Woman of the House

A thing of beauty.

2007-03-23T07:05:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I look at Esther and I just cannot believe how lovely she is. I could just look at her all day long. I love to lay down with her at naptime and just hold her, watching her sleep in my arms. But then she wakes up, and is even more beautiful and full of life - happy, healthy, and constantly in motion.

Thank you, God.

Oh my...

2007-03-16T06:18:00.000-04:00

Esther has been telling us on a daily basis that she wants a new baby, a boy. That she wants me to grow him in my tummy, and feed him with my boobies, but that she will help Daddy change all his diapers. Essentially, what she wants is for me to grow the baby and then bring him home and give him to her, so he will be HER baby. And she insists it has to be a boy.

Oh god, please, NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Absence makes the heart grow fonder...

2007-03-13T09:00:00.000-04:00

I haven't blogged for a long time because I've had so much going on, much of which was too big and traumatic for me to want to face up to again by telling the story. The Cliffs' Notes version would go something like this:

-Work: Busy! Busy busy busy! But good.

-Best/oldest friend: (Mostly) divorced, moved to California. Good-bye, best/oldest friend.

-Marriage: Been to hell and back. HUUUUGE fight over stupidness, police were called multiple times, I took Esther and stayed at best/oldest friend's house for 2 weeks (before the move), my stuff was "thrown out," I was unable to afford to move out and get my own place and pay for day care so I moved back in, we started counseling (finally!), my stuff turned out not to have actually been thrown out but only hidden away from me and was brought back. Then, things got better. Hubby admitted that it was all his fault & that he had been an asshole (thank you! I needed to hear you say that!) and has been making a real effort to treat me more kindly and to make me feel loved and appreciated. He also admitted that he's got anger management problems - our counselor gave us some techniques to use when we feel a storm approaching. Fortunately, that hasn't happened so far, but we're not 100% sure how well the techniques will work as they tend to hit without warning and within seconds. We shall see... or perhaps not, if we are truly lucky.

-Esther: Simply astounding! The worst of the fighting is that it all happened in front of her. She was pretty traumatized for a couple of weeks but seems to be over it now. She is incredibly happy that we are all back together as a family now. (Hubby and I have promised each other never to argue or physically fight in front of her again.) Her development has been astounding. She's 29 months old now, and speaks better than some adults I know. She just suddenly exploded size-wise, and I had to run out and buy her size 3T clothes, size 6 shoes, and size 5 diapers. She's got a real head of hair now, long enough for a wispy little ponytail, but it's constantly messy no matter what we do except for the golden hour after her bath but before her bedtime. My mind is blown every time I look down at her, curled up in my arms, and see a child solemnly returning my gaze. She is so full of love - she tells me "I really, really love you, mama!" and then covers me with kisses. And she's so happy! She starts her day with smiles and happy chatter, and really only goes haywire when it's time for her nap or bedtime. She's learning to ride her tricycle, and to hit wiffleballs off a tee, and to turn tumblesaults on my yoga mat. She eats like a champ, and is unafraid of new tastes and textures, even my favorite food sushi, but her very favorite is Jell-O fat-free sugar-free instant pudding, because we can make it together and she gets to lick the bowl and the whisk. Esther is, quite simply, the joy in my life.

-Diet: Start, then stop, then start again. Hubby and I started the South Beach Diet on 1/9. He's been very motivated to get under 200 lbs. before the start of his softball season, starting from 245. He's done amazingly well, practically inspirational. I think he's dropped about 30 lbs. already. Me, not so much. South Beach is low on fiber, which immediately caused me some, err, elimination problems. So I had to add some whole grains back into my diet before they were called for, which slowed down my initial progress. Of course, then I lost 5 lbs. during our separation. But I never really got back on the wagon once I came back home. But a week ago I realized my 20-year high school reunion will be next year! I was fat in high school. I managed to get skinny in time for my 10-year reunion, and boy was that a triumph. And it's important to me that I be skinny again in time for my 20-year reunion too. So, reluctantly, I got back on the wagon, and back on the accursed treadmill, and hopefully will be back into my size 8's before too much longer.

Well, that's been my life to date. That, and fighting with Blogger over the stupid switch-to-Beta thing which I put off for as long as possible. But I finally worked it all out. Grrr...

Happy New Year!

2007-01-04T13:34:00.000-05:00

So much has passed since I last found a minute to blog, both good and bad... Chanukah ("It's candle time, mama!") and Christmas... an uneventful New Year's... my friend's behavior as to her impending divorce leading to my hubby's complete rejection of her as any kind of a worthwhile human being... the possibility of getting my dream job (c'mon phone, ring, dammit!!)... receiving a generous cash award which immediately went to pay for holiday credit card spending (net gain = $0)... And even now, I don't have much time but I did want to drop a quick line. So, I will leave you with this one quick thought...

The world's cutest thing is my 27-month-old daughter singing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider," complete with accompanying hand movements. I don't have a video camera, so I can't catch it to share here, but you'll just have to take my word for it.

New Year's Resolution: treat my body with respect - feed it well, use soap and antibacterial hand cleaners generously, refrain from insulting it with toxins (no matter how pleasantly intoxicating), give it enough sleep, and get it up on that treadmill at least four times a week. It's the only body I've got, and we two are in it for the long haul together.

May your year 2007 be filled with security, health, and joyous events. Salud!

More drama, but this time it's not mine... yay?

2006-12-06T08:38:00.000-05:00

Once again, I've let my blog go for far too long. Bad blogger! Bad!!

My work gets a little nutty from time to time. I was handling a labor arbitration which just went crazy for nearly a month. I wound up negotiating a settlement, not just for this arbitration but for three more that were still in the pipeline involving the same grievant. Good stuff - makes me feel all lawyerly an' shit. But now that it's over, my phone's stopped ringing and I've got nothing on my calendar til the end of the month. Seriously, it's either feast or famine in this place.

Fortunately, everything on the homestead has been blissfully peaceful and calm. Esther's vocabulary grows daily. She is full of energy and joy. She keeps getting longer, if not necessarily thicker, so her pants fall down while she's reaching onto tabletops and into drawers that she couldn't reach just a month ago. She eats like a champ - not necessarily huge quantities, but she'll take a few bites of just about anything. That's my adventurous little eater! Hubby, too, has been very kind to me. No sex issues, no pressure on me to do things I don't want to do. I'm trying to be mindful of his needs, but I have allowed myself to fall asleep on the couch rather than initiate things far too often lately. I owe him some serious lovin' at this point, and tonight I intend to deliver. He's getting on the treadmill and exercising every day and I recognize that if I supply positive reinforcement, he's more likely to continue. I do love to love my man when he trims down, as he does from time to time!

And now - the drama. My best friend, my oldest friend, the one who I've known since we were little kids, the one who people ask if she's my sister when we go out together, is getting divorced. She was the very first of my friends to get married, just a little over nine years ago, which surprised me at the time because she was also the most politically active and outwardly feminist of my friends. But I thought her hubby was a perfect match for her. They both had masters' degrees in anthropology and wanted to live the majority of their lives living in the middle of exotic foreign cultures. For reasons too long to get into here, that never really happened. Only after the wake of the Indonesian tsunami did her hubby manage to get himself overseas - in a variety of short- to mid-term positions providing disaster assistance and recovery in Indonesia and later also in Pakistan. The thing about all of these positions was that they were just for him, no room for my friend to come along. So he went, each time, without her. She was left behind to hold down the fort, work a steady job that provided health insurance for both of them but utterly failed to meet her emotional and professional needs.

Her hubby went on, I think, four of these solo jaunts. He just came back from the last of these about 2 weeks ago. He had a job offer in hand from the Red Cross for a long-term, maybe permanent placement in Aceh, the epicenter of the tsunami in Indonesia. The catch? ONLY he could come. They didn't say "oh, we don't have a job for your wife but she can come along and try to find something for herself." No, the deal was that ONLY he could come, and they wouldn't give him the job if my friend coming along was part of the deal. Long story made short - he wants the job more than he wants the marriage.

My friend has always been rock-steady in her commitment to her marriage. She told me for years that she didn't believe in divorce and would do whatever it took to make it happen. But now that her hubby has initiated things, she is off like a shot and never looking back. The day after the decision was made, she had taken off her wedding ring and all the jewelry he had given her, changed her email addresses to drop his name/initial, changed the household utility bills into her name alone, packed up all his belongings in boxes, removed all obvious evidence of the marriage from her life. She seriously considered hooking up a date for the following Saturday. All she can think about is how quickly the divorce can get pushed through so that she can get started on "slutting around" (her words) and moving out of town to someplace more exciting like D.C. or San Francisco.

Honestly, it's wigging me out. No period of mourning, no sadness, no gradual transition. Don't get me wrong - I don't think she should be trying to make it work even now, given that he's utterly unwilling to do the same. But what she's doing is showing me how easy it can be to just give up, to just let it go, to just throw a nearly decade-long partnership to the wind and embrace divorce with open arms and a joyful heart. Yes, I know it would not be so easy for my hubby and I given that we have a child together, but my friend is showing me that it would be do-able, that I would survive, that I would probably even be happy - maybe even right away. That's a scary thought for me.

I'm not there yet. I'm not even close. My hubby and I don't have anywhere near the problems that it turned out my friend and her hubby have. And I am still willing to do whatever it takes to make our marriage work - including laying some lovin' on my sweet hubby (who, by the way, cleaned the house top-to-bottom while I was at work yesterday). But I don't think I really needed to see first-hand how very easy it would be to walk away if eventually things get broken beyond repair.

