Thoughts for a rainy Monday.

So, I have shamefully neglected my blog - too easy to do, seeing as there's nobody reading it and sending me urgent "will ya update your blog already?!" emails. That's OK - I've realized I'm not keeping this blog to try to develop a following or to become Miss Internet Popularity. I'm keeping it, basically, for my own sake and for my daughter's, to have someplace I can come back to later to remind myself who I used to be once I've become somebody else through the simple passage of time. So, future self and future no-longer-a-toddler daughter, here is where I was the last weekend of August, 2006.

I'm finally reclaiming an aspect of myself that has been missing since Esther arrived. The aspect of myself that is neat, clean, and organized. A month ago I kicked my husband and daughter out of the house and reorganized my home office. Two years worth of piled-up bills, warranties, receipts, etc. etc. etc. was culled through and filed away. I dismantled several extraneous pieces of furniture and exiled them to the basement. I set up the room with a computer/office corner and an Esther-activity corner. It felt good to admire it when it was done. The empty, uncluttered space in the center of the room felt like a masterpiece.

I did the same thing in our bedroom this weekend. In the nearly two years since Esther's birth, a huge pile of crap had accumulated at the entrance to my closet. Discarded maternity clothes, jeans with broken zippers, pre-baby-weight-gain suits, worn-out shoes - you get the picture. I finally sat down, filled up garbage bags, assembled Goodwill-donation boxes, put the out-of-seasons and might-fit-again-somedays into Rubbermaid bins and schlepped them down to the basement. I reorganized everything hanging in the closet so I actually can see what I own. I swept a humongous pile of dust off of the closet floor. And then, for the first time in two years, *I closed my closet door.* It is so nice to approach my closet without climbing a mountain of crap, open the door, turn on the light, see what I have, pick out an outfit, turn off the light, and shut the door again.

I also cleared off the top of my dresser. Two years' worth of receipts, broken junk jewelry, photographs, pantyhose (some with runs, some intact), old wallets, safety pins, and dust, dust and more dust. Now all that's there is a framed photo from our wedding, one tin of lip gloss, a bottle of hand lotion, and a couple of Mamuschka dolls there to distract Esther from the other stuff. The gleaming, dust-free, empty expanse of beautiful polished wood is pleasing to my soul. I need a nice jewelry chest to put in that empty space and to house my jewelry that lives now in four separate, inappropriate spaces throughout the house, and the dresser project will be complete.

Having cleared all my crap off the floor, I was able to move my laundry separator to my side of the bed. Now there's a big empty space where I'd like to put a small table and a chair or two to create a nice reading/studying space. Sometime in the next year or so I need to sign up to take the bar exam in another state than where I am currently admitted and working, so I will need a quiet place to sit and study undisturbed by my hubby's addicted, incessant television watching. But the neatness and organization is a huge step in the right direction.

The next organization project to tackle is my car. It's just full of garbage, baby toys, and clothes waiting to go into the Goodwill donation box. Oh yeah - and my nephew A., we think, stealth-puked in the back footwell the last time he was here. I should really get around to cleaning that up someday. Vaccuum the whole car out, dust and Armor-all the dash and leather seats, clean the dog-slobber-and-noseprints off of the windows of the hatch, hang a tree off the rearview mirror and it will feel like a whole new car. And then, folks, all of the spaces in which I live my life will be neat, clean and organized, the way they were before I became a mommy. (I am proud to say my office never descended into mess and chaos the way my home did.)

What to say about Esther? Yesterday she turned 23 months old. Another month to the big second b-day. She is talking more and more. Yesterday she came out with "go home." Go home from the Pop Warner football game where our friend's daughter was cheerleading. Go home from the supermarket halfway through a grocery shopping trip. Go home, go home, go home. She is growing like a weed. She is so very cuddly and kissy, in between extended bouts of incessant physical activity. She loves Maisy, Dora the Explorer and Go, Diego, Go and can ask for those shows by name. She is finally letting me read books - a select few - to her. She can count to eleven. She can say the alphabet with a little prompting. She's starting to eat actual meal-sized quantities of food. She's nursing for far shorter periods of time, and weaning appears to be a realistic plan for the not-too-distant future. I have a number of photos waiting to be uploaded, and will post some of my favorites here soon. I could go on and on about how wonderful she is, how much I love her, and how happy she makes me, but really, what is the point? I'll just say that she is happy, healthy, and developing at light-speed and leave it at that.

