You Can Get Out Your Tiny Violin

Peanut and her daddy are bundled and packed off to his Momma, and I am bereft. I was looking forward to this day for weeks, thinking of all the things I would do with my free time (sleep! shop! sleep! massage! pedicure! sleep!) but it appears I will do none of these things, because it feels like someone cut off a body part and misplaced it, and I keep looking over my shoulder wondering what I'm missing. No, nothing like King's Missile. I can't sleep well, because I wake up with a start, wondering where she is. It was worse when I was out of the house at the co-op this morning, feeling like I'd left my purse somewhere except more so. There is the chaos that my house always is after a big packing job, and that must be straightened before class tonight or I will go insane when I get home, so no pedicure. I had hoped to do the cleaning before today, but with Peanut's teething and vaccination fretfulness I had to spend the last few days just holding her. Now I want to wail, Oh why Oh why did I get irritable about holding her all the time when now I can't hold her AT ALL, all the way until tomorrow afternoon? What is wrong with me as a mother? (In case anyone is wondering why I am being so dramatic about this, please understand I have never been separated from her for more than four hours, in her entire life. This, to me, is a big deal). The guilt! Did you know being raised by a lapsed Roman Catholic can apparently instill almost as much guilt as being raised in the church itself?

In fact, yesterday I was lying in bed wondering how on Earth I got to be in this place, which was lying in a creaking, smelly bed while wearing sweatpants with holes in the crotch, so sleepy I couldn't keep my eyes open, while my daughter held on to one of my ears and whacked me in the head, repeatedly, with an empty Infant Tylenol box. Not that I would take anything back, because then I might not have her. Though I now have a wonderful fantasy of having sex at exactly that same moment in time with my husband, except that we are doing it in our French villa, and have a maid who'll change the sheets later on. But who knows what his sperm might have been like after a life of champagne and fine French produce? I still might not have her, so it's not worth it.

Anyhoo, I am flying down South tomorrow morning, and I have no idea whether or not I'll be able to post or read until I am back on Monday. So I wish everyone have a Happy Thanksgiving, whether it involves turkey and mashed potatoes and football, or tofurkey and mashed turnips and protesting First Nations treatment by the US government (I'm with you there, except for the tofurkey part).

Bad Mama, for sure

Yes, I use my child to make political statements.

2 Good 2 B Tru

You know why I love my husband? He's been gone all week at the home office, and dealing with a lot of stressful stuff on not nearly enough sleep. He'll be back home tonight, after flying in from Canada and then working a full day 90 miles away. But when I talked to him this morning and told him about the dog incident, the first thing he said was, "Leave it, and I'll clean it up tonight when I get home".

And you know what? I'm a bad wife, so I will.


UPDATE: I made him go out and get the carpet cleaner, but I cleaned it up. Now that's love.

Good Morning, Sunshine!

I got up this morning to go to the bathroom and to let the dog out. The dog sleeps in a room off the bathroom and next to the bedroom because otherwise I would wake up all night to the sounds of ear-scratching and cat-taunting. As I passed her door, I smelled a foul odor that I took for her having a particularly bad case of gas, which is COMPLETELY reasonable thing to do considering this particular dog. When I did open the door, I discovered she'd had gas and then some, all over the carpet. Good dog that she is, she both did it right in front of the door, and never whined to wake me up and let me know it might be happening. Unfortunately for me, the door drags when you open it, and smeared the blobs of crap all over the carpet. The dog had to be coaxed to dance delicately between the blobs and get out of the room.

I closed the door. My clothes are all in there, but I may not dress all day if it means my husband will clean this up.


Sophie on a better day

My New Dishwasher

It doesn't mean I'll post more, though. I usually avoid doing dishes for days at a time if I can get away with it. Between the cats, dog, and diaper pail, a few dirty dishes isn't going to make my house smell any worse. But it will be very very nice not to have those piles around anymore.

The stencils came with the house, I swear.

And please welcome metrodad to my bloglist. He cracks me up because he's such a ... guy. My husband does a very good job of hiding his "guyness" around me (I haven't asked him to, but I think former girlfriends scared him into it), so it is fun to read a bit into what he must really be thinking. Though he has no interest in drinking the breast milk. Really.