Oh yeah - and the kicker is that my friend's hubby, having been the one to propose divorce - apparently repeatedly, after each one of his overseas stints, I only just now am finding out - is now a total wreck. He's begged my friend to slow things down, tell her divorce lawyer to back down, because he needs some more time to think about things. He seems utterly incapable of running his own life now that she's not doing it for him - she keeps getting calls from people like his dentist, saying that he's late for or has missed an appointment. I think it's pretty funny that he had the nerve to propose divorce for years, and once my friend finally took him up on his offer, he just completely fell apart. Oh well. In two more weeks, he'll be back in Banda Aceh, doing what he does so well - taking care of other people while his own life goes to shit.

I liked him, but only for so long as he made my friend happy. As far as I'm concerned, he made this bed and now he can lie in it. No sympathy here! Anyway, that's the drama of the day. I'm glad it's not my drama, but boy is it still close enough to home to make me squirm...

Why are guys so damned skeevy?!

2006-11-16T06:31:00.000-05:00

So, here's what happened to me yesterday. I was out for a walk, with Esther on my back in her backpack and our 115-lb. black lab/Great Dane Shadow on his leash. We're about halfway through our walk, walking down a largish main street in broad daylight, when I hear a car honk at me. As it drives by, it slows down so I can see that the driver, a man, has his pants down past his butt and is jacking off, driving down the road, in the middle of the day! As soon as he sees that I've seen him, he speeds up and drives off. I caught the license plate number and the make of the car as he drove away. I whipped out my cell phone and called the police to report the event. The officer who came out to meet me kept asking if I was sure that I had the plate number right, even though it was registered to exactly the make, model and color of car I saw. Turns out that the car is registered to a city police officer. He was on duty at the time, but believed that his teenage son had the car. I did go ahead and file the complaint, even though the officer clearly didn't want me to. I'm really hoping I don't see any retaliation for this. I don't want to get anybody sent to the pokey, or even cost anybody a big fine - I just want to send the message that this isn't acceptable behavior. I had a two-year-old on my back, for heaven's sake, and I'd rather she not see that kind of thing. Basically, I'm just hoping that a certain 16-year-old caught a can of whoop-ass when his police-officer dad got home from work.

Moving right along

2006-11-15T07:05:00.001-05:00

No word back from Karen yet re:my letter. I have no idea if I will ever even hear from her again. That's her choice, and I'm OK with it either way.

Esther is just amazing. She's fully verbal now. I don't always understand every word that comes out of her mouth, but she speaks in full sentences now and after awhile I can almost always figure out what she's trying to say.

And the biggest news? She's weaned! I had her down to just her night-night nursing already. Then last weekend we left her with my friend G. and her hubby J. and their kids L. and JJ. while we went to NY for my cousin's daughter's wedding. Our first time apart since she was born - she had a great time but we missed her terribly. But that was two nights without boobies, and when we got back I told her that we were all done with boobies and that Mama didn't have any milk left. She asked for a sippy of water at bedtime, and drank it while we cuddled in bed. Two more nights since then, and each evening she asked once for boobies, but was OK with being told no and settled for water and cuddles instead.

I was so ready to wean her. For the last six months or so, nursing was really unrewarding for me. She wouldn't let me put my arm around her or sing to her. She would nurse while pushing my arm away, kicking me repeatedly, whipping her head around, and trying to talk with my nipple in her mouth (ouch!) But still, it was bittersweet nursing her on Thursday evening, knowing it was the last time it would ever happen.

She's such a very big girl now. Only one last milestone to go before she leaves babyhood behind for ever - potty training! Speaking of which, she says she has "poopies again." Boy, I just can't wait to leave poopy diapers behind.

Moving right along

2006-11-15T07:05:00.000-05:00

And now the shit hits the fan.

2006-11-06T06:03:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I got the following email from Karen (in response to my email a couple of weeks back telling her I didn't want to hear from her unless she was willing to read the letter):

Dear Susan, I think there has been a great
misunderstanding between us. I never refused to read
or hear your 32 page letter. If you still have the
letter I wrote to you last winter, please re-read it.
I stated that it sounded like you had been holding in
these feelings for a long time, and for this reason, I
suggested we see a professional to help us with
communication. I believe that's why a few years ago,
we went to a therapy session at your request. I want
to hear your feelings, I would never "pretend" to read
your letter, and I'm sure I'll be responding to it in
some way. I've been trying to use the following quote
I found in a book to help me with conflict resolution
in my life: "Love without honesty is
sentimentality, honesty without love is brutality"
Perhaps we can keep this in mind in our correspondence
and communication with each
other. Karen

My response - was it too cold?

So, can I send you the letter now or not?

And her reply:

yes

So, I'll be sending it out to her today. What happens from there is up to her.

See below for Motherless: Part 3 - Karen.

2006-11-04T07:50:00.000-05:00

I finally finished my Karen post, but because I did it by finishing an earlier draft, it appears below my most recent post. Please scroll down to find it. Oh yeah - you might want to fix yourself a cup of coffee and a snack first - it's a long one, and I for one needed some sustenance to see me through to the end.

Emerging, momentarily, from the whirlwind that is my life...

2006-11-02T06:33:00.000-05:00

I've been soooo very busy lately that I've left things unfinished, unsaid, unresolved here on my blog. Work has been more demanding than usual lately. I'm handling a labor arbitration on November 30 which requires a lot of prep work. I did one back on Sept. 28-29, and had to write a really long legal brief following up on that which I just got done. And oh yeah, it's not like my regular workload went away in the meantime! Plus all the usual home stuff has been going on - my lovable but demanding toddler (fully verbal now, hooray!), my car which has been in the shop for 3 weeks after I was rear-ended at a stop sign, my hot water heater which blew and needed replacing, my cousin's wedding in NY coming up which required dress/suit shopping for me and the hubby, etc. etc. etc... Sometimes it's really hard to just pull away from all of that and devote time to something so "frivolous" as a blog.

What little time I've had to devote to blogging has been spent on no less than three abortive attemps at drafting my Part 3: Motherless - Karen post. I'm having trouble doing this in less than novella-length, which just isn't what blogging is about. I have so much unresolved business, so much frustration and anger, just so much to *say* that she won't hear from me, that I'm having trouble summing it up in a blog-appropriate length. Getting it done can't help but be cathartic, what with all the thought and work I'm having to put into it.

I just wanted to follow up on my earlier "Ach - drama" post. Things with the hubby have NOT been as bad as they were when I wrote that post. One of the things my hubby and I have in common is that we both keep things inside, building and building, until finally we express them out loud in a huge explosion. That release of pressure is always followed by a period of relief and recovery. I'm not at the same place he is sexually, but he is certainly entitled to feel how he feels. And he had been feeling frustrated for years, when he finally exploded on me that night. That conversation was followed by about two weeks of no intimacy, at the end of which we picked up basically where we had left off. He hasn't made any real effort to push my boundaries again, which I've really appreciated. I'm working at being as good as I can possibly be at the things I'm willing to do that he does like. And, checking in on his Internet history, his porn viewing time has gradually slowed since then, if not stopped. More importantly, the non-sexual physical intimacy has come back in a way that I haven't seen in a long time. We cuddle when we sleep again. I've had a lot of tension stored up in my hips, back, and neck, and he's been giving me these wonderful long massages with his truly magic hands, every time I ask or even just look uncomfortable, without pressuring me for sex afterwards. (though that's a great way to get ME to want it, and I'm sure he knows it!) I've missed the physical intimacy - I'm not sure why it's back after the sh!t that went down, but I'm glad, so glad.

A commenter said that she was concerned for me that my hubby appears to just not respect me at all. I can see how it would look that way from what I've posted here. I don't post about the good things in our relationship. I don't post about how, twice a week, he drags out the broom and vaccuum and mop while I'm at work so I can come home to a nice clean house. I don't post about how he backs me up in my professional career choices, and helps me make the best choices for me and us through thoughtful discussions. I don't post about how he does projects at my request - like how he rewired our electrical service and brought our huge heavy treadmill up from the basement so I can work out on the thing and finally get started on losing the baby weight. I don't post about how he makes us Sunday breakfast, doing my eggs just the way I like them and making me turkey bacon because I don't eat pig. I truly believe he *does* respect me, and he shows it in little ways that don't always merit blogging and wouldn't be evident to an outsider looking in.

Would therapy be helpful? Probably. But unfortunately, he is in that large group of people who thinks that psychology/psychiatry is a crock of sh!t for all but the most debilitated. I can't drag him into therapy and get him to honestly take part in it with that mindset, much as the U.S. hasn't been successful in imposing democracy upon Iraq. He certainly has his issues to work through. I don't know that jealousy is one of them - he's quite happy being home and being supported, although he'd like to have more walking-around money (who wouldn't?) and recognizes how lucky he is to be in his situation. If there is jealousy, it's not on the surface, and he doesn't seem to recognize it. But there are real issues with anger that resulted from his childhood in an abusive home, seeing his dad beat the crap out of his mom, and dealing with his dad (who is frankly a total crackpot) throughout the years. And just to be clear, he has never once raised a hand to me in anger! He has his issues. I try to support him in his efforts to process his sh!t, much as he does the same for me. He's been there for me for much of the Alice stuff and almost all of the Karen stuff, and has held me while I cried and raged out loud.

I am human. He is human. We have grown from mutually-immature young adults to relatively mature 30-somethings together. We do not see eye-to-eye on everything, and especially when it comes to sex, we are simply badly mismatched. But the love is still there. I don't think he's lying when he tells me he loves me every day, and when he shows me that love in a hundred mundane little ways. We could certainly be getting along better in some departments. We have a lot of work to do, or at least a lot of compromises to continue making, if our marriage is to survive in the long term. But neither of us has given up that fight yet.

