This post brought to you by 4 Coronas

Is it wrong of me to hate Angelina Jolie? I mean, I should probably spend my time thinking about more important things, right? But I just can't bear it. Six kids! WTF?

I don't feel rage personally anymore. I'm actually mostly happy, most of the days. Lance and I still don't talk, but he's only home in the evenings, and the rest of the time it's just me and the kids. And I'm okay. I'm not depressed anymore, I don't cry anymore, everything is slowly getting back to normal.

But Brangelina. God, I hate them. I have transferred all my hurt and pain and anger onto them and I loathe them with every fiber of my being. Also, I want to steal all those babies, especially the twins. And did she really have to steal my name? Vivian? With the fancy snotty French spelling? UGH.

I will NEVER have what they have. I will never have another pregnancy, IVF or not. I will never adopt a baby, even though I would KILL to do that. It is not in the cards for me, SO WHY IS IT FOR THEM? Do they not have enough, what with the gazillions of dollars, the 6 healthy kids, the gallivanting all around the world, the adoring fans? Just where are MY adoring fans, that's what I'd like to know.

Guilty

Upon picking up my daughter from a sleepover at my mother-in-law's house:

MIL: So, I just need to tell you something that Vivian said to me yesterday, out of nowhere."
Me: Oh, what?
MIL:She said, 'Mommy doesn't love Daddy'. And when I asked her why or what she meant, she said, 'Mommy always yells at Daddy'.
Me: Oh! Uh .. . . .
MIL: So I just told her that sometimes people get frustrated with each other and speak sharply to each other but they still love each other, like when Isaac made her mad, she might yell but she still loved him. That seemed to pacify her. But . . .
Me: Oh, that is terrible. That, uh . . .
MIL: So I just thought you should know. They pick up on that stuff. They know what's going on.
Me: Of course. Yes. Um, thank you for telling me. That is terrible.
MIL: And you know, Isaac said the same thing to me, about 6 months ago.
Me: . . .! . .


It makes me want to throw up, just reliving it now. But I need to. I need to put it here, where I can see it, where I can remind myself to grow up already and stop acting like an idiot. So I give it to you to hold and remember, to throw back in my face if I ever start getting high and mighty again.

God. Am such an asshole.

Random thoughts

Okay. Sometimes I am very dramatic. The truth is that while I can't seem to make myself do all the things that would improve my marriage, I am still doing some of the things, on the good days at least. I do love him, I want to be married to him.

The other day a very wise friend said, "If you still love him and you know you want to be with him, then you have to figure out a way to be happy with him. You don't want to look back at this time in 30 years, when you are not upset anymore, and regret that you didn't make the most of it."

I'm not sure why the dark days are so dark, or why even on good days I am not able to muster up the sort of kindness he deserves, but I'm trying to work on it. I'm considering seeing a counselor. So there's that.

Also I've been meaning to write a post about Lance, about why he feels the way he does, or at least how he got there. It's percolating, and it will probably help me to write it, although sometimes thinking about him just makes me angry. We have a lot of forgiving to do, the two of us.

****

One of the things I've been trying to do, in an effort to accept my new four-person-family reality, is embrace the good things about NOT being pregnant. Embracing the alcohol has been easy, I've been succeeding wildly at that.

Next up, trying to reclaim my body. If I am not going to be pregnant, at least I can work on not being fat. I've got 10-12 lbs of spare tire thanks to the last year of pregnancy and it's really depressing trying to fit into summer clothes.

To that end, I started walking. (I have to start slow, I am embarrassingly out of shape.) So I walked for 30 minutes around the neighborhood and promptly got shin splints. Next I tried yoga, which I Tivo'd off the Oxygen network, and all I can say is, ouch. At least doing it at home means that I am the only witness to my humiliation. May I suggest, if you have a body like mine, that you wear a t-shirt, and not just a sports bra, while doing yoga? Because the sight of your huge, cottage-cheese speckled belly hanging over the band of your yoga pants while you white knuckle through the pyramid pose (or whatever it's called) is not so much motivating as it is horrifying. Trust me on this.

I also ordered Turbo Jam (a Sundry recommendation, just like the yoga) but I have not had a chance to try it, since I threw my back out this morning. Yes, I am extremely pathetic. Now I'm hobbling around like a granny in need of a walker and who knows when I'll be able to exercise again.

Body:1 3 billion; Amy:0.

*****
I am not sure what I'm doing here, blogging again. I don't feel like this is a permanent change for me, which is why I've felt so uncomfortable leaving comments at new-to-me blogs. I hate to forge a relationship with people, just to bail once I'm feeling less screwed up. I have been commenting some at old friends' blogs, but I just haven't yet fully embraced my position as a blogger again. So the new blogs make me feel shy. And I rather liked lurking, not feeling any obligation to comment, the last year or two when I wasn't sharing my life here.

All that as an apology. If you have left me a kind comment over the past few weeks, and I haven't reciprocated, I am sorry. It's not that I don't appreciate it, trust me, I appreciate it more than you know. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your words of wisdom and support.

Letters of my 20 year Reunion

Dear Heavyset man sitting next to me on the red-eye,
Did you notice that all the lights on the plane were out? ALL of them? Except yours? And when I put the blanket of a thousand germs over my head to block out the glare of your "reading" light which was burning holes in my cornea, did you consider turning it off?
WHY NOT, asshole?

Just trying to get some sleep,
32D


****
Dear Delta,
I know that someone has to sit in the back row of every flight. Someone has to sit in the seat that doesn't recline, has to smell lovely aroma of the latrine for 5 hours. But did it have to be me on both flights?

Seriously. What up, Delta?

Unhappily,
32D and 33C


****
Dear Amy,
You are too old to take the red-eye.

Sincerely,
Hindsight

****
Dear Men of Connecticut,
Blue blazers. Why? You know those yearbooks that were lying around, the ones from 1948 and thereabouts? Did it seem strange to you that the students in those yearbooks were wearing exactly the same clothes as you are today? Maybe you should consider something slightly different, so you don't match every other alumni in the reunion tent. Maybe a black blazer. Or, if that's too crazy, maybe a blue blazer without gold buttons.

Oh, but mixing it up by wearing pink pants instead of khakis? So very very wrong.

Sincerely,
Every other state in America

P.S. Bermuda shorts with a blue blazer and a tie? Shudder.


****
Dear Universe,
I know you have it out for me lately. I get it. It's okay, you've been good to me before, I realize I have to take the bad stuff too. But making every single conversation with my former classmates go from "do you have kids?" to "I have three kids" to "do you think you'll ever try for a third?" to "isn't it fun to have three" to "I always wanted three, how can you be sure you are done at two?" etc etc ET CETERA THREE KIDS THREE KIDS THREE KIDS was a little bit harsh, don't you think?

And then having me get my period unexpectedly Saturday afternoon? Uncalled for, truly.

You got me, okay? Uncle.

