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.

Now That I'm Done Feeling Sorry For Myself

The number one reason to share a bed with your baby:

To wake up from a nap because she's awake and gently petting your hair.

Woot! I have paragraphs now!

Odds

I was turned down to be in a study on post-partum depression, because one of the things it was studying was the development of the babies involved. Because they wouldn't be able to tell if her developmental delays were because of my depression, or because of her disability. Because this child is just getting a double whammy-- a body that won't work right and a mom who can't be normal. I think that's all I can say for now.