I will be honest and admit that I have a pretty good husband. He actually contributes his fair share of the housework. He's a better cook than I am. He is a wonderful, loving father to our daughter who totally adores him. He gives the most wonderful massages, and knows exactly where I hurt and how to make it feel better. He gets along great with my family, and truly appreciates them as people. He makes me feel safe and protected living in a neighborhood that sees the occasional home invasion or shooting. He listens to my hopes and dreams, and tries to think of ways that we might make some of them actually come true, and how we might align them with his own. He has a warm and loving family, who have opened their arms and hearts to me.

The sex issue is a huge one. It's the scourge that comes along and imposes misery upon us from time to time, and then goes into remission for indeterminate lengths of time. It's not yet definitively dealt with, and probably there is no permanent solution other than for us to agree that I will give a little more than I'd like to be giving and he will take a little less than he'd like to be getting. But right now, I'm trying to give that little bit more, and it looks to me like he's trying to take that little bit less. I don't know how long that will work, but it feels OK at this particular moment.

Last night we slept with our arms around each other. That felt like real love to me.

Motherless: Part 3 - Karen

2006-10-21T13:03:00.000-04:00

My dad met Karen when I was maybe 13 or so at - surprise! - a group therapy session. (You'd think he'd have already figured out that group therapy wasn't the best place to pick up women, no?) She was much younger than him - I think not even thirty years old at the time. I didn't meet her until they'd been dating for a few months, and I really liked her from the get-go. She was young, and energetic, and fun. She was into all sorts of things I'd never been aware of before, like folk music and contra-dancing and vegetarian cuisine and Quakerism and feminism. She was so free-spirited and spontaneous, the polar opposite of my quiet, habit-centered, serious father. Their relationship didn't last long (I'm pretty sure from things both of them said in the years that followed that they never slept together), but they continued to be friends, mostly because she and I had formed an attachment. She was like this cool older sister I had never had. She enjoyed helping me buck my dad's rules - I'd go to bed at my 8PM curfew, jump out my window, and hop into her waiting car to go to a contra-dance. Of course, she never let me do anything really bad - just pushed around the edges of the discipline I lived under, which was starting to feel really stifling at that point.

She never had much money, but somehow that all became part of the fun. I'd help her throw spur-of-the-moment yard sales to raise cash to go dancing that night. One time we scrounged up change all through her apartment, hitting a grand total of $6.32. She treated us both to ice cream cones with it, because if you've only got six dollars to your name, you might as well get ice cream with it, right? A few years later she started a natural-foods catering service which I helped her with - unpaid labor, but more than worth it to me for the many wonderful natural foods I learned to cook then that I still make to this day.

She was very New-Agey, both then and now. She especially hated modern medicine and everything associated with it. She saw naturopaths and took herbal supplements and weird crap like shark cartilage instead of seeing actual doctors and taking real medicine. At the time, I just thought it was this endearing quirk to be tolerated. Looking back, it's clear she had some sort of an unaddressed phobia. But it wound up costing her dearly.

When I was in my early twenties, she mentioned that she was having blood in her urine. My dad and I both encouraged her to see a doctor for help. She didn't. Instead she started making the rounds of every non-traditional alternative "medicine" practitioner in the New England area, and spending boatloads of money she didn't have on bizarre natural supplements. The problem remitted for a little while, and then came back worse than ever. She finally broke down and admitted she needed a doctor. I went with her for moral support the day she went to have a CAT scan of her bladder. The technician let me come into the control room with her, I don't know why, thinking it would be interesting for me to see, having no idea anything serious was going on. I remember seeing the image come up - fully two thirds of her bladder was dark, the edge between dark and light shaped like a sea horse's profile. The technician went suddenly silent. I knew not a thing about medicine, was a junior in college majoring in poli-sci, but it was obvious even to me that her bladder was full of cancer and needed to come out.

The surgery and recovery period was awful. I was there as much as I could stand to be, but the degree of her need and her terror and her misery at that point was terrifying to me. It was a rough period in our relationship, but I hoped that she'd soon be better and things could go back to normal for us.

She did get better, mostly. If by "better" you mean "pees through a tube inserted through one's belly button." And of course, she had all the normal sequelae of cancer treatment, including hair falling out, fatigue, weakness, etc. In retrospect, it really was no surprise that she wasn't the same person post-cancer as she was before. But it was *how* different a person that was the surprise.

A year or so later, I graduated from college. Karen threw me a backyard graduation party, which was a great success. As we cleaned up afterwards, she segued into a conversation about our relationship and how much it meant to her, and how much she thought it meant to me. She said that it was clear she'd never have a child of her own (she lost most of her reproductive system in the surgery) and I obviously didn't have a mother, so why shouldn't we fill those roles in each other's lives? It sounded like a good idea at the time, flushed in the happiness of the moment, so I agreed. I wished for many years afterwards that I had put more thought into that decision.

As she continued to recover, she became weirder and weirder. She left Quakerism behind, going through a variety of alternative religions (shades of Alice!) until finally settling on something called MasterPath, that involved sending money regularly to somewhere in the Southwest for cassette tape lessons and meditating to a photograph of "Sri" Gary Olson who looked like a garage mechanic to me. Her circle of friends changed, eventually containing almost exclusively women and all of them with some bizarre-o twist to them - one was a cat lady, another made a living as some sort of a psychic/astrologer, etc. Her view of the world, of people, of how people should act changed until eventually (years down the line) I realized she was living in some sort of alternative reality that had nothing to do with how things/people really were.

Example: she decided she didn't like my hubby - then just my boyfriend - because shortly after we got together he came over to help her, at my request, with some stuff around the house. He was just being his guy self, doing physical things without complaint. Karen was tying a rope around something but Colin noticed her knot was inadequate to the task. Being a Scoutmaster at the time, he offered to teach her the proper knot for the job. She agreed, and he taught her the same way he taught the boys in his troop - put his arms around her from behind and manipulated her hands in making the knot. Afterwards she told me that she didn't like him because he was way too "macho" and had tried to come onto her by putting his arms around her. My hubby was never "macho" - in fact, he's one of the most sensitive and enlightened men I've ever met. This brought home to me the point, proven to me many times over the following years, that Karen simply didn't like men who had the masculine traits of assertiveness, physical surefootedness, a deep voice, and an unwillingness to accept female orders.

She started to become very demanding of me. Karen wanted me to come with her to all the many things she was afraid of for moral support - doctor and dentist visits, long car trips (this set off her panic attacks), anything requiring her to use an elevator (same). And she demanded my help on things around her house. She had a pool which she insisted I do the maintenance on. Like I knew anything about pools. Anyway, around about this time I began avoiding her phone calls because she always wanted something from me. We fought innumerable times because I didn't return her phone messages for long periods of time.

I also didn't like the way she "used" me, as her daughter, to up her status in her own family. She was very competitive with her sister, and would compare me to her sister's daughter, and rub her sister's nose in my accomplishments. Her sister's daughter, tired I guess of being made to feel second-class, avoided anything where I might be present. I don't blame her. Wherever you are, Kristen, I'm sorry, and believe me, I told your aunt how much her behavior upset me and how unfair she was being to you.

I went to law school, one state over - far but not too far. It was a blessed relief to put some space between me and her. Then, when I graduated, I made a decision that I still feel the effects of today. I took the bar in the next state over, but not in my home state. Not in the state where Karen was. Because if I was a lawyer at home, as far as she was concerned, she would be entitled to unlimited free legal representation for the rest of her life. And she has tendencies to get into trouble - minor car accidents, failure to pay contractors, etc. It is her fault that I'm locked into 2 1/2 hrs./day commuting time, because I can't practice law in the state where I live.

My boyfriend and I got married and bought a house - in my home state, where real estate was within my reach. This brought us back into Karen's orbit. She was there all the time. Demanding things of me. Demanding that I do things to make her life easier, do things to make her look good to her family and friends. Always demanding. Anything she did for me always had an ulterior motive. She never just gave to make me feel good.

She turned 50, and demanded that her sister, her best friend and I throw her a huge, expensive, weeklong getaway culminating in a huge party. My piece of it was paying for the catering, which had to include lobster. I hired the best caterer on the Cape to throw a clamboil cookout, complete with more lobsters than everyone assembled could eat. It cost me damned near four thousand dollars. I had been at the vacation house for almost a week by the time the party came around, surrounded by Karen and her crazy friends, drowning in surrealism. I did my duty at the party, slept for a few hours, and burned rubber driving away at 4AM the next morning.

I became pregnant, and then miscarried. I had wanted that baby, had been trying to get pregnant. I was absolutely wrecked. When I turned to her, looking for comfort from my mother figure, she said "well, it's not like it was even a baby yet." SOOO not what I wanted to hear. She never understood why I got mad at her and didn't talk to her for a month.

I became pregnant again, this time with Esther. Karen was psyched to be a grandma. She fussed over me non-stop, which was sometimes nice and sometimes annoying as all hell. Then she insisted on throwing me a baby shower. It wasn't like anyone else was going to do it. I was just uncomfortable with it, because by this time I was a practicing lawyer making way more money than any of my friends or nearby relatives/in-laws, so I felt I wasn't entitled to ask for their help in getting all my baby things together. She insisted that I needed the help, and as it turned out, she was right.

The baby shower was mostly wonderful. Everyone came, and I got everything I needed for Esther's arrival. But as usual, her doing this nice thing for me came with a price tag. She never let me forget that she had done this for me, that I owed her for it. I couldn't express enough gratitude to satisfy her.