Pissed off,
The one you keep fucking with


****
Dear Brain,
What happened to you? Yeah, yeah, red-eye, twenty years, whatever. How can you not remember so much of what went on in high school? Everyone else there seemed to have a better grasp. Nodding and smiling and pretending to remember didn't fool anyone. Should we be checked for early Alzheimer's?

Worried,
Amy


****
Dear Former Classmate who was my best friend at one time,
Wow. I get that you're nervous. But I googled you, I know how successful you are. And you look hot. So the obscene jokes and crazy behavior just to get a laugh seemed really over the top. I mean, at first it was funny--you were always funny. But when it became clear that that was all you were going to do, when it just escalated and escalated as the night wore on, damn. It got really old.

What happened to you?
Puzzled,
'Tommy'


****
Dear Class of 1988,
I was nervous to see you all. I was. I figured that I would feel lame, that you would all strut in with your fancy jobs and your perfect lives and that I would feel inferior. I thought I would stutter over the "what do you do?" question, that I would feel fat and ugly or worse, invisible.
But it wasn't like that for me, and I hope it wasn't like that for any of you. Yeah, a lot of you have fancy jobs. And a lot of you---most of you, really--look great, look better than high school, even. But none of that seemed to matter and I am so grateful for that.

Maybe I'll even come back again before another twenty years go by.

See you in 2018?,
Amy


****
Dear tiny prep school full of wealthy teenagers where I spent my formative years,
I don't know what to say. For a lot of time I've hated you. What a cesspool of entitlement and snobbery and cluelessness, not to mention the preponderance of blue blazers. But you were pretty this weekend. You showed off all your new buildings, you preened under the cloudless blue sky and easy 70 degree temperature. The green fields, the lacrosse sticks and mouthguards, flying cleats and cheering parents--it all seemed promising instead of elitist somehow.
And yeah, there was a lot of pomp and arrogance too. Many of your students, former and present, do not live in a reality that would be recognizable to 95% of the rest of the world, and they maybe never will. They mostly don't have any desire to. A lot of them are assholes, are small-minded, are selfish and ridiculously out of touch. But not all of them. Some of them are even interesting. Some have broken free of that world. Some of them haven't, and yet are still kind and compassionate and funny.
We had some good times, back then, and I remembered why this weekend. Turns out, you're not all bad.

Cordially,
Me


Though I do have to repost this delicious parody, just so I remember to keep it real:

Chapter, closed

Today I went to my OB to have the IUD put back in. I started crying on the way to the appointment, even though I'd been fine all morning, even though I hadn't cried in almost 24 hours. Just the thought of that office, the grey carpet, the dusty rose colored sofas with that weird 80s print in teal and gold. The nurses who are so nice every time they see me, always remembering my name now, being sure to smile big, and being extra careful not to ask me how I'm doing. The ultrasound room, the room where twice I have lain on that table, searching the monitor in vain for a blinking heartbeat, the movement of a leg, anything. I can picture so clearly the clothes I am wearing--the first time a flowered short sleeve top from Old Navy, the second a red turtleneck. I hear the silence in the room, feel my sweat starting, remember how I breathed--"I have to sit up now'--and ripped off the paper gown, swinging my legs down and holding my head in my hands, while my ob holds the wand, useless, in her hand.

No, I don't have nice memories of that office. The anticipation alone is enough to start the waterworks.

But I composed myself. Drove to the appointment, smiled at the receptionist. Listened to the nurse tell me a funny story, one I could tell she had practiced since I spoke to her earlier, confirming the appointment. Nodded when she confirmed which IUD I was getting. Undressed from the waist down--how many times have I done that in this room, and for what end?--grabbed a magazine to read, anything to keep my mind off what is happening, to stop the tears that are there, right there, filling up my eyelids at the slightest provocation. (In the parking garage I almost gasp with the effort of keeping them in, repeat to myself as mantra: it is okay, it is okay, it is okay, it is okay. And the elevator comes, another rider smiles at me, and it works, the tears stay put. At least for the ride up.)

"Are you sure?" my OB asks kindly. "We don't have to do this now." I nod, wiping my eyes, as tears squeeze out, a constant drip that I cannot plug. "Amy?" she asks again, and I realize she needs more from me, a more forceful response, a stronger sense that we are doing the right thing. I breathe in. "Yes", I say, struggling to keep my voice from cracking, but it comes out a whisper. "Is this really what you want?" my OB asks again. Furiously, I wipe away the tears. "No, no it's not what I want at all, it's not what I want. But I have to, I need to. My husband . . . I can't do it again." Pause. Louder. "Yes. Yes. Please."

A few cramps later it is done. Aside from a follow-up appointment in one month, I will have no reason to return to this office for a year.

(A little more than one year ago, that is when I had my old IUD removed. I remember the excitement, the anticipation. "Look", said my OB, pointing to the ultrasound, "you've got some great follicles here." "Oh, I don't know if I can convince my husband to start trying right away", I say with a smile, "so far he's only partially on board for this." "Well, go home, make him a nice dinner, open a bottle of wine--or two--and see what happens." And so I did.)

Conversations

BAD
6:53 am, the kids have climbed in bed with us.
Vivian: I want breakfast, Mommy, let's get up!
Isaac: I'm hungry!
Vivian: Is your belly hungry? (Poking my noticeably squishy belly) Is the baby hungry?
Me: There's no baby in my belly anymore, remember?
Vivian: But you can get another baby.
Me: No, no more babies for us.
Vivian: Please? I like babies!
Me: No, sweetie, I have enough babies with you and your brother!
Vivian: I'm not a baby! Hey, Mommy can you go to the doctor today? Go to the doctor and get another baby, okay, Mommy?
Isaac: Get up, get up, I'm hungry!
Vivian: I want breakfast!

Slightly Better
At dinner, apropos of nothing:
Isaac: Mommy, I know that sometimes grown-ups cry when they miss their babies. Like if their children was at camp they would miss them and that would make them cry. And when their babies die they cry too. Like when you wanted your baby and your baby died and then you cried. Right?
Mommy: yes, that's right.
Isaac: And sometimes I cry when I miss you, Mommy.


Best
At lunch, apropos of nothing.
Isaac: I know, Mommy, what if you and me were watching the Tarheels, and they were playing Duke, and Duke had zero points and the Tarheels had 199 points!
Me: That would be awesome!
Isaac: Yeah, awesome!

Grief

I am fine I am fine I am fine. Some days I am even good. But it comes back to me in so many little ways, this sadness, this heavy weight threatening to suffocate me.

I glance back at my children in the rear view mirror of our new Honda Pilot: Isaac in his booster in the third row, Vivian in the car seat in the second row. Next to Vivian, the empty space where the infant seat should go.

A package comes in the mail: two cans of Enfamil infant formula and a letter congratulating me on my newborn. The one that should have been born the day I miscarried the next.