I went to bed plenty early last night anticipating my normal 4AM wakeup call. But then I dreamed so intensely that I kept waking myself up, maybe four or five times. Of course, I can only remember one of these dreams. It's a bit embarrassing to admit, but I want to preserve this memory for myself. I don't remember the details or how in the dream I came to be in the situation, but I was having sex with another woman. I don't even remember her face or if I even saw it. But it was the act denoted by the wonderful, old-timey word "frottage," and it was super-hot. I frequently have erotic dreams, but they have always involved men. I usually wake up short of the big O, gasping and cursing at having woken up too soon. Not this time. I had a full-on O that built up forever and then broke over me in waves with long, shuddering aftershocks. The thing I remember most from the dream was how soft and smooth her ass felt in my hands. I've never had a same-sex experience, although I'm mildly curious. I almost feel like it couldn't possibly be as hot as that dream was.

I've always anticipated that someday, when Esther is a mature young adult and showed some interest in knowing more about her mom (if she ever does), I'd give her this URL and allow her a peek inside my head. Well, if you're reading this sometime in the future, Esther, know that your mom is a sexual person, no matter how icky it makes you feel to know that. I have sexual thoughts and needs and wants and desires and dislikes, even at the ripe old age of thirty-five. Your arrival disrupted my sexual existence for awhile. I don't resent that at all; I think it's very normal and not unhealthy, but I need to get back in touch with that aspect of myself as well. I wonder if there are areas of exploration I never touched on, even before you came along, that I might still get to experience in my future. Sexuality is an ongoing, evolving thing, never static throughout one's lifetime. My subconscious clearly told me last night that I have been neglecting my own sexuality, but that it has continued to evolve and change even while underground.

Well, I've got nothing to say to follow up on that. So, this is me, signing out.

I am an elitist bitch.

I discovered the silver lining to this whole $3+/gallon for gas mess.

I own a really nice house, with a nice big yard and nice big garage, in a not-so-hot neighborhood. The big park across the street attracts mobs of punk-ass teenagers, who cavort loudly there until the wee small hours and leave it littered with junk food wrappers, spent firecrackers and dirty diapers. (Of course the teen mommies bring their babies with them to these late-night parties!) Our street is also a common cut-through, as it is the only two-way street between two major area roads for several blocks. All day and night long, cars with cherry-bomb mufflers and waaaaay too many woofers cruise up and down our street subjecting us to crappy ghetto "music."

That is, they *used* to. Since gas hit the $3 mark, traffic has practically vanished on my street. No cruising kids in bassmobiles. And, surprisingly, no punk-asses at the park - I didn't realize it, but kids from other neighborhoods were driving themselves to my street to raise havoc in the park across from my house. My neighborhood and those around it are largely lower-middle-class and working poor; those who can afford gasoline at all are hoarding it to drive to work and the grocery store. Wilding teenagers simply cannot afford to fuel their ghetto cruisers anymore, so therefore, they aren't troubling us anymore.

Esther and I hung out in our yard for hours yesterday afternoon. We enjoyed the sounds of birds singing, breezes blowing in the trees, and lawnmowers up and down the block. I didn't hear a thumping bass tube all day long. It was like we suddenly were living in suburbia.

It was really nice.

If this continues; if gas stays up over $3 and my city's unparented teens can't afford to be a pain in our butts anymore - perhaps we can make peace with our neighborhood and live there happily in our wonderful house rather than sell it and buy something we can't afford in a "better" area.

Part of me feels bad that I'm deriving happiness as a result of the catastrophic effect sky-high gas prices have had on the lives of the poor. The only reason I am not similarly suffering is that I was fortunate enough to have been born white, into an educated family.

The rest of me wants gas to stay at $3+ from now on so I can enjoy my new, improved neighborhood instead of moving. It's as if I was handed a neighborhood upgrade without having to pay for it. I'm really enjoying the peace and quiet, and I'd like it to stay that way. I'm glad that all my city's poor, unparented, punk-ass teenagers who take such pleasure in ruining my quality of life suddenly can't afford to drive out of their own damned neighborhoods.

Does that make me an elitist bitch?

Growing apart.