Other things, weird things, were going on at the same time. She had been friends with a co-worker and her husband. That couple divorced and the friend moved far away. The ex-husband was exactly the kind of man Karen liked to have around - tiny, effeminate, entirely non-masculine and non-threatening, entirely willing to be bossed around. He was also much younger, just a few years older than me. Karen took him in as a housemate, and essentially made him her servant/errand boy/whipping post. Every time I looked at him, I felt like this was how she wanted me to be as well - part of her crew of adoring servants.

Housemate had a best friend. Ed was a big, soft, geeky guy who worked in the tech sector. He had no experience with women to speak of, was more or less a total social misfit, and shared with his friend a total lack of masculine energy. Karen thought he was wonderful, and basically relentlessly pursued him until, befuddled, he entered into a relationship with her, this strange woman nearly 15 years older than he. And she bossed him around and used him for all she could get - both domestic support and emotional crutch. I cringed looking at them together, they were so dysfunctional. They were so icky together, flaunting public displays of affection, acting like teenagers in the flush of first love. Poor Ed - I think that's what it was for him.

Things got worse for me on the Karen front once Esther was born. Karen wanted to see Esther constantly (not like I blame her for that). But it meant I had to deal with her drama, her dysfunction, her million little crises constantly. She would come to me with her problems and try to dump them in my lap to solve. Then she'd get pissy with me when I refused to get involved beyond giving her advice how she might deal with her own problems. She accused me of being ungrateful.

Fast-forwarding through much bullshit - another birthday party approached, July 25, 2005. She planned her own birthday party at an expensive, beautiful restaurant in Maine. Such typical Karen - requiring everyone who loved her to drive 3 hours and spend an assload of money to celebrate her birthday. As the date approached, it became something else as well. She and Ed had decided to get married, so this became a combination birthday/engagement party. I held my tongue and tried to look happy for her.

The party arrived. All her guests were there, waiting, but she and Ed were late. When they finally arrived, clearly something was wrong. Turns out, they had broken up in the car on the way there, so there would be no engagement. But she insisted Ed stay for the party, and that they open up all the presents. Then she engaged in this horrible tradition from her family of passing all the presents around for everyone to see. Everything, including the engagement presents. Everything, including their engagement presents to each other. She felt free to tell everyone how much she spent on Ed's gift, a piece of jewelry that clearly had nothing to do with his tastes. She felt free to denigrate his gift to her. Then she opened up a set of lovely silver his-and-hers champagne flutes from her sister, engraved with their initials. Her sister offered to just return them. Ed suggested, quite nicely I thought, that he and Karen should each keep the flute with their initials as a memento of their relationship. Karen flipped out, started yelling, and said the set was hers. OMG, the awful, awful drama.

Colin and I paid our tab ($160 plus tip) and left.

I didn't call her. She called me, three days later, to harangue me for not calling to wish her happy birthday. I told her that I couldn't do this anymore, that I wasn't her daughter no matter how hard we tried to pretend I was, that I just wasn't like her at all. She hung up on me.

I drafted her a letter telling her everything I'd been holding inside for years. It was 32 pages long. Of course I couldn't send that to her, but I felt she was entitled to know why I was stopping the farce after so many years. So I boiled it all down to a 7-page letter and sent it to her. She responded, in writing, trying to get me to go to therapy with her to salvage our relationship. I didn't agree. Having cut it off with her, I felt healthier than I had in years. I felt, and still feel, that I have no need for therapy around this - it's all her dysfunction, her issues, that need to be dealt with. I wrote her back, stating that if she wanted any relationship with me, she had to read my original, 32 page letter. I didn't care if she enlisted her own therapist's help in processing it, but I wasn't going to hold back my emotions and needs to protect her feelings any more.

Fast forward another year-plus. She sent Esther a birthday card with a note to me inside. It said that she respected my decision, but wanted to hear from me - she didn't want to look back on our lost friendship when she got old and wonder what happened. She included her email address and asked me to write. I didn't, because she still wasn't willing to read the 32-page letter. I didn't respond at all. Two weeks later - just two weeks ago - she called my dad at work and harassed him for an hour over how ungrateful I am, how she was so unappreciated. He called me and asked me to email her with something placating so she'd leave him alone.

So I responded. But I couldn't say anything placating or soothing. I emailed her, telling her not to harass my dad when her problem is with me, because he's not my boss and hasn't been able to tell me what to do for years. I told her that I hadn't responded because she wasn't willing to read my letter. I told her I was unwilling to have a relationship with her that was built on her unwillingness to hear what I had to say. I told her I didn't want to hear from her again unless the first line of her correspondence said "Send me the letter now." I told her I wasn't going to look back when I was old and wonder what had happened, because I knew exactly what had happened and was comfortable with that.

Ultimately, it was Esther that gave me the strength to break out of that difficult, draining, dysfunctional relationship. I couldn't let her grow up with Karen's needy, people-using behavior as one of her role models. I couldn't let her see me take abuse, and be used over and over by someone who supposedly loved us. I do feel bad about yanking this lovely little girl away from Karen after a year - after all, Karen had no children, so Esther was as close to a grandchild as she'll ever get. But I did what I had to do, for myself and for Esther. It was self-defense as much as anything else.

So that's where matters stand with Karen. Not precisely resolved, and certainly still loaded with emotion. I still care about her, and want her to be happy, but I cannot be part of her orbit any longer. I cannot accept the responsibility she imposes on me to make her happier by making her life easier. I don't know if her story will end happily or not. I hope it does, but I take no more responsibility if it does not.

Well, this was the longest post ever. Thanks for staying tuned and reading through to the end. I think it helped me, just a little, to write this. I could have written so much more - 32 pages worth, to be exact. But you get the gist. I had to learn the hard way that I can't just select a woman and make her my mom. I only ever had one mom, and I lost her too early. Nobody could ever have filled her place, no matter how hard I tried to squeeze other women into the mold. I am, and will always be, motherless. Karen, I'm sorry I ever agreed to play your daughter - all I did was lead you on and then dump you on your ass. I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for.

We apologize for any inconvenience caused by our delay in service...

2006-10-20T12:31:00.000-04:00

An anonymous commenter (hi!) indicated she's anxiously awaiting my Motherless: Part 3 - Karen post. I just wanted to say that this post is going to be the hardest one for me to write, as Karen was present in my life for longer than either Leila or Alice, and because to some extent my situation with her is still unresolved. This one is going to require me to unload a LOT of baggage, and will be neither easy nor pleasant to write. It will also require me to find a good block of time to sit in front of my computer undisturbed by either rampaging toddler or curious hubby (who, by the way, has no idea that I've got a blog, much less that I've posted our intimate marital secrets on it.)

Anyway, long story short, Part 3 is percolating away in the back of my brain while other things take priority. I hope I'll get to it soon - frankly, I hope that getting it off my chest will help me to process it, lay down my bitterness, and move on with my life.

Thanks for waiting.

Motherless: Part 2 - Alice

2006-10-14T15:18:00.000-04:00

Motherless: Part 2 - Alice

Alice was the first person with whom my dad had a serious relationship after Leila, my birth mother’s, death. I found out much later that he met her in a group therapy session. She was (as I remember now, correctly or incorrectly) tall, slender, fair-skinned, frizzy-red-haired, and had a big nose that was also frequently drippy. She was one of those women who always had tissues - and snotrags and tissue lint - stuffed in her handbag. [Wow, where’d that come from? Starting out nasty today!] She was much younger than my dad - I’d say about 30 when they got together, whereas my dad would have been pushing 40 by that time. OK, maybe not that much younger, but again it seemed so at the time.

Alice “joined” the family when I was maybe 3. She moved in when I was four-ish. I easily moved to calling her “mommy,” and she seemed to like filling that role. She took me to school and picked me up at the end of the day. She bought me clothes and played with me and let me put her makeup on my face. She brought me into her family as well - her mother and father were for many years my Nana and Gonka; I played with her brother Don’s kids Scooter and Patrick and Carlin. (Don’s wife Marcy didn’t like me.) I had early wonderful Christmases thanks to her family, which annoyed my Jewish aunts but which my dad was too passive to oppose. For awhile, all was well.

After several years, once I was maybe 7 or 8, she began to slip into instability. She got very into astrology (remember, this was the late 70's). Then she became a born-again Christian. She began hanging out with born-again friends and I would hang with their kids, but I had nothing in common with them. She was sometimes moving a mile a minute, and other times lashing out in rage, and other times barely unable to peel herself out of bed. Looking back, it seems likely that she had some sort of bi-polar disorder. But she was still my mommy, and I loved her very much, and her emerging, one-sided battles with my father left me feeling sick and torn inside.

Something happened where she wound up in the hospital for a couple of days (she did something to her leg I think) and she had run out of her favorite perfume, and desperately needed a fresh bottle. She harassed my dad into picking up a bottle at the drugstore and taking me in a cab to the hospital (my dad has never learned to drive) and bringing it to her. (Honestly now - jonesing hard for perfume to wear in a hospital?!) As we got out of the cab, I jostled my dad’s arm and the perfume in its box fell out of his hand, smashing on the ground. Glass slivers glistened underfoot and the overwhelming alcohol-y smell of Emeraude filled my sinuses. I had this horrible sinking feeling that now was when the awful thing would happen. Fortunately, I have no memory of what happened next.