I apply for a teacher's aide position and am directed to a doctor for a TB test. The new patient form I fill out has several sections, among them: Menstruation history--list the date of your last period. '11/25/07' I fill in dutifully, then have to scrawl in margins to explain: "pregnancy lost to miscarriage 4/08".

In the exam room, the doctor explains that TB tests are not covered by insurance and asks what other health issue I might have at the moment, this way she can charge insurance for the office visit instead. "Well, I had a miscarriage two weeks ago", I say, and I don't even cry. But then she says so softly, "I am so sorry to hear that" and the tears spring back in my eyes. Quickly she makes her notations and leaves the room, afraid, I'm sure of a total breakdown. Though that doesn't happen. (Of course.)

Bored, I surf blogs aimlessly, and happen upon one where the blogger has just lost identical twins at 19 weeks. Fascinated and hungry, I read her posts, the ones where it happened, the ones where she is grieving, over and over. I am jealous of the comments she receives and contemplate leaving my own: "Hey, me too! I lost my son, too! At 17 weeks! And also another one at 13 weeks just a few months ago. What about me?" But I don't.

I finally talk to my mother and she is good, she doesn't mention it, we talk breezily for a few moments, carefully avoiding the elephant in the room, laughing joylessly at small talk-- and then she says "How are you doing?" "Oh, I'm fine, I'm great, better than I've ever been" I respond with what I hope is the appropriate amount of ruefulness. But I can feel those tears coming again, and my voice starts to go ragged and I have to get off the phone so I can sob again.

I don't know why I can't talk to her. It is not because of something she has said or something I am afraid she will say. It is because I can't hear her voice without crying. And I tired--so tired--of crying.

"Dr. Platt" reads the notation on my calendar, and in a particularly strong moment I seize the phone to make the call. "I need to cancel an appointment, I tell the receptionist, and she dutifully looks up my date. "Okay" she says finally. "Are you going elsewhere for your twenty week scan?" "No. No. No. I, the baby died." I say, and hang up, and sob.

A week later, the phone rings and I check caller id. "Center for Fetal Medicine" it reads and I look again, surprised. What could they want? Does the doctor have some information for me somehow? I pick up and the receptionist asks "Did you forget your appointment this morning? Your twenty week scan is today." "No, I canceled." I replied. "The baby died, I cancelled last week." Hang up, and sob.

My d&e at the clinic was performed on April 3rd. I was "lucky" because the baby had decomposed enough that it only had to be a one day procedure instead of the usual two days for a 17 week fetus. In fact, while the baby measured 15 weeks on April 2nd at my OB's, the very next day he only measured 14 weeks. "I can't even get a good measurement," the tech said. "The head is already breaking down". "That's my son" I thought, but I said nothing, and let the tears come. "I'll bring in the anesthesiologist" said the tech.

At the "counseling session" before the d&e, the doctor came in after reading my chart. "well, you've got quite the pregnancy history, don't you?" she asked gently. I nodded. "But you have two children" she adds, in a strangely accusatory tone. I nod again. "Any questions?" she asks. And I don't. I have been through this before, I have worked at an abortion clinic before, I know much more than I want to know about any of this. So I say "no", and she leaves.

I bleed parts of him out of my body every day. I have done this before of course, so I am used to it. But it is a special kind of cruelty, these bloody pads I must wad up and throw in the garbage.

A hand-addressed envelope appears in the mail and I wonder, who has had time to send me a handwritten sympathy card already? It's only been a few days. The return address is in Orange County, and I can think of no one I know who lives there. A friend of Lance's? This seems impossible. I open the card, hungrily, to find an invitation to a baby shower. Lance's cousin, having her third baby, due at the end of June.

My children are obsessed with the Junie B. Jones books, since my sister brought a bunch of them out when she visited, right before we got the news. In them, kindergartner Junie welcomes a baby brother to her family. I loved reading this books before, thinking how appropriate, since Isaac will be a kindergartner when we bring this new baby home. Now reading them is not as enjoyable, I will say that right here.

(What was his name? I liked Oscar, though I never said it aloud. I was waiting until I could feel more confident that we would actually bring a baby home. Lance liked Felix, he said, months before we even got pregnant the first time. And I am driving home one day when it hits me: aren't those the names from the Odd Couple? Oscar and Felix?)

Before my appt with the OB on April 2nd, I knew he was gone. Did I ever mention that? For about a week--at least a week--I knew it was over. Not in any place that I was admitting it, but deep in the recesses of my brain and my heart. For a week, I didn't feel him move, never during the day, but every night, every single night I would get into bed and lie there, and minutes later, I kid you not, he would kick. One kick, and I would smile, and say "good boy" and go right to sleep. Can you believe the idiocy? What a fool I was! What baby kicks one kick at the same time every single day? It embarrasses me to admit it, even now.

I walk into the garage, see the double stroller. Feeling strong, I head back to the house, email the friend who is due in August, see if she wants it. Decide to pack up all the baby boy stuff to hand over, as well as the baby girl stuff (she's having a girl). She comes over, brings her 18 month old and I clean out the garage. Hand over all my baby stuff, including prenatal vitamins. It is fine, I am fine I do not feel sad. We are done with this phase of our life, we do not need baby stuff anymore. We will never need it again. It is a relief. It is a weight off my shoulders. She heads off. I return to the house and sob.

Sobbing does not make me feel better. And yet the tears are always there, just underneath, threatening to overflow at the first kind word. Please do not be nice to me, I cannot handle the kindness of friends or strangers. Talk about basketball (goddamn Tarheels) or the weather, but do not ask me how I am doing. And yet: ask about me! help me get through this! You can't. I have to do it alone. I am amazed at the depth of this well of tears, will it ever dry up?

I have imaginary conversations with my friends, with strangers, with my husband. Conversations about the lost baby, the lost babies. These conversations are healing and I am ably to talk freely and openly about all of it. In real life, I clam up. I say nothing except "wow, it sure is hot today".

At night I go to bed early, the way I have every night for the last year, this last year that I have been pregnant and exhausted. But I am not exhausted anymore. So I wake up in the middle of the night, alone with my thoughts and silent tears.

In the kitchen at lunch, I hesitate: 'oh, I shouldn't have tuna fish today', the thought sneaks in. The same one I have thought for a year, a year of policing the amount of fish I eat, the sandwich meat, the cheese, the alcohol. And then I remember. Yes, have the tuna. Have as much tuna as you fucking want, Amy.

How are you doing? my mother in law asks. The same one who didn't want us to have a third child. Did they say why? It's probably because you got pregnant again too soon. "No", I answer calmly, the Corona next to me keeping me numb, "the doctor had given us the okay to try again." Well, then, I guess that's why they say the childbearing years end when they do, she replies. "No," I say again, with no rancor in my voice, "actually since the CVS results came back okay, that means the chromosomes were normal and those are the only things affected by age." Later, I am enraged by this conversation and have wonderful self-affirming arguments with her in my head. But aloud I say nothing. There is nothing to say.