Teef

I know I have been falling down on the posting job, but you must understand that while I love you all, I need my sleep. Peanut has been teething again (can't we just fit her with dentures and be done with it?), meaning the lovely schedule I've been so proud of has gone out the window and splatted 20 floors down. And since the only time I really have to post is at night, I have had to make the tough choice, and frankly, y'all lost (yes, my husband is from the South and that's the way we talk around here). At least, I am hoping you'll feel it's a loss. Not that I want anyone to feel loss, of course. Hell, you know what I mean.

Why I Should Write For Hollywood

The Dallas movie that was on tonight was not, as I expected, another movie, but in fact a reunion show where the stars got together and exchanged scripted banter while introducing clips from the show in little themes (pool scenes, Sue Ellen drunk, Bobby punching out JR, Sue Ellen drunk, touching Jim Davis moments, Lucy being a ho, Sue Ellen drunk).

I was disappointed. I was hoping that it would be a movie letting us know that JR did not, in fact, shoot himself but instead came to his senses and found God, sold any interest he had in Ewing Oil to Bobby and then joined the board of directors of of a company called Halliburt, eventually becoming the running mate of a blue-blooded New Englander's good ol' boy son and Texas governor who aspired to be President, enriching himself at the taxpayer's expense in the process.

Perhaps no one would believe that.

No Clever Title Here

Thanks a lot, Ohio.

Today Peanut is 9 months old. A special date. I can't begin to say how much I love her, how much a part of my soul she is. So reading the above link...I don't have the words. Except to say that I'm sorry.

And my thoughts are with you too, CL.

Hasn't Anyone Here Heard Of Tough Love?

When I was in high school, I had a friend with a hand-me-down car from his parents. Granted, it was an Audi, but it was an older, high-mileage one. He was lucky, as the rest of us had older beaters (I drove a Renault LeCar) if we had one at all.

One night he decided to drive way too fast (well, many nights he did this) and crashed it going around a curve, breaking its axle. I don't know about you, but if I had been driving recklessly and caused an accident that trashed my car, I would have been grounded, had my license taken away, and told to walk to school from now on. Not my friend. Not only did he keep on driving, his parents bought him a BRAND-NEW SPORTS CAR to replace the old beat-up one he crashed. None of us could understand it. I asked my mom, "So if I total this car, you'll buy me a brand new one? That's how it works?" She wasn't amused. My friend would never really say what transpired in the conversations with his parents that led to this (although my commentor C. in Brooklyn may be able to enlighten us, since it was his younger brother). But I do remember him laughing at our disbelief.

I think you all know where I am going with this.

I'm Not Listening

Here is a cute baby picture to take your mind off the news.

Probably Preaching To The Choir, But I Have To Get It Out

Tomorrow is Election Day. I think most of the people who read this blog on a regular basis are probably prepared to vote tomorrow if they haven't already. But just in case you aren't sure if you'll get around to it, or just in case you aren't sure who you want to vote for, I want you to think about this:

You may think that Bush did the right thing invading Iraq. You may be afraid that if you vote for Kerry he won't be as serious about fighting terrorists, and that it will put our troops in more danger. I can understand these feelings. I wasn't entirely against the war myself when the time came, because I believed Saddam was creating dangerous weapons meant to harm American interests, and I believed he would happily support others who were working to harm us too. I believed this because my President told me it was true. I may have believed there were other, more nefarious reasons as well, but never in a million years did I think that the reasons I believed would turn out to be entirely untrue, the assertions unfounded. I mean, you have to trust your President. All the women and men who enlisted trusted that they would be taken care of too.

And then the video of Bush at some function, joking about looking for WMD's came out. You remember the one, where he looks under seat cushions, laughing about not finding any? Mr. President, this is not a joke. You sent over a thousand American soldiers and countless innocent Iraqis to their deaths because you said Saddam was a danger to us. And now you joke about it? And you expect me to believe you are the one who is the most serious about "fighting terror"? Maybe you should do that routine in front of a group of military widows sometime. How can anyone put their faith in someone like that? John Kerry may be a lot of things, but he is not someone who finds the cause of our invasion being a mistake a joke.

I will vote for Kerry for many reasons. I am pro-choice, I feel strongly about the state of our environment, and I believe that good people sometimes need a little help from social services. But the number one reason I am voting for John Kerry is because he is serious about keeping my life, as well as the lives of our soldiers and of innocent people in other countries, safe. George Bush is concerned with keeping his pride, his tough guy image, intact. Vote for someone who can actually lead us, instead of telling us, "you'd better support me or the terrorists will get you". Vote tomorrow, and vote for John Kerry. It's important.