[My memory has very helpfully obliterated most of the hurtful stuff that I know happened in the first 10 or so years of my life; unfortunately it left me with the memory of about 1/3 of the painful experiences of my teen years. I was a miserable teenage and would love to kiss those memories goodbye. ]

She moved out sometime not too long after that. Seeing her, seeing my mommy, became this erratic thing. Bear in mind, y’all - she wasn’t ACTUALLY my mother, and wasn’t married to my dad; why should she come around? This was pretty painful for me, but at least I could pick up the phone and call her fairly often, hear her voice, hear her tell me she loved me a few evenings a week.

Then one day she came in and told me that she was moving to Chicago. She had gotten a job there. But she would call me, and visit, and send letters and presents. I was numb, but accepted her at her word.

She left.

Disappeared. Fell off the face of the earth.

I had no address to write, no phone number to get her.

That Christmas she called when I was out. She told my dad that she had sent me a present in the mail, and he conveyed the message to me.

I watched the mail every day until March before I gave up. She had lied to me, and strung me along.

I can’t remember if I ever cried about being abandoned by my mommy, or at least, by the woman I called mommy. I wouldn’t be surprised if I didn’t. I don’t cry much or easily, never have, and often can’t find the tears when I know, just KNOW that I have to cry to heal/move on/feel better/let it go. But the hurt sank deep inside me and festered, a festering emotional pustule affecting all my relationships. The angriest I ever was at my husband, before we got married, was when I’d be waiting for him to pick me up (usually from college classes) and he’d be, maybe, 20 minutes late. The feelings of abandonment instantly swept me away on tides of fear and rage. I realized entirely on my own, one day, that those feelings were the direct result of Alice’s abrupt departure. Instantly, the feelings became manageable, and haven’t been a problem since. But still, ten years of abandonment issues was a lot to inflict on a then-12 year old.

Over the years, she would write to my dad, or I think even call him. I’d hear bits and pieces about her life from him. She had become a minister in some culty-sounding regional offshoot of Christianity. She had become ill with lupus. She had found a new boyfriend and had lived with him for all this time. But I told him to tell her not to contact me, because I didn’t want to hear from her anymore.

Fast forward to the early-to-mid 90's. I would have been about 23 or so. I got a letter in the mail FROM HER. I was with my not-yet-husband at the house of his mom’s then girlfriend (she’s gay) who was a psychologist (duh, I’m sure she still is.) She was letting us do some laundry in her machines. Future hubby (FH for short) stopped home and came back with the mail. He handed it to me and I just froze. Then, sitting right there in her kitchen, I opened the letter and read it.

It was chatty! She opened with what was going on in her life before saying that she was sorry and knew that she must have hurt me and asked for my forgiveness. I just completely fucking lost it. Hysterically crying sitting at the kitchen island in my FH’s mom’s lesbian girlfriend’s kitchen. She, bless her heart, drew me into her office and sat down and threw me an emergency session, gratis, allowing me the opportunity I needed to express the emotional pus that had burst forth from the pustule Alice’s letter had pricked open. She and I didn’t often get along [she was rather uncomfortable with my FH and his siblings being in her house and around her kids all the time], but her immediate presence and willingness to help at exactly the moment I needed help enabled me to experience the emotions quickly, face them down, and finally - FINALLY - move on from the hurt Alice inflicted on me.

I wrote Alice one letter, very long, telling her exactly what I felt. That one I put in an envelope, stuck it somewhere, and never mailed it. I expect I’ll find it someday when I go through all the boxes of my crap my dad’s been storing in his basement for me.

Then I wrote another, shorter one, telling her much more briefly that there was no way she could comprehend the way that she had hurt me, and that if she wanted to really think about that for awhile and try apologizing again, I’d be willing to consider it.

She wrote back almost write away, assuring me in breezy tones that she had indeed thought a lot about it, and wanted to try to have some sort of ongoing contact with me. I wrote back again, saying that seeing as she had written back right away, she clearly had not thought about it long and hard enough, and that she would have to do better if she was to have any contact at all with me.

I never heard from her, or about her, again.

That’s OK. I’m better off not knowing what the hell happened to this woman; whether the life she chose was better than the one she would have had if she had kept me in it.

Long before then, Karen had entered my life.

Next - Motherless: Chapter 3 - Karen

Motherless, Chapter 1 - Leila

2006-10-11T14:50:00.000-04:00

I no longer remember how I found the website themotherless.com, but it struck a deep chord in me to read stories of other women who had lost their mothers. I've never written about it here, or talked about it much to anyone, but the drive to fill the "mother" void in my life was a huge thing for me for the second and third decades of my life.

This is Chapter 1 of three - Leila, my birth mother.

She was always a cipher to me. I have a few pictures of her. This one is the only one I have in my living space as a framed photo in a glass cabinet; all the rest are buried in boxes of family pictures in the basement.

In this picture, she and my father are walking into, I believe, their engagement party in Brooklyn in the mid-1960's. It is one of several pictures I have of her in which her eyes are closed or downcast. I have a precious few from after I was born, in which she looks far more alive (if fatigued), holding me, wearing her glasses, wearing casual clothes, in the apartment she shared with my dad and his Airedale.

I have no conscious memories of her. I was close to my grandparents, her parents, and my aunt, her sister, growing up, but neither they nor my dad ever talked about her as I grew up. When I asked my dad, he never seemed to remember anything substantive - only that she loved to cook and was good at it. My aunt told me that all she had ever wanted was to be a wife and mom to a lot of kids, and that she was happy after marrying my dad. My grandmother never answered my questions and became stonefaced when I asked. I only once asked my grandfather about her, after seeing the grief that washed over his face.

I pieced together the little bits of information I was able to gather about her. I knew she had died when I was about six months old. I knew she was the same age as my dad. I knew she was a little heavy, much as I turned out to be. Once, snooping through my dad's stuff (I was a sneaky miserable little kid) I found an old spiral pad of his that he had made a few diary-like entries in. One entry mentioned how he had been trying unsuccessfully to get his hands on some marijuana, and how she kept bugging him to get it. This was most interesting to me, at the age of 10 or so, not yet having tried the stuff myself.

I don't to this day know where I got this idea, but my whole life growing up, I thought she had died of liver cancer. I have no memory of anyone ever having told me this; it was just something I knew like I knew that the sky was usually blue.

My husband only met my aunt and her husband one time. We were recently married and we went to New York City to visit. I dropped hubby off with Uncle G. and my aunt and I went uptown to visit my grandma at the Jewish Home for the Aged. Sure enough, hubby and Uncle G. hit it off like gangbusters, and G. spent the day showing hubby around all his favorite NY spots. And he had a substantive conversation with hubby, whom he just met, about my mom and my dad and how he felt about the situation. G. told my hubby that my mom had died due to medical malpractice but that my dad had never taken any legal action as a result, and so G. hated my dad for having allowed me to be shortchanged out of having a mother and then never getting me anything to compensate for that loss.

G. never talked to *me* about my mom, not even once.

My aunt and Uncle G. both died in a car accident in 1994. My grandfather had already died of heart failure sometime in the late '80's. My grandmother, long since lost to senility, passed away in 1996. I didn't think I had anyone left who could tell me anything about my mother, given that my dad somehow didn't seem to remember anything important about the woman he married.

Fast-forward thirty-three years. My dad's sister, my one remaining aunt, was elderly and not physically well, but had made what would be her last trip to visit my dad and me in our home town. I was pregnant with Esther, and feeling contemplative about all things maternal. I drove her to the airport nearly two hours before her flight home, and we sat talking about motherhood - how she had delivered both her sons without anesthesia (very unusual in the late 50's) and how she had helped my dad with caring for me in the months after my mother passed. I mentioned that I worried I might die young of cancer and deprive my daughter of her mother, the same as had happened to me. She looked at me strangely and asked what I meant. I told her that I was afraid to die of liver cancer like my mom. She was really surprised, and told me that that wasn't how my mother had died at all.

My aunt then told me - finally - what had really happened. My mom and dad had had a lot of trouble conceiving. When she finally did become pregnant with me, her OB/GYN discovered that her uterus was full of fibroids. She actually had to undergo surgery while pregnant with me, cutting-edge at the time, to remove enough of the fibroids to allow enough room for her to carry me to term, but not all of them could be removed. The idea was that once she had healed up sufficiently from delivering me via C-section, they'd go back in and remove the remaining fibroids, after which conceiving again should have been much easier.

So, sure enough, six months after I was born, my mother checked back into the hospital to have the fibroids removed. It was supposed to be, at most, a three-day admission. After the surgery, she complained that she wasn't feeling well. She then went to sleep and never woke up. The autopsy showed that the surgery had left her with an air embolism, an air bubble that had traveled to (I think) her heart and caused heart failure. Or perhaps it was her brain and it caused a stroke. Either way, it was an air embolism that killed her.

Ooooohhhhh.....

To go 34 years without knowing how my own mother died, even worse - thinking I knew how she died but being completely wrong, is just so sad. I barely know the woman at all, even now. She is just a few photographs and a few stories to me. I'll never know things like, did she like to sing? was she good at it? what kind of clothes did she like to wear? what kinds of books did she like to read? what did she hate? was she interested in politics? I would give anything for one face-to-face meeting with her, even if she came to me in my dreams, just so that I could see how her face looked when she spoke, whether she talked with her hands, hear what her voice sounded like. And maybe, just maybe, to hear my own mother say "I love you, Susan" and feel her arms around me. Oh well. People in hell want ice water too.

It took me years to realize how empty her absence left me. Over the years, I would desperately try to fill her place with other women who came into my life, not seeing the pattern, not understanding that it was in fact not possible to substitute just any old female adult for the mother I had lost.

Coming up next: Chapter 2 - Alice.

More photos Blogger wouldn't let me attach to Esther's birthday post.

