already? I am lazy. I will absolutely do the easiest thing I can get away with, as long as the outcome is the similar to the hard way. So maybe, just maybe, there is a reason that I don't just "flip on the light and let her deal with it" when I need light to change the baby in the middle of the night and instead do elaborate things with a flashlight (I have headlamps that I can't find but refuse to buy another because I do have them somewhere, dammit) and a nightlight. Instead of jumping out of bed and running to her crib in another room when she needs to eat or have her pacifier replaced (you know what? I don't give a rat's ass if she's one of those four year-olds with a pacifier in her mouth as long as I get some sleep now), I think it might be a better idea to just reach over into the bassinet by the bed and take care of it. I'm pretty sure by the time she's twelve she'll want her own room, and if the only way/place you can think of to have sex with your significant other is in your bed at night then I feel sorry for you because obviously didn't get any when you were in high school or living in your college dorm. And before anyone even starts on the nursing thing, her formula costs twenty-five bucks a can, so unless you are planning on donating towards the fund I think I will continue to nurse her for a while, thanks. And even when she doesn't need formula as an alternative anymore, I might keep nursing her anyway, just because I want to, and she's my kid so I can do it if I feel like it, so there.

I don't pretend to have all the answers. I know that the fact that she is perfectly willing to sleep in her crib as well as in my bedroom has nothing to do with any divine parenting skills I have. She's going to do what she's going to do, and right now I feel like my job is to just roll with it, and make it as easy on us both as it can possibly be. I have no interest in micromanaging my child's life, imposing rules on her for the sake of the rules. I know that I will want my bedroom back someday, and that day may come before she wants to leave it. But I'm not doing what I'm doing and blithely ignoring the future ramifications of my actions. Perhaps, in my home, it is worth it to me to have her here, listening to her breathing, peeking over at her with my dying flashlight, while I can. My kid, my house, my rules, okay?

Like A Band Of Gypsies We Go Down The Highways

I am currently traveling to see my in-laws in North Carolina for the weekend. I literally didn't have one free minute yesterday to post, because Peanut was extra-clingy yesterday while I was trying to pack and dog-proof the house. We haven't even unpacked everything yet, so this was quite a job, one I decided to allow my husband to complete when he returns early on Monday.

You see, we are picking up a dog this weekend, specifically my mother-in-law's. She just moved to a condo, and wants the dog to have a yard to play in. The dog's name is Sophie (which is why that is NOT Peanut's name), and she is half-Beagle, half-German Shepherd. Yes, I'll pause while everyone thinks about that for a minute...and chuckles...yes, she looks like a large Beagle with a Shepherd's tail. Anyway, we are driving the earth-killing monster truck 1000 miles with the baby to visit the family, and then T. will be flying back on Monday so that he can work on Tuesday. I am driving back. Originally, the plan was to go back with no other adult--just me, the baby, and the dog. Did I mention I've never owned a dog before? But since everyone in my family thinks I am a helpless, delicate little flower, I got nonstop crap about this. My mother reminded me of the time when she was in her 40s and her father refused to let her drive home from his house in Florida home by herself, and got in the car with her. I say, just because your dad was overprotective doesn't mean I'm not going to do this.

I finally caved. My father is flying down and driving back with me. That means nonstop SPORTS RADIO. And bitching about how my brother is wasting his life. At least my parents finalized their divorce yesterday, so I don't have to hear about how horrible and unfair my mother's lawyer is anymore (what, is she supposed to just trust you, a divorce lawyer yourself?) Now we are just getting crap about driving towards Hurricane Frances. You would think they couldn't read maps. WE ARE HUNDREDS OF MILES NORTH OF THE HURRICANE TRACK. Really, we'll be ok. We might get rained on, but that's all. I swear. I am not driving my family into the heart of a monster hurricane. The fact that they think I would foolishly do such a thing is quite disturbing, but I will attribute that to their understanding of my lack of sleep.

I get to meet my brother-in-law's girlfriend while I am there too. She is tall, and blonde, and runs marathons and was a tennis pro. She is fluent in three languages (that I know of), and is in grad school after working successfully in finance. I know this is all about my insecurities, but I am not looking forward to it. T. is of no help. He has met her before, and said she was nice, but that's about all he can tell me.

Note: I can't respond to all my comments while I'm gone, but thanks for coming here and taking the time to comment. I appreciate it more than you know. The fact than anyone takes a minute out of their busy days to read my ramblings is amazing and very humbling. Thanks.

I Don't Suck

She won't sleep. She won't nap, she won't go to bed. When she finally succumbs, she is restless, tossing and turning and crying out. I know babies do this when they are reaching a new developmental stage, and she is starting to sit, finding new vocalizations, and working on a tooth. You'd think all of that would make her more tired, but apparently that's just me.

Oh, and according to my writing teacher, I don't suck. I am too tired to demonstrate this in a post, however.