Now I'm Really Feeling Sorry For Myself, And I Don't Care

I've been having kind of a hard time lately, and I'm not sure quite why. Specifically, I am having a hard time seeing other people's healthy kids. The theory I have is that when babies are 3 months old, there isn't much that any of them can do, so my daughter didn't seem a whole lot different other than the way her legs looked. But now, at almost 9 months, it is very apparent how far behind she is from other kids. The women I am closest to in my mother/baby group happen to have rather precocious babies--they've been pulling up and even cruising for a month or so. They've all moved on to bigger carseats, and are talking about babyproofing. My daughter still can't roll from her tummy to her back, cannot sit unsupported, and will not be walking until next summer at the earliest. I love my daughter beyond words, and I wouldn't trade her for any other. But it is getting so hard, so very hard.

I've been reading Julie's blog and she's talking about how she went through so much just to get pregnant, and now she can't even have a normal pregnancy. I think that is part of my problem too. It is this resentment that things just couldn't, for once in my life, be normal. I had a lot of health problems when I was younger, and wasn't able to graduate from high school, much less college. I missed Homecoming, the class picture. I failed out of one junior college and two regular ones because of my health. Didn't dare apply for a decent job because I was afraid I couldn't physically handle normal work. I started getting better, and dared think we could have a baby. Then I spent years off birth control, wondering what the hell was wrong now. I finally got pregnant, and instead of going for daily walks, doing yoga and eating broccoli, I was so tired I couldn't stay awake more than three hours at a stretch, and got gestational diabetes, and finally pre-eclampsia, necessitating bedrest. I didn't get to get those glowing pregnancy photos everyone else had, or get to put together my baby's nursery, or even a normal baby shower. We got a final ultrasound not of her face, but of "abnormalities" that they said meant she wasn't going to live. And I had a c-section, with the baby whisked off to the NICU after I only got a glimpse of her. I didn't get to hold her until the next day, after they'd already given her a bottle of formula. I have been trying so hard not to feel sorry for myself because at least she was alive, which was more than we were hoping for at that point, but dammit, this all sucked. It sucked really really hard. And it still sucks for my daughter, who will not have a *normal* life as most people define it. She will never move quite the way other kids will; will always have scars to explain, and will probably not like to have her picture taken. Whenever I would whine to my mother, "why me?", she would always answer, "why not you?" and it drove me nuts even though I knew she was right.

I don't care if I don't *deserve* things to go right. I want them to. I want Peanut to have a normal childhood with both her eyes and her knees moving in all the directions they should. I want me to be able to have another pregnancy that is healthy and glowing and full of yoga and spinach salads, where I feel the baby kick non-stop for months. I want T. to be able not to cry from fear when thinking about the pregnancy and delivery. I feel cheated. I also feel guilty for feeling cheated, as if to say so means that Peanut isn't good enough, that I am not grateful I have her. But that isn't what I mean at all. I am lucky to have her, to have a baby that makes total strangers smile when they look at her because she just radiates joy even at her most serious. Frankly, she is the only reason I have not become a completely bitter hag. We all have these expectations. I have said we're lucky, in a way, that we have thrown off a lot of expectations for our child early on because it will mean a lot less pressure for her. But that doesn't mean we can't grieve when we lose the dream we always had of what our lives would be like. So apparently right now I am in the anger stage of the grief process. I went a little out of order, with the bargaining phase happening the week before she was born, promising God everything in my soul for her to be ok, for it all to be a nightmare I was going to wake up from soon.

People have been telling me since the ultrasound how strong I was, what a good attitude I had about everything. I wasn't lying, or putting on a brave face. I meant it when I said I just wanted her alive, and I still do. I know rationally that things really could be worse. And it isn't as if I am not happy for my friends and their beautiful children. I guess sometimes I wish I could stop being so strong, and just rail at the world and feel better afterward. Or something like that.

We've been talking about when we want to try for another baby. I am both excited and terrified by the idea. What if Peanut's problem was actually genetic, and the next baby is even worse? What if the pre-eclampsia returns, earlier this time, and we lose the baby? What if we go months and years again with negative pregnancy tests? Can we handle these things? Why can't we just be happy and giggly and completely ignorant of these worries like most people? Why do they have to be considerations for us? I will never, ever be able to be pregnant without worrying about these things. I will never be able to blissfully assume that all is well and that all will be well. I know there is always adoption, but I don't want to adopt yet. I want to have a normal healthy pregnancy and delivery and a healthy baby, just once. Is that too much to ask?