2006-10-09T08:10:00.000-04:00

This is the photo that Blogger wouldn't let me post for seven days:

Granna helping Esther with her birthday cake:

The birthday cake:

The train table, complete with 131 pieces to sprinkle throughout the house!

Two!

2006-10-02T12:56:00.000-04:00

My Esther turned two years old on Wednesday Sept. 27, and Sunday 10/1 was her birthday party. (Blogger, since then, has not been cooperating with uploading photos, grrr...) How did that happen? Almost overnight she's talking up a storm, just saying all kinds of things like "Sure!" and "tea party" and "have pickle please" (more like "haff pickoo pease") and "my friend Chucky" and "Mama Esther home!"

She had a great birthday. Her Granna flew in from New Mexico and showered her with gifts and love. Among the gifts were a pair of cowgirl boots and a cowgirl hat. The boots stayed on all day; the hat, not so much.

Granna then spent the next couple of days buying Esther presents: a stuffed elephant that can be colored on and then erased; "magic wands" with globes that have spinning lights in them; a remote control dump truck; Dora and farm animal bath toys. Esther had more than enough toys for a birthday before her party even rolled around.

The party went off really well. The hubby cooked up a storm - meatballs, sausage, peppers - and I had a cake made with Dora, Diego and Boots on it. Lots of people came, complete with about half-a-dozen kids, and it was so nice having everyone there that it didn't even matter that it was raining out so we couldn't use the backyard. The kids were all entranced with the *train table!!!*, Mama and Daddy's present to the birthday girl, although she wasn't sure how she felt about sharing it.

Everyone seemed to understand Esther's tastes, because she was fascinated with all her presents. She really loved the box of old-fashioned wooden alphabet blocks from her Gramps, and especially the tea party set from my buddy G. and her daughter L. In fact, her first word when she woke up this morning was "teapot," so we had a tea party on her floor at 6 in the morning.

What can I say about Esther, about how much she has brightened my life and my world these last two years? Sweetheart, you are my shot of sunshine, my all-natural antidepressant. My favorite sensation is that of you wrapping your arms around me and giving me kisses while I breathe in your scent. You grow smarter and funnier every day. I look at you and cannot imagine how two squarely average-looking folks like me and your dad made someone as beautiful as you are.

[I would insert another photo here, but for seven full days now Blogger has refused to allow me to add even one more photo to this post. You'll just have to trust me on this one - it's a beautiful photo of Esther. Grrr!]

Esther, my life before you came was often dark and lonely. I've been prone to long periods of depression and self-hatred since I hit adolescence. But you are like a regular dose of all-natural Prozac - when I see you, when you smile, when you wrap your arms around me and press your round soft cheek against mine, I am happy and whole and at peace with myself, if not with the world. And for the first time in my life, I have a wonderful, intimate, fulfilling relationship with someone who loves me as much as I love her, who wants to be with me as much as I want to be with her. I know this cannot last, that you will get older and then you will naturally move away from me, and that this intimacy will be just a treasured memory. But believe me, I am so grateful to have this with you now. It is so very healing for me - I never had a mother, so I was never on the other end of the mother-child bond. To be your mother, to give you the love and attention and support and affirmation that I never got when I was little, is the best medicine I could take to finally heal that pain.

Thank you for choosing me to be your mama. I am profoundly grateful for the two beautiful years you have spent in my care, and can only hope that the next sixteen will not fly by quite so fast before you fly out of my nest. Yes, in the meantime you will grow and change and become independent of me. But with any luck, you will still welcome my love in small doses, and I will at least be able to get one sweet hug and kiss from you when I need them. Just like the words in the hokey old song I sing to you all the time - you are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray. I am a better person for having you in my life.

I love you, now and always.
Mama

Ach, this drama, it's a-killin' me.

2006-09-24T08:34:00.000-04:00

Sex - gah, I hate talking about this. But I cannot bear to face my friends with this, and cannot bear to hold it all inside.

Esther, if this is you reading this somewhere down the line, do me a favor. If you're not, say, 25 yet, or about to get married, please don't read this until then. Show me that respect and courtesy, ok, sweetheart?

My husband has given up on sex with me, entirely. What I can give is "way too little, much to late." He says he's resigned himself to a lifetime of beating off to representations of other people having exciting sex lives.

He hasn't made contact of any kind in more than a week. He's physically present, but intellectually and emotionally distant. I can't make any contact with him. I initiated sex on Monday, but he was disinterested and completely half-hearted. Last night he was just *glued* to crappy MTV2 videos and Outback Steakhouse commercials. I gave him a backrub, and let the girls hang out, but he had no interest whatsoever.

He was watching the Ultimate Fighter reality contest show in bed. I was about to just give up and try to fall asleep, but decided to just ask him if he wanted to fuck me. He said no. Then followed one of the worst conversations I've ever been part of.

He's been unsatisfied for so long that he is unwilling to grant me my level of satisfaction. I'm happy with cuddling, and sex maybe 2-3 times a week. I get what I want, but he doesn't. If he's not going to get what he wants, then why should I get what I want?

I only ever want the same sex. Plain, vanilla, suck-fuck-sleep/get up and do stuff. Never sex twice in an evening, only lately twice during a weekend. Yes, I guess he's right. (Isn't that supposed to be enough?) He's done the same thing fifteen hundred or thousand times and it's boring now.

He's not going out looking for other pussy. (At least not now.) But he's not having sex either. He's just done with the argument. He's just done. He's just done with me. But he still loves me, and loves our little girl, and isn't looking to walk away from the marriage.

So, what? What does he *mean*? What does he think happens now? We just go on from day to day, knowing that there's no physical intimacy coming that night, or any night, or really any time in the near or distant future. Like the marriages of 50's grandparents - living in the same household but cold and distant from each other, each resigned to a long cold bitterly disappointed fate.

Doesn't this mean that the relationship is officially dead? There are things at the fringes that we can make work, to carry on our existence "together" indefinitely. Things we can relate on, mostly concerning our daughter, most of which will wither away as she grows older and more independent. (And also, I think, far greater of a burden than we have any right to lay on her. It is not her responsibility to make her parents' marriage work.) But sex, physical intimacy, is at the heart of the relationship, isn't it? If the sex is gone, just plain given up on, then isn't the heart rotted out of the marriage? Like leprosy from the inside out instead of from the extremities in.

If we are to have any hope of not being constantly shitty to each other in front of our daughter for her entire childhood, I think I have to end it. We need to sit down rationally and make long-term plans for how we manage a divorce while still co-parenting Esther. We are both entirely in love with her, and neither of us has any intention of bowing out of her life. So, of necessity, we need to be able to speak and interact and *be* in each others' presence, for the next sixteen-plus years.

Our sex drives are just not compatible. But in last night's conversation, painful as it was, there was no hate, and only a reasonable amount of anger. I don't hate him. He doesn't hate me. He says he still loves me. I'm pretty sure I still love him. (Although it's hard to really evaluate *how* I feel about him.) If anyone can manage this, I think perhaps it's us.

But I'm heartbroken. I have loved us, all being us together, since Esther arrived. I love feeling like a family with him and with her. I have loved the liveliness I've seen coming back into him since he found a new community to take part in over the last couple of years (softball). If the sex isn't going to work, then that just cannot exist either. The sex is part of the whole balance. If daddy ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

Heartsick. Oh, my poor baby Esther. You are just about to lose your "family." That thing you love more than anything else - Mama and Daddy doting over you together, basking in the glow of having created something wonderful. I'm sorry I failed you, love.

And to my husband, honeybear, I'm sorry I failed you to. Please know that I tried. I gave you all that I had, and I will always count it as one of my greatest lifelong failures, that I couldn't make up for the wrong I'd already done, and that I couldn't be the woman you truly need.

I wish I could cry. As usual, no tears when I really need them.

I'm gonna be OK.

2006-09-13T16:55:00.000-04:00

Just a quick post today... I haven't put up any pics of Esther lately. And, ultimately, everything will be OK as long as I have her and she is happy. And she sure is happy!

She is my sunshine, the light of my life, the best and most wonderful thing I have ever done. There's nobody whose mama I'd rather be.

The elephant in the bedroom.

2006-09-08T07:22:00.000-04:00

I can't believe I'm posting this here. But I am so preoccupied with this problem that I need to get it off my chest, even if here on this blog that nobody (much) reads, so I can actually have enough brain cells free to do my work. And I've got lots and lots of work that needs doing. So here I go, spilling absolutely my most personal problem for all the world to see.

My husband and I are sexually mismatched. He has always wanted more sex than me. This was to the point where, before we got married, he made me promise that I would not make him live a celibate life. Once we got married, there were arguments about what that meant. But ultimately, he was always pretty straightforward - sex needed to be happening two to three times a week. We weren't there yet, but I was trying, when Esther was born. And you can guess what THAT did to our sex life. I was just exhausted all the damned time. I wanted sleep about 100 times more than I wanted sex.

Finally, one day I came home and he gave me a letter he had written. In it, he expressed his extreme frustration with the way our sex life had been going (or not going), and said that if I didn't start meeting his needs he was going to find someone to cheat on me with. So I started putting out more. We got Esther out of our bed and sleeping through the night, and that was a HUGE help. I've been making a real effort to be more sexual. I make a point of thinking about sex. Any time I feel the slightest indication of sexual desire from my body - be it the merest flicker - I initiate sex with him. And he admits that things are better now. But now that we're actually having sex 2-3 times a week on a regular basis, he's raised the bar.