Esther, at 22 months, is starting to call me Mommy instead of Mama. Just now, as I nursed her and put her to bed, she was trying on the new moniker for size. I asked her, again and again, "What's my name?" until she said Mama again, and then I hugged her close and said "yes, my name is Mama" as tears stung my eyes. I know it's entirely age-appropriate for her to start calling me Mommy now, and it's cute as all get-out to hear her say it, but a big part of me is not ready for her to stop calling me Mama yet. I waited so very long to hear her say it. And it's one last, precious link remaining to her sweet babyhood as she charges full steam ahead into her toddler years.

Right now we're moving through a bunch of milestones, each of which leaves her a little more independent, a little less in need of me. Going to sleep on her own, and sleeping through the night, in her very own bed was a big one. Don't get me wrong, I'm ecstatic that she's reached that point, but at the same time I miss sleeping with her warm cuddly little self, and I miss my role as the giver of sleep. Other, smaller milestones - she can more or less brush her own teeth, put on her own shoes (if not always on the correct feet), and feed herself with a spoon. She hits all these milestones on time or a little bit early. I am happy she is doing so well, and proud of her successes. But she needs me just a little bit less each day, and I know someday I'll wake up and she won't need me - or want me - for anything at all.

May that day not come for another sixteen years.

Home.

Right now, the most frequently used word in Esther's vocabulary is "Home." Home is clearly a very meaningful concept for her. On days when I am working, she and her daddy call me at work and she mournfully says "Mama, home" to my picture on his cellphone screen. On days when I am home, I go to her when she wakes up in the morning; her face lights up like the sun and she says "Mama, home!" as she squeezes me tight and smothers me with kissies. In the backyard, she'll look up from splashing in her pool to shout "home! home!" When we are out and about, she will pause in whatever she's doing to look up at me or my husband, a question on her face, and say "home?" And we rush to reassure her that once we are done with the day's agenda, we will indeed be going back home, where Shadow and her pool and her Pooh and her teddy are waiting for her. Yesterday we had my girlfriend G. and her four-year-old daughter L. and one-year-old son J.J. over for a playdate - Esther was ecstatic, running around yelling "L., home!" and "J.J., home!" Because, of course, in her mind "home" is *our* home, and she doesn't yet realize that other people call other houses home.

Our home is not in the nicest neighborhood, but there are still trees and parks and a few friendly neighbors. The house itself is nice; solid and comfortable with a big yard and heat in the winter and A/C in the summer. Everything we need is right there. It's got just enough room for all of us, as long as we keep on top of the incoming tide of accumulated crap. And most importantly of all, it is secure. We can afford to live in our home indefinitely. As long as I continue to do a good job at work, the money to keep our home will keep flowing. Our lights will continue to shine, and we will stay warm in the winter and cool in the summer, and there will always be food on our table. These are very important things that go into turning our house into the "home" that Esther loves and that makes her feel so safe.

That is a big part of my job as her mama, as I see it. To provide her with a home that is safe and secure and full of love. To keep her warm and fed and clothed inside that home. To provide her with a place of refuge as she gets older and ventures out into a world that neither she nor I can control. To protect her from ever needing to worry about the roof over her head or the food on the table. To turn our house into the physical manifestation of my love for her.

Esther, home. Daddy, home. Shadow, home. Mama, home. Our home.

The simplest of simple summer pleasures.

Esther spent her day playing outside with her daddy, and was ready for her snack by the time I got home from work. "Eat eat!" she yelled as I walked in the door. I opened the fridge and asked her what she wanted. She pointed to the watermelon: "That!" So I cut us each a big hunk. I gave her a spoon, as she is enthusiastically learning the fine art of eating with cutlery. But she preferred the much messier and more fun option of simply shoving her face into the watermelon. She ate this whole piece and was covered head to waist in juice. Then she ran back outside and jumped back into her kiddie pool.

What I wouldn't give to be two again, just for a day!

EDITED TO SAY: I'm SOOO SORRY I double-linked at Mama Says Om! I really don't know how it happened. I can't find a link to email a site administrator and ask that one of the links be removed. Of course - my first time posting on a new site and I make a stupid faux-pas. Have I mentioned that technology hates me? The Internet hates me, and fights my efforts at every turn. Heck, even my stapler hates me. Anyway, so sorry!