At the kindergarten round up at Isaac's new school I run into a mother I know very loosely. She is carrying her 6 month old in a baby bjorn on her chest. When I saw her last I was pregnant, she had her new baby with her and I was dying to tell her. But I couldn't, I was only in the first trimester then. And of course now there is nothing to say.

I pack up the maternity clothes that mock me, hanging in the closet for a year, close the boxes, carry them downstairs and away. But my regular clothes don't fit me, and I must squeeze into the same pants I wore post-partum with both of my children, almost every day. The pants that bring back memories of sleepless nights, nursing newborns, teeny tiny toes. The empty place in the closet where those clothes once hung mocks me, too. Empty closet, empty uterus. Empty.

Now, there is boredom. Lonely mornings while the kids are at school. I am not tired anymore, I am not sick, I have no excuse or desire to sit quietly watching bad television. So I sit. I read blogs, but I have to unsubscribe from so many. So many written by mothers that are pregnant, or giving birth, things I don't want to read about anymore, although just three weeks ago, I was eating it up.

We are broke. We have been broke, independently of the miscarriages, for a few months, but this month is the worst. I do not have money for groceries, or to pay bills. "Your insurance doesn't cover the facility, since we are a clinic" says the woman on the phone. "Our discounted cash rate for a d&e at that gestation is $2600." My doctor does not want to do it at the hospital, insists that the clinic specializes in this kind of thing, that it is worth the money, trust her. In the end, she is right--a better experience than my hospital d&c, in the same way that falling out of a ten story building is better than falling out of a 12 story building-- but the bill still feels like a slap in the face.

There is nothing to say, I tell well-intentioned friends. And it is true. There is nothing. I have nothing of him except a few ultrasound pictures, the wristband from the clinic where I had the procedure. I paste it in my scrapbook next to the ultrasound from our last lost boy.

But I miss him. I miss him terribly.

Unedited. This is therapy for me and I expect nothing of you, the readers. I am not returning to the blog for any length of time, just for the time, like now, when I need a place for all these thoughts to go. Thank you for listening.

History

Pregnancy #1: Age 19; terminated

Pregnancy #2: Age 30; miscarried at 5 weeks

Pregnancy #3: Age 31; "missed" miscarriage, baby died at 5 weeks, pregnancy lost naturally at 10 weeks

Pregnancy #4: Age 33; resulted in first live birth (Isaac!) Failed AFP at 16 weeks, given 1 in 11 chance for Down Syndrome. Level 2 ultrasound revealed marker for Down Syndrome on heart; sent immediately for amnio. Results come back normal. Low amniotic fluid at 29 weeks resulting in 10 weeks of bed-rest. Birth long but uneventful. Eventually discover he has rare condition (1 in 20,000) that occured somewhere around 7 month of pregnancy, possibly due to low amniotic fluid, but more probably "just a fluke". No cure, but there is treatment.

Pregnancy #5: Age 34; resulted in second live birth (Vivian!) Failed AFP at 16 weeks, given 1 in 16o chance for Down Syndrome. Level 2 ultrasound showed healthy baby, amnio declined. C-section delivery due to breech position. Currently healthy, unless you count extreme stubborness, brain-piercing whining and innumerable tantrums an illness (which maybe we should).

Pregnancy #6: Age 37; miscarried at 12.5 weeks, 1 week post CVS procedure. CVS results come back: genetically normal, boy. Doctors guess miscarriage caused by CVS but cannot guarantee this. (Aside: CVS was performed by the "pioneer" of CVSes; he has a 99.5% success rate, well above the national average.)

Pregnancy #7: Age 38; uneventful 1st trimester punctuated by biweekly ultrasounds, baby seems to be growing appropriately. Sent for 1st trimester screening at 12 weeks; nuchal fold test results in "gray area", meaning that they cannot say whether baby looks good or not and must wait for the results of the blood test, which we should get in about a week. As I have failed two prior blood tests, chances are extremely good I will fail again, at which point I need to decide whether to have the freaking CVS test again. Meanwhile, good friend gives birth to 3rd child after passing her screening tests and finds out child has Down Syndrome anyway.

UPDATE: Blood test came back positive: 1 in 87 chance for Down's. Not as bad as I thought, but we did the CVS anyway, mostly because Lance is freaked out by the fact that our friend's baby has Down Syndrome even after she had a good screening. CVS performed on Thursday by the same doctor who did Isaac's amnio, preliminary results came back Friday afternoon: everything looks good, boy. Now we just wait and see if the baby survives the procedure. Ultrasound scheduled for Monday morning at OB.

*****

I realize that some people have struggled much more than this but still I am feeling particularly sorry for myself today. And also a little pissed off. Why is this so difficult? Why do some people breeze through the reproductive stuff while others (read: me) face block after block? And perhaps most importantly, why in the hell do I think I should have a 3rd child, knowing what I know about my own reproductive history? Why can't I just be happy with the two beautiful children that I am blessed to have? What is wrong with me?

Shh! Don't tell anybody.

I want to let you in on a dirty little secret: I actually enjoy being a stay-at-home-mom.

There, I said it.

I have two beautiful children, who are actually fairly well-behaved, despite my protestations here. I can wake up as slowly as I want and wander around in pajamas all morning if I want to. Granted, the longer we stay in the house, the more likely the children are to poke each others' eyes out with the leftover chopsticks from last night's dinner, but I decide to whether that storm if I want. I don't answer to anyone except myself--oh, and Lance, but he doesn't really count.

I can pack up the car and head down to the beach, 70% of the year. Or go to any of the hundreds of playgrounds within driving distance. Or go for a walk in our quiet, safe neighborhood, where we know many of the children playing outside. I can spend an hour browsing through recipes on the internet, and then make a fantastic (or not) dinner for Lance, something I enjoy immensely, and call it work.

Best of all, I get kisses and hugs and I love yous all day long. I get songs sung off key and wildly imaginative explanations and giggles and tickles. I get to be the one who knows how to comfort, how to discipline, how to settle a fight. The older the kids get, the more satisfying this job is becoming. I actually feel good at it*, and that's a feeling that's been missing lately.



Yes, some days are pure drudgery. Yes, some days the last thing I want to do is figure out dinner, lug the kids to the grocery store and then cook. Some days the kids work my every last nerve and I would happily pay Starbucks if they would let me work the counter.

But most of the time, it's pretty fucking awesome. Now that Vivian is in school 3 mornings a week, I'm feeling even more enamored of my job, but I find that this is making me a little uncomfortable. Why? I guess because I feel like I should hate it more. I feel like it's my job as a feminist to keep working, and yet, here I am, secretly thrilled that I'm not. Also, there's the guilt: not everyone has this option, and part of me worries if I really deserve it. Definitely, if I admit to Lance that I like what I'm doing right now, that would upset the delicate balance of our relationship. ("My job is just as hard as yours" being my current mantra.) Finally, let's not forget just how unfashionable it is to like this kind of work. How many times have you heard someone complain about mothers because they can only talk about poopy diapers? There is far greater value, these days, in saying, "I am too intellectual/unique/ complex/insert your favorite adjective here to get joy solely from my children" than there is in this: "I love being a mom!"