He doesn't just want sex - traditional vaginal penetration spiced up with mutual oral. I'm fine with that. That's the kind of sex I like to have. No. He wants dirty, filthy, slutty sex. He said during the act once that he didn't know what it would take to turn me into the dirty, slutty whore he needs me to be, but that he was going to make it happen no matter what. Another time he told me that if I wanted to be the only person he had sex with for the rest of his life, I was going to have to have that kind of dirty, nasty sex. He wants anal - wants me to use a strap-on on him, wants to do it to me. He wants (us) to swing, and go have sex with other people. And most important of all, he wants me to LOVE it. Love it, crave it, actively seek all of this out, and do it all with a smile on my face and then beg and plead for more.

Every time I meet his previous set of requirements, he moves the bar forward. It's like he's thinking, "Finally! I broke down that set of her barriers/borders/boundary of self respect. Now forward to the next set - charge!!!" I feel that this is just hugely, horribly, tremendously unfair to me.

I blame the easy, cheap availability of extreme, hardcore pornography. I logged onto his profile and checked his history (yeah, I only just figured out how to do that). He's constantly on sites like AdultFriendFinder and VoyeurWeb. He has a profile on AdultFriendFinder seeking sex partners! In it, he says he he's married but getting "very little" sex. Very little! 2-3 times a week is very little?! You fucking asshole. I'm giving more than I've ever given before and in your book, that's "very little" sex? I'm fairly confident he's never actually gotten a hookup off that site, given that there are about 50,000 local men (many of whom are much, much better looking than him) to about maybe 200 local women on the site. Plus, he's got no money to woo a woman. Plus, I don't know how much this "seeking sex" profile is just idle fantasizing, and whether he'd actually have the cojones to follow through if he got a response from a willing woman.

But anyway, looking through his history, I clicked on some of the stuff he looks at. Just the most hardcore stuff you can imagine. He takes some of these pictures and uses them for his desktop wallpaper. Right now, it's four naked hot chicks, lying side by side on a bed, holding vibrators in each others' vaginas. Before that, it was a couple about to have sex on a beach. Before that, it was two naked women kneeling side by side with their private parts towards the camera. Before that, it was a naked woman with clearly fake boobs, on her back, legs held open, who has obviously just been used both vaginally and anally. THIS is what he really wants. THIS is what he wants me to be. Lawyer? Who cares. Financially responsible? Not significant. Mother of his child? Whatever - not nearly slutty enough!

I make no judgments about women who actually enjoy that kind of sexuality. If that reflects their true sex drive rather than a chronic lack of self-respect, then good for them and may they experience a lifetime of sexual fulfillment. But I do not, repeat, do NOT have an inner slutty whore who is dying to be butt-fucked, penetrated with dildos, take two or three men all at the same time, have sex in public places, have sex with strangers, etc. etc. etc. That's just not me.

So far I've not been faking sex with him. I make an effort to cultivate the sexual desire that allows me to enjoy the 2-3 times a week we have sex so I am not faking it with him. But the point we are at now is the maximum I am capable of honestly maintaining. Anything more I do will be an act. And an act I will hate performing, solely for his pleasure, to keep the father of my child and an intact family. And I am just NOT willing to tolerate my husband finding a slutty chick to give him the sexual satisfaction he can't get from me. And besides, I am simply not a good enough actress to fake loving it, wanting it, craving it, needing it, doing it all with a smile on my face, and then asking for more.

I really thought I was willing to try to put on that act, to keep my child's father in our home. But something happened on Sunday. He finally broke through another one of my barriers. I got so tired of saying no that I just couldn't do it one more time. I let him do anal sex to me. He was kind and gentle. He made sure it didn't really hurt me. And it didn't hurt afterwards. But I didn't want it, I told him before he did it that I didn't want to, and he still did it anyway. And then the next time we had sex he started trying to play with my butt. I got pissed and asked if now that had to be an every time thing? And he said that he intended me to get broken in to it, because he intended to do my ass on a regular basis from now on and didn't intend to do it "excruciatingly slowly."

I think so much less of myself now for having allowed him to do that to me. I have a lower opinion of myself now. I am ashamed of myself. And although he didn't go for my butt again the last couple of times we had sex (it's Friday! We had sex four times this week so far including the Sunday incident!), it's clearly just a matter of time. As far as he's concerned, he's got a lifetime of ass-fucking his wife to look forward too. How much of that can I take before I don't love myself at all anymore? Before I see myself as a dirty, slutty whore whose most valuable aspect is her availability to provide sexual release in a number of ways?

I don't see any way out of this except for divorce. Esther is old enough now that we'd been talking about day care for the socialization aspect anyway. He's starting a new part-time job next week at his old employer, now under far superior new ownership and management, and they would have him full-time in a heartbeat. He'll be back in his industry, which he loves but I don't share his passion for. And his best friend would be available to be his roommate - they could swing an apartment between the two of them.

Now I'll bet that would be a real rude awakening for him. A divorced, 36-year-old, paunchy guy with a skin fungus condition that gives him red blotches in all sorts of unflattering places, making $12 an hour - get him now, ladies! I know y'all can't wait to proffer up your hungry asses and mouths to his uncircumsized man-meat! Four or five times a week! With smiles on your faces! And then beg for more! I'll bet the immediate result would be that he would actually not get ANY SEX AT ALL for a good long time. When we were broken up for a year, before we got engaged, he told me he only got laid once and that was completely unsatisfactory. And he was skinny and hot then, and if he didn't have a whole lot of money, neither did anyone else in our age group. If he couldn't get a basic lay at that point, I'm pretty sure he's not going to get nasty slutty dirty skanky sex with anyone, where he's at right now.

I just can't pretend anymore. I think I'm going to wait a couple of weeks so he can settle into his job, and then tell him I want him and his buddy (who has been living rent-free in our downstairs "studio" apartment) to move out and get an apartment together while I get the divorce rolling. Hopefully he can be civil about it for Esther's sake, so that we can co-parent effectively, if separately. I can certainly be civil if he can. While I am really fucking angry at him, it's all in the area of this sex issue. If sex - this constant pounding by him against the barrier of my self-respect - is off the table, then I won't have anything else to be angry at him about.

I'll certainly miss the good things about him, the things I love. The way he and I can have conversations using big adult words with lots of syllables. The way he cuddles me at night. The wonderful massages he gives me any time I ask. The way he supports my career choices. The way he makes me laugh. The way he makes me feel safe and protected. But the big thing - the way he used to make me feel unconditionally loved - is gone. He doesn't love me unconditionally. The degree to which he loves me is directly proportional to the degree to which I perform like a good little slut.

I'm thisclose to done. I have to get out of this situation before I stop loving myself. My self-love is more important to me than his strings-attached "love." I won't dump the father of my child on the street, but I have to preserve my self-respect somehow.

And you know what? Once I'm free, I'm FREE. I'm 36 years old. I've had enough sex to last a (normal healthy American female) lifetime already. I'm going to devote myself to my child and my career. I'm done - effing DONE - with men. If I need some lovin', my trusty right hand can do the job, no mess no fuss, done in 5 minutes without breaking a sweat. I have (a few) friends. And I've been a loner most of my life. I can be alone, if need be, for long periods of time.

Divorce. Over sex. Let's see if he's willing to throw it all away, over sex. Because for him, it's just sex. For me, it's my whole self. And I'm willing to throw away five years of marriage and 11 years before that, to save my self.

[Excellent - I just got a call from my closest friend (whose 9th anniversary is tomorrow and whose husband is stationed for work in Indonesia) asking me to come out to dinner with her and her sister-in-law at a really good Chinese restaurant after I put Esther down tonight. What perfect timing - I really need some girlfriend time right now.]

OK, it felt really good to get that all off my chest. I'm willing to put this out there for the whole world to see, because nobody I know personally knows I have this blog. Funny how it's OK for total strangers to know my most intimate personal problem, but not my actual friends? (No, I won't be telling my friend tonight that I'm down on myself because I let my husband have anal sex!) Perhaps I'll take the post down later, or perhaps not. Anyway, hopefully putting this all down in writing will release enough of the stress and obsessive thinking so I can actually get some serious work done. Because I have a serious lot of work that needs to get done.

Thoughts for a rainy Monday.

2006-08-28T07:02:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-14T07:35:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-08T19:04:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-07T09:16:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-01T07:35:00.000-04:00

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!

The world is a big, scary, corrupt, expensive place.

2006-07-31T19:37:00.000-04:00

Esther's down for the night (those words still feel so good, even after a month!) and I don't have to go crash myself for another hour and a half. The hubby's out at his softball league, so I actually have a sweet, sweet window of time all to myself to do things like post a substantive entry on my blog, one that doesn't have to do with my daughter or the agonizingly uninteresting minutiae of my life.

Specifically, a substantive post on the general fucked-upness of life in the world at large. Fucked-upness at every level. Let's start at the state level. I'm actually a resident of Rhode Island, the place where I (mostly) grew up and then wound up returning to because at the time real estate was cheap and I wanted a house, not a condo. The big news here is that Harrah's Entertainment has roped in the Narragansett Indians into its scheme to plop a great big disgusting casino in RI, in dumpy little West Warwick of all places. Unfortunately for Harrah's, there's laws reserving all game-of-chance activity to the RI State Lottery. So what do Harrah's and the Narragansetts do? They hire a lobbying firm to come in and convince the state to *amend the state Constitution* to allow for gambling by other entities. This is wrong on so many levels. Among other things, it's a huge abuse of Constitutional process to exercise the amendment process to allow for private entities to muscle their way into a market that doesn't want it. The Narragansetts, as the familiar local "face" to the issue, keep pushing the many jobs that will be created and the many millions of dollars in revenues that will accrue to West Warwick and to the state of RI. Certainly the city and state could use some extra cash. But you know what? I could certainly use a spot of extra cash myself, and if I really wanted it badly enough I could go stand on a streetcorner in South Providence and prostitute myself to get it. But I don't, because I have morals and standards that tell me it's just wrong and beneath me to do that. At the state level, gambling is much the same thing. No matter how bad we need money, we shouldn't be stooping to allowing a soulless outsider corporation like Harrah's come in and make gambling addicts out of who-knows-how-many hundreds of Rhode Islanders to get it. And however many millions the state (and the Narragansetts) may get, it will be peanuts compared to Harrah's take.