Thing is, I am truly, madly, deeply in love with my children. I feel blessed to the depths of my agnostic soul at least once every single day that I get to share this time with them. I don't want to go back to work. I would happily do this, this mothering of a 3-1/2 year old and a 2 year old, for the rest of my life. It's that good. And I'm tired of keeping the joy to myself.

* Truth: as I'm writing about how good of a mother I am, both my children cry in their beds, refusing to nap. It's all relative, darlin'.

Tragic Fantasies

When I was a teenager, I went to a boarding school in Connecticut. (And yes, most of the students and teachers there dressed and acted exactly like this). For school vacations, I would take the 5 hour train ride from Hartford, CT to Wilmington, DE. Most of the other students lived in the NYC suburbs--Rye, NY; Greenwich, CT; Short Hills, NJ. Some of them also took the train, but their ride was only a few hours, with the vast majority of them alighting in Grand Central Station or Newark's Penn Station. For the last few hours of the ride, it was usually just me and the other business commuters and random grandmotherly travelers.

Left to my own devices, I often made up stories in my head about who I was and where I was going. I look young now, and as a 15 year old I looked no older than 12, so often times I would get looks from the other passengers, wondering why a kid was on the train all alone. I ate this up. I'd put on a sad face and pretend that I was running away from home, sighing loudly and looking dejectedly through an empty wallet, then rooting around in my backpack for some crumbs. Every now and then, a fellow passenger would take pity on me, and offer me a snack, or, and this was what I hoped for every time, ask me where I was going.

Sometimes I told them that I was going to visit a sick and/or dying grandparent. Or that my parents were divorced and I was on my way to see my dad, who I hadn't seen in years. Or that I'd been expelled from school because the school bully had blamed me for the broken stained glass in the Chapel, and the teachers had believed him.

Always, the story I told was a sad one. I'm not sure why, and I'm not sure why it gave me such a thrill to imagine myself in such dire circumstances. Even if none of the other passengers asked, I still made up the stories in my head and played them out, so that when I finally got off the train in Wilmington, I'd be dejectedly lugging my bag behind me with the weight of the world on my shoulders. Once while I was waiting there for my parents, a cabbie said to me "What's wrong, little girl? You look like you lost your best friend! Do you need a ride?" How I wished I could have jumped in his cab and told the story of the tragic death of my best friend by freak accident, but at that moment my dad drove up in his Honda, so the jig was up.

Those train rides weren't the first time I imagined myself as the tragic-heroine in a poorly written after school special. When I was seven or eight, my mom would often hand me half her list at the grocery store, trying to shorten the shopping trip. I loved wandering the aisles "alone", reading my grocery list importantly, and I always pretended I was the older sister to 4 or 5 little ones, that my single mother was working two jobs and so I had to buy the groceries and make the dinner. Or I imagined that my widowed father was ill--dying of cancer, most likely--at home in bed, and so I had to walk to the store and buy the chicken noodle soup that would heal him. I even went so far as to visibly add up the prices of the sundries I was buying, so the other shoppers would see how I was struggling, and how I was valiantly fighting the odds. And of course I avoided my mother at all costs.

In 5th grade, my parents were able to move me from the local public school to the private school in our neighborhood. Our house was about 6 blocks away. For awhile, every day after school, instead of walking home, I'd scrounge up 60 cents and walk over to the city bus stop, where I'd put on my sad face again, and imagine myself as a scholarship student who lived in the projects downtown, but rode the bus to the snooty school every day in an effort to "break the cycle" of poverty. Of course, when I got off the bus 3 stops later, still in the leafy suburban neighborhood and nowhere near the projects, the fantasy dissolved, even though I tried a couple times to act like I was getting off there because I had a job cleaning the rich peoples' houses, or babysitting their kids.

I'd forgotten all about this old habit of mine, until Monday, when I had an appointment to look at an apartment not far from here. We are planning a huge remodel on our house, and need to move out for at least 6 months. I've been unsuccessfully searching for our new place in my "free" time now that Vivian is in pre-school 3 mornings a week. I try to see the places when I don't have the kids with me, but Monday I had no choice but to bring them. The apartment ended up being in a part of town that I'm not too familiar with. Okay neighborhood, but not great. The apartment building itself looked fairly run down, and as we drove up I thought, "Hmm, this is probably a little too ghetto for Lance". Still, I parked the car and decided to give it a chance. The apartment manager was a very nice, slight, graying gentleman, pleasant and accommodating as he showed us all around. As we were walking through the complex, looking at the pool and the laundry room, I got the feeling that he was regarding me and the kids with some kind of sympathy. And then, in that place between subconscious and conscious thought, I realized that I was making up a story in my head again. I had become a single-mother, toting my two young children around, trying to make a fresh start after a disastrous first marriage. And when, at the end of the tour, he asked me if I needed one or two applications, explaining that each person over 18 had to fill out their own, I felt a little deflated, having to admit that I needed two.

All you need to know about BlogHer

This man carded me. HE ASKED FOR MY ID. I fell in love with him immediately, and I blame that for the fact that I somehow found myself puking into the toilet and passing out by 9pm on Friday night. Woo Hoo! I am the life of the party!



Actually, the more I think about it, I'm quite sure that I simply got a bad shrimp, and had a bad case of food poisoning. Maybe I should look into suing the hotel. I mean, sure, nobody else got food poisoning, but maybe none of the other 400 women in attendence Friday night ate the shrimp. Maybe there just happened to be only one bad shrimp, and I was the unlucky one to consume it. I can't imagine the hours of vomiting and moaning had anything to do with the fact that I drank 3 beers and the equivalent of one bottle of wine in 3 hours. (Social anxiety plus free wine = drunk Amy.)

By the way, if Yvonne told you on Saturday morning that she was really worried about me because I was "frothing at the mouth", it wasn't really true. I mean, there was a moment when I thought "well, puking up foam is better than puking up eggrolls" but that's all. You know Y, she's such an exaggerator!

Gray Matters

It is crazy busy here in POW-land. I never have a second to sit down at the computer anymore, and when I do, I have to work on a project for my dad (beyond boring, but it pays a teensy amount). I've been trying to catch up on all of your posts but--my god! It's like the black hole of blogging: I start with one post--and even if I don't click through from bloglines--when I look up, it's been an hour, and I'm still only halfway through my feeds. Never mind trying to find time to type out all the pretty pretty posts knocking about in my noggin.

We have a playdate this afternoon. This is big news, as I typically do not attend these types of things. Not because I'm a snob, but because I don't have many mom friends, and I'm too shy to suggest anything like it to the other moms at pre-school. In any event, one of the other moms suggested it to me, and we're going, this afternoon. We'll see how it goes.

I am getting more and more excited about BlogHer. I'm still a little nervous, but not like I was. After all, as Y reminded me: we're not in high school anymore. Of course it would be nice if everyone liked me, but I've lived long enough to know this is not a probability. Despite my winning personality and compassionate heart, some people refuse to jump on the Amy love-wagon. But there will be plenty of good people to keep me company, and if it gets all clique-y and ass-kissy, I can always just hang with Y. Personally, I don't give a rat's ass who is a "popular" blogger and who is not, I just want to drink a few beers and laugh a lot.

There is no food in the house. Do you think it's fair to leave it this way for Lance over the weekend? Or should I go tomorrow and buy the appropriate kid food so he won't have to shop with both kids? I'm tempted to leave it, but that wouldn't be very wifely of me, now would it? Hmm.

Since we have no food in the house, I promised the kids a trip to Taco Bell for lunch, if they behaved at Target. Go ahead, guess what happened. I was looking forward to some Nachos Supreme but instead had to come home to this hotbox of a house and cook up some nuggets for the kids and mac and cheese (from the blue box) for me. Yum. Good for my diet, too! (Yeah, yeah, I know. Nachos Supreme aren't that good for the diet either. Whatever.) My children are a joy. I tell you, an absolute joy.

We have lived in this house for 5 years. In those 5 years, there have been 24 days where I wished we had air-conditioning. 14 of those 24 days? In the last 2 weeks. It's fucking hot. As a result, we try to leave the house even more than usual, leaving me less time at the computer. I wish to God I had an office job where I could sit in nice air-conditioning and surf blogs to my heart's content. But I'd only have to go in when I wanted to. And I wouldn't have any responsibilities, unless it was something fun.

Who needs a 4300 square foot house? I'm just curious, since they built one around the block from me, and now they are trying to sell it for over 2.1 million dollars. Don't forget, we live two football fields away from a municipal airport, in a sub-par school district. And yet: a 2 million dollar mansion. I don't get it. I went to look at it, out of curiosity, and it's pretty enough. But--unless you have 4 kids, why do you need 4 bedrooms, each with their own walk-in closet and bathroom? Just seems odd to me, to spend 2 million dollars to live in my neighborhood. Then again, the little shit houses like mine are still selling for 1 million, and that house should be worth WAY more than double what mine is. So maybe it's a steal.

Guess what? Heidi came through for me again, as usual. Last night, we were out at a birthday party, but she dropped off a pair of jeans. Can I tell you how awesome they are? Mid-rise, so no muffin top! Long leg, so they make me look tall! Free, so . . .Free! Best of all, I didn't have to go to the mall. Lucky brand, but I can't seem to find a style name, just this number: 81LZ061. I may bring them to Blogher, although the thought of wearing jeans in this heat is making me itch.

Have a great weekend everybody!!

BlogHer Manifesto

Okay, so that last post was just a tad bit too pathetic, even for me. Here is what I'm going to do:

I am going to BlogHer. I am going to be scared. I am going to feel inadequate and inconsequential and totally out of my league. But I am going to push on through and force myself to have a decent time anyway. I am going to meet tons of women, whose blogs I admire tremendously; I am going to drink large vessels of beer; I am going to laugh nervously and maybe genuinely. I am going to figure out something to say, at some point, that will make sense. I am going to have a weekend away, without the kids, and I am going to do my best to enjoy myself.

Are you with me?

BlogHer: my own personal BlogHell?

Okay, so everyone knows that BlogHer is coming up in, oh, 8 days or something. (!. !!!) You may not know that I am attending. I haven't mentioned it much, mostly because I have been dreading it and trying desperately to think of ways to get out of it. I knew if I admitted here that I'd bought the ticket, you all would make me go.

I actually DO want to go, on some level. But the fear of meeting all of you is freaking me the fuck out. REALLY REALLY FREAKING ME OUT. Do you hear me freaking out? Social situations where I know nobody? My absolute worst nightmare. Unlike some of you lucky folk, who get talky with alcohol or nerves, I just clam up. Completely. To the extent that I have been known to stumble over the pronunciation of my own name. (Reminder: it's Amy. Yeah, a real tough one.)

I would never, in 6 million years, have agreed to attend BlogHer, if not for her. She kept insisting, and if you know Y, *you know how relentless she can be. How could I say no? Plus, I bought those tickets AGES ago, so it seemed somehow safe. It didn't seem like July 28th would ever arrive. (Right, because I have lots of experience with time just stopping. Oh, yeah, happens all the time.)

So the tickets are bought (but here's another thing: I was too cheap/intellectually unmotivated to buy tickets to the actual conference and only bought tickets to the cocktail parties. Which means that all of you are going to get all chummy and happy Friday during the conference and by the time the cocktail party rolls around you'll be best friends and I'll just be the dumbass in the corner not saying anything again. And you will wonder: why is that girl at this cocktail party? She's not a blogger!!) Hmm, where was I, oh yes: the tickets are bought, the flight is arranged, the husband is handling kid duty for the weekend (!!!.!!!!) and there's no way I'm getting out of it now.

So I bit the bullet. That is, I bullied Nancy from MomMa'amMe (who has a fantastic blog, by the way--but everyone knows that already) to interview me for the BlogMe thing, just so some of you people that are going might remember me, and be nice to me, and then maybe I won't shrivel up and die the minute the plane lands in San Jose.

You can go check me out, here. And, looky, here's my handy little button:

Isn't it cute?

If anybody else is going to BlogHer, or even if you're not, I'd love to interview you for the BlogMe thing. Seriously! Email me or leave a note in my comments. I think I'm technically supposed to tag people but I've never been good at following the rules, especially if they fall outside my comfort zone.

Actually, who IS going to BlogHer? Will you be my friend? Please? I promise not to say anything inappropriate (or funny. or anything at all.). But I will laugh at your jokes! Hell, all I'll be able to do is giggle: I'll be the perfect date!

*Here, something else to bring out my insecurities: I am attending BlogHer with a (gasp!) "popular blogger"! People will see me us together and say "Ohmigod, who is that with Y? She thinks she's so cool, just cuz she's with Y!! But she sucks!" And then Y will feel obligated to babysit me, which will make me feel even more like a loser and . . . (can you see why this social anxiety is a bit of a problem for me? Do you think I need help? More than what 3 beers can do? How do you maintain a 3 beer buzz over the course of a weekend without getting to the 4 beer buzz (wastoid) or sobering up (hello, social anxiety!))

I can't handle the truth

So you know how I was bitching and moaning the other day because Lance gets to do whatever he wants and I'm just a slave taking care of every last thing? It's not really like that. Sometimes it may feel like that, but it's not actually like that.

Really, whenever Lance goes out with friends, or is gone for whatever reason in the normal "after work" hours, he makes it up to me by giving me a night off. This generally means that the next night he'll handle all the kid duties while I blog to my hearts' content in the other room. The time last week when he went out to see some stupid band for two nights in a row? He arranged for a babysitter one of those nights and called her to make sure I'd have something fun to do (we went out to dinner with Trent, which was fabulous).

As a matter of course, on the weekends and evenings after work, he takes the kids to playgrounds or to the beach or for walks, giving me needed down time. When we go out to dinner, etc, he knows what we need in the diaper bag, and he gets it together much of the time. (No, not most of the time, but still.) Usually, he makes dinner reservations for us and arranges for the babysitter. Every now and then, he comes home from work early and sends me out for a pedicure. He rarely works later than 5:30. He is always in charge of baths, is equal partners in the going to bed routine, cleans up the dishes every night, picks up toys, and so on. It is not as if he is playing video games or watching TV while I'm slaving away. (Except when he's surfing. And honestly? He hardly ever surfs anymore.)

So you see? There is really no reason for me to feel so resentful. He is doing all I can ask of him--he is doing more than many husbands I'm told, so I should feel grateful. Some days I do. But some days I still feel angry.

I emailed with Phantom a little bit after that last post, and in writing to her I think I may have stumbled onto a nugget of truth: my feelings of resentment don't feel valid, because Lance does help out so much. So instead of communicating to him that I need some more help or whatever it is, I just get bitter inside. I sigh passive-aggressively and slam things around and insist that nothing's wrong. I can't admit why I'm upset because part of me doesn't believe I have a right to be upset.

Then, I was e-mailing Mommygoth about the same thing, and I stumbled on this nugget: it is not that I feel alone in my resentment of my husband. I think that many women feel this same way (to a lesser degree, of course--most women do not, presumably, have to resort to marriage counseling, but then again, I could be wrong); I think that feeling this way is a symptom of motherhood. I honestly believe that being a mother is hard, hard work. Harder than any 9 to 5 job. I hear all the other mothers out there singing that song, and I join right in. I feel justified in my resentment. Who cares how much Lance helps, this shit is hard.

Right, the complete opposite of my previous truth. My feelings of resentment are not valid; my feelings of resentment are justified. Which is it?

Finally, I was talking to my good friend Susanna, and she reiterated to me that my feelings ARE valid. "Just look at all the comments you got on that post," she said. "Obviously you struck a chord with other moms out there," said she. She is right, of course. Just as all of you who left such inspiring, reflective comments on that post are right. It is no wonder we are all resentful. But then again, since Lance is such a stellar husband and father (isn't he?), maybe I should be able to harness that resentment a little better.

I'm not sure where all this leaves me. Except in the need of some counseling, immediatement.

Tell me something, though. How much does your partner help out? Is Lance doing more than his share? Is that even relevant to my feelings, and should it be? And if my feelings ARE justified even if Lance is doing all he can, what, exactly, am I supposed to do about them?

Dirty

When I was little, my grandparents lived on a farm about twenty miles from town. We spent hours there, as kids, playing in the barn, exploring the creek, chasing frogs and lightning bugs and squirrels, mucking out the stalls for the horses, and seeding, weeding and picking the numerous vegetables and fruits that grew there.

We got pretty dirty, doing that. We got scratched by thorns, and stung by bees, and bitten by ticks. We bruised our legs and got dirt under our fingernails. Splinters found their way into our arms and legs on a regular basis. Our faces were smeared with blueberry juice, dust and scabbed mosquito bites. But we loved it, every minute of it.

My siblings, my cousins and I would roam the twenty acres, building tree-forts, pretending to be Lewis and Clark, or Laura from Little House in the Prairie, creating elaborate games of hide and seek, fighting and making up and fighting some more. Then Grandma would call us in, to help Geedaddy cut the grass on one of the tractors, or to pick the berries for that night's dessert, or to snap beans by the pool.

I've been thinking about this lately, since it seems that wherever I go, people around me are afraid to get dirty. Afraid of bees, and mosquitos, and ticks. Afraid of germs and bugs and any kind of mess. Don't get me wrong, I'm older now, and it's not as if I'm out there digging in the dirt every day, but I don't have the same kind of visceral reaction to the . . .earth (because that's what it is, isn't it?) that other people seem to.

It started on vacation, when Lance discovered a tic. OH MY GOD, the freak-out that followed. It was as if an alien had latched onto his thigh, and was injecting him with some kind of high-potency cocaine. Turns out, he'd never had a tick bite before. I realize, of course, that ticks are slightly more nefarious these days, what with Lyme's disease and all, but I mean, really. It was a tick, not a skinhead wielding brass knuckles and a Swiss army knife.

Then, a mother complained at school, because when we leave, the kids love to run behind the little hedge and squeak by the Cyprus trees, which sometimes leaves old spider webs or dust on their shirts. "It's filthy back there!" she practically screamed, dragging her startled 3 year old away, while the other kids (including Vivian) giggled and pushed themselves through the "filthy" spot.

And our neighbors asked if we'd been to the carnival, and when I answered yes, seemed incredulous that we had stayed, despite the carneys' lack of teeth and the general dinginess of the rides.

That's not all. Everyday friends or acquaintances comment about dirt, relate stories of horror because they saw an ant near their food, or jump back in fright if nearby child sneezes in their general vicinity.

Childhood is meant to be dirty, that's the way I look at it. Hell, life is dirty; you can't sanitize everything.

Not to mention, who wants to live a sanitized life? You know how you get your heart broken, and you cry every day in the shower, and you don't know how you are going to keep getting up in the morning? How you call your old lover and hang up, just because you want to hear his voice? How you promise all sorts of things if he will just take you back? And then later, oh, you are so ashamed? What a mess you were! What a mess that was! That's my equivalent to the childhood practice of having your mother check your hair for ticks every summer night. It's dirty. It's messy. But it's life. And the dirty stuff--the mosquitos, the sand in your underwear, the drunk-dialing--only comes after some really good livin. (Yes, that's livin, L-I-V-I-N.)

I'm not sure if growing up the way I did has anything to do with my current tolerance for dirt, in many of its forms. It surprises me to think that other kids didn't do this kind of thing. I mean, even if you didn't have a farm to play on, any kind of child play--in a park, in the backyard, in the alley--gets you dirty, right? As kids, did we all just sit on the sidelines, afraid to get our Mary Janes scuffed?

What do you think? Are we, as a culture, just too damn obsessed with cleanliness? Or am I just an unapologetic slob?

Also, if the soles of your kids' feet are black from playing outside barefoot, is it okay to put them to bed without a bath? Just askin'.

Update: I should also add here that I am similarly blase about germs. I hate those anti-bacterial wipes. My kids get sick, and then they get well again. I don't want them growing up afraid of a cold. I don't want them afraid to touch the door knob at a public restroom (well, most public restrooms). I know I'm in the minority here, but so far, Vivian and Isaac have been sick no more or no less than your average germophobic kid. Yes, we wash hands, but that's about the extent of it.

In the spirit of full disclosure, my husband says I should admit that mice and other rodents freak me the fuck out. My tolerance level for the animal kingdom stops around spider size.

Random bullets to fill time until I get the vacation post done*

• Strange weather in L.A. lately. Last night it was humid. Humid, in L.A.! It was still 75 degrees at 8pm (usually the temperature drops to the 60s by then). You will think I'm lying, but I actually like humid weather. I'm praying it keeps up through the 4th.
• I have switched to non-fat milk in my lattes and--horror of horrors!--lite beer. I still fear that will not be enough to get me back into my pants. I may have to start (gulp) exercising. Someone kill me now.
• I had a long post done entitled "Pasadena, otherwise known as Bum Fuck Egypt" about a cocktail party we went to last weekend, about how it takes forever to get there, and the weather is crappy and the smog is horrific, and how the people are so snotty and the country club set is in full effect there--but then I decided I probably shouldn't trash the entire town based on one experience. Just because everyone I've ever met from Pasadena has been a judgmental snob to the nth degree doesn't mean there aren't some perfectly nice people who live there. Also, truth be told, although the people at the party were indeed country-clubby in their cliqueishness, and though there was a fair bit of snotty behavior going around, some of them were very friendly, and I shouldn't complain. The host, a friend of Lance's from high school, has never been anything but kind to me, and his wife seems nice enough. I am glad I don't live there, though. And very glad that whole social hierarchy thing means nothing to me, or my husband.
• Got the BBQ issue of Bon Appetit the other day. I really dislike hamburgers (I was a vegetarian for 10 years, and eating a burger is just way too "meaty" for me). However, I love summer so much, and barbecuing is such the symbol of summer to me, that the cover actually made me salivate. I know some people can't stand the heat, but to me, summer is all the good things at once: fresh, yummy produce. Barbecues with friends. Beer in the lingering afternoon sun. Staying light until after 8 o'clock. No school! Laying out in the sun with a good book and some girlfriends. Shorts and flip-flops. I wish it was summer every day of my life.

* It may be awhile.

Sadness, on three fronts

1. I never have time to blog anymore!

2. Carolina lost the Baseball College World Series last night. Even though I find nothing more boring than baseball, it was still fun to have my alma mater in the race, especially since we are definitely NOT a baseball powerhouse.

3. I can no longer fit into the pants I bought when I was 2 months post-partum. (And not because they are too big.)

Stop. Just stop.

Why does winter drag on and on, endless days of grey skies and uncomfortable sweaters, but the minute summer gets here, the weeks fly by?

I am still running around, not even close to being ready for our trip back east, much less the Carmel weekend we leave for in the morning. I'm jonesing to read all your perfect blogs but can't even find the time to open bloglines. We get home Sunday afternoon from Carmel and leave less than 24 hours later for Delaware. I probably won't get a chance to post at all while I'm home. This makes me even more anxious to get on the computer today--I can't imagine two whole weeks without you people.

We get back June 20th. Vivian will be TWO YEARS OLD by then. How is this happening? My children are not babies anymore. My children are almost done with being toddlers. I need to get off this train, and pronto. I feel like I am going to wake up tomorrow and be sending Isaac off to college.

I was thinking earlier (I know, I know, I shouldn't strain myself), and realized that I have only the smallest bit of time left when Isaac and Vivian will love me as much as I love them. In a few years, they will start seeing my flaws, being embarrassed by my clothes, feeling annoyed when I kiss them. Can you imagine? I can't tell you what a big part of my life it is to walk into Isaac's room at night, give him a kiss, and have him sleepily murmur "I love you, Mom". I don't want that to end!

Well I could write a novel about that topic but then I would be procrastinating all the laundry/cooking/packing I have to do before tomorrow morning, so I guess I'll just sign off.

See you in a few weeks!

I got nothin'.

Because I have nothing to say and it's already Wednesday night: another meme. And, oh yeah, Melissa tagged me. AGAIN. So blame her.

I AM: on my third beer.
I SAID: "Nice knowin' ya."
I WANT: my son to be healthy.
I WISH: my sister was happy.
I HATE: Peas. Winter. Sweaters. Tom Cruise. Shopping. When friends act like assholes.
I MISS: my family.
I FEAR: too many things.
I HEAR: my children squabbling. ALL. THE . TIME.
I WONDER:why my son wakes up before 6am EVERY SINGLE MORNING.
I REGRET: losing touch with Andy Nye, my college boyfriend. (Inside joke, in case he's reading this (which, yeah, of course he's not, but I'm on my third beer, so whatever): "Do what?") {It's an INSIDE joke, okay? Not funny to you, but it's not meant to be. Sheesh.}
I AM NOT: crafty. Nor do I want to be. Keep those scrapbooks FAR AWAY from me.
I DANCE: with my kids. Except they always want me to pick them up and swing them around, and goddammit, I am not their father! Can't you just move your feet or your hips? Must I do EVERYTHING LITTLE THING for you??
I SING: hardly ever. (Be glad. I'm tone deaf.)
I AM NOT ALWAYS: smart. I wish I was.
I MADE: the beds a long time ago. I need to change the sheets again. Crap.
I WRITE: this blog. That's it. Isn't that enough?
I SHOULD: change the sheets more often.
I START: not much. Sadly. No, actually, that's really sad. But it's true. I don't start anything. I mean, I guess I start the car every day when I drive to pre-school. But that's all I can think of.
I FINISH: a tall chai latte way too frequently than is good for our finances.
I BELIEVE: in myself. in my husband. in love. in happiness.
I KNOW:that you probably think I'm full of shit.
I CAN: kick your ass in soccer. And I never played soccer as a kid. I'm much more athletic than you think.
I CANT: carry a tune.
I SEE: lightning bugs. Oh wait, no I don't. I live in California, where they don't have lightning bugs. Can you believe that? A place with no lightning bugs?? It's unfathomable. And yet, here I am. Here my children are, in a world without lightning bugs. I'm not sure they'll ever recover. I know I won't.
I BLOG: when I should be playing with my kids. Do you play with your kids? I mean, really play with them, often? Because, GOD, it bores me to tears to play with them.
I READ: blogs and not much else. It's because of you people that I haven't read a novel in over a year.
I AM AROUSED BY: lazy afternoons, sun spots on the bed.
IT PISSES ME OFF: when people refuse to accept responsibilityy for their actions.
I FIND: my husband's belts all over the house. Is it that hard to hang them up in the closet? Is it? Really?
I LIKE: beets. (So what? At least it's not brussel sprouts!)
I LOVE: 48 Hours Mystery. And Grey's Anatomy.* Oh yeah, and my family.

* Thanks for the reminder, Kate!