Of course, I work in Boston, and I lived there for almost six years while attending law school and for my first couple of years in practice. Surely everyone's heard by now that a 3-ton piece of concrete tile fell off the ceiling of a Big Dig tunnel and crushed some poor lady to death. This Big Dig project has cost the taxpayers of Massachusetts and the nation something like $15 *billion* so far, is not even really that close to being done, and has been marked by shoddy work and corrupt insider deals at every turn. Governor Mitt "Carpetbagging Gayhater" Romney himself said that he couldn't reassure drivers that they would be safe going through the tunnels. I've rearranged my commute to get off the highway before the tunnels start, and to drive through the Boston downtown city streets until I reach my destination. I wonder just how many of my own personal tax dollars went into the Big Dig? I wonder if anyone, anywhere, will ever be held liable for the massive waste, for the endless repairs, for the loss of a mother's life. I'm not holding my breath.

OK, now the national level. The religious right is taking over. Abortion may still technically be legal at the federal level, but one state after another is instituting laws to outlaw it and gambling on a successful challenge to Roe v. Wade before the new, Bush-ified Supreme Court. Practically speaking, abortion doesn't exist in many states already because the doctors who provide the service have been terrorized away. Meanwhile, political debate focuses on issues like gay marriage (eek! quick, outlaw it before the gays take over!) and flag burning (because the American dream can't possibly be expected to withstand the burning of one of its emblems) while the cost of living escalates beyond the ability of more and more people to keep up. Sure, Congress is boosting the minimum wage to $7 an hour. Whoop-dee-fucking-do. You try making ends meet on $280/week before taxes. Oh yeah, and the increase is being expressly tied to a *decrease* in estate taxes for the wealthy. That's fair, right?

And finally, the international level. What do you all (my nonexistent readership, that is) think of the shitstorm going on in Israel, Lebanon and Palestine? That is surely some fucked up shit, my friends. Of course, as a Jew, my position should be clear - Israel is justified in taking any action it needs to take to protect itself. Except that's not how I feel about the situation. I'm really not sure how I feel about the situation. I know perfectly damned well that Israel was established by Jews going in and forcibly herding the folks who had lived on that land for thousands of years onto, essentially, concentration camps in marginally habitable lands. Sure, the Jews had a biblical claim to the land. But the Bible was a really long fucking time ago, and scholars aren't all that sure to what degree it constitutes a reliable source of historical information anyway. The people we now call Palestinians had more of a right to be there, I think, than did the Jews at the time they came in and established the state of Israel. Kinda like the legal concept of adverse possession - if you openly occupy someone else's land as if it were your own for long enough, eventually it becomes yours. I freely acknowledge that I am a very bad Jew for not supporting the state of Israel. But honestly, I can say that I understand why Hezbollah exists, why its members want so badly to wipe Israel off the face of the earth. It's cowardly as hell of them to do their dirty work from the interior of Lebabon, and their terrorist techniques are unforgivable, but God help me, I understand why Hezbollah exists. I don't see a cease-fire happening. I don't know how this conflict will end. But I keep seeing the news footage of that horribly burned 9-year-old boy, and the six-year-old girl full of shrapnel who lost a foot, and the woman screaming "where are you?!" into her cellphone while her husband's body lies blown up a hundred yards away. Ultimately, I think this is all Israel's fault for the wrongs it did to the native population during its formative years and ever since, and it makes me feel ashamed to be a Jew.

And the Iraq situation is way past horrible. We had no business going in there in the first place. The WMD's didn't exist. "They" knew there were no WMD's, but fed us that line of bullshit to keep us quiet while they charged ahead. And yeah, I know all about the human rights abuses, but where were we after Tienanmen Square? No, folks, this was about oil, and about funnelling government contracts to well-connected corporate behemoths like Halliburton. And look where it's gotten us. We've destabilized the entire region - that is, trashed what precious little stability was there before. We've driven up the cost of oil, resulting in increased gasoline costs, resulting in increased costs of goods and services, resulting in more families' inability to keep enough food on their tables. Thousands of American soldiers have died - dare I say it? - in vain. For one man's vanity. Thousands more returned alive, but physically and/or mentally damaged. And we're stuck there. Stuck in that desolate place, where we are entirely unwanted and where our people are in constant deadly danger. Committed to spend billions of dollars on the project for an unknown number of years, with no end in sight, and no exit strategy. I wonder how many of my tax dollars have gone to support the war?

Back in college, in the early to mid-90's, I minored in Middle Eastern studies. I found it fascinating, this glimpse into such an entirely different culture and history. I also took one and a half years of Arabic, by far the hardest language I've ever studied. If I had stuck with it, I'm sure I'd be able to speak, write, and read Arabic by now. As it was, I knew enough about the Middle East to know that it would be a huge mistake to go into Iraq before our military went in. Me, with a handful of undergraduate coursework from ten years ago under my belt. I went to peace rallies, to last-minute no-war demonstrations, one of them my last political act before I took a job in the federal government and became the largely apolitical creature I am today. Because I knew it was going to be like this. So did anybody who knew even the tiniest little bit about Middle East history, culture or politics. But not the administration. They applied American morals, American tactics, American values, and American greed to a completely non-American situation and promptly sank America in quicksand up to its ears.

The reason I gave up Middle Eastern studies is that I realized, as an American Jewish woman, I would be pretty much unwelcome - and likely unsafe - in any of the Islamic Middle Eastern countries. What was the point of studying the fiendishly difficult Arabic language if I couldn't actually experience living in the countries that used it? But now, older and wiser, I wonder where I would be if I had persisted. I'm certain there are plenty of jobs Stateside for Arabic speakers. Could I have been doing something that might make some sort of a difference? Oh well - coulda woulda shoulda. Instead, I'll just sit here and be powerlessly angry about the situation.

I look at my daughter, my sweet little sunshine girl, and I wonder how all these things will affect her life. Will her daddy, or her uncle, or her beloved cousin, be drafted to go fight in Iraq? Will I be able to afford to send her to college? Will she lose someone she loves to gambling? To a Boston tunnel collapse? Will she be able to keep a roof over her head, food on her table, a car in her driveway? I don't have a lot of hope that her generation will have a real shot at bettering its lot in life. Isn't that the American dream - that our kids can hope to achieve a little more than we did, and their kids achieve yet a little bit more? Yes, that is my problem - I am losing my faith in the American dream. And I want to be able to promise my child something better, but I don't know what that is.

Sprucing up the joint!

2006-07-31T11:07:00.000-04:00

I got tired of my old template... and of course I'm too damned lazy to learn how to create my own... so I picked this nice shiny new template, in nice soothing green, and uploaded a better pic of myself. Small, freebie luxuries. I wish it were so easy to spruce up my house!

I just wanted to make a point of recording some notes about my little girl's growth and development. Actually, first things first, I'm going to drop the pseudonym thing. It doesn't matter if I say her real name, because nobody reads this blog anyway, right? But just to assuage my inner paranoid demon, I'm going to call her by her by her real middle name on this blog, and reserve her first name for the real world. So for blogging purposes, she is the "little girl" no longer; she is Esther.

[Insert photo here. No? Blogger is not accepting photos today? The Blogger, she ees not my friend today. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe not. Who knows? It is all very exciting, this wondering-whether-I-can-post-photos every day!]

Esther's language skills are developing by leaps and bounds. She isn't stringing together too many sentences yet, but boy does she know a whole lot of words! She knows all her colors, all the letters although not necessarily in order, and can count one to ten with some prompting. She knows her name, although she pronounces it with a charming "y" for "r" substitution. And a new development as of yesterday - she's starting to use adjectives. Before, she might call something "pink" or "flower," but yesterday she started calling it a "pink flower." And she called Shadow a "cute dog." (Cutest 110-lb black lab/Great Dane I've ever seen.) And she called me "nice mama." While hugging me and patting my back.

She sleeps through the night now. When she wakes up, she is all smiles, kisses and cuddles. For about three minutes. And then she's all, "up! up!" Right away, she wants to go "ow-side" and splash in her "poow" and color the ground with her big sidewalk chalk sticks. And she reliably takes 2-hour naps with no fuss, resulting in a cheerful toddler all afternoon long.

She's eating so well now. She loves pineapple cottage cheese for breakfast, bites of her daddy's sliced deli turkey and cheese and mayo sandwich for lunch, hot dogs and cheese or Chef Boyardee's mini raviolis for dinner, and bite sized fruits and veggies anytime. Blueberries, strawberries, grape tomatoes all get eaten right up. She's a big fan of watermelon too. She loves pasta in any form, and even says the word - "PAT-ta!" We have linguini at least once a week and she calls that both pasta and noodles - "noo-dooz." She'll eat that up, especially with lots of parmesan on it, and also decorate herself liberally with it.

She's growing so fast. Her sweet little fishies bathing suit, size 2T, is almost too small. Dresses that came to her ankles when first purchased now don't reach her knee. Her size 5 shoes are all a little tight, but size 6's are definitely still too big. She has the plumpest, most kissable cheeks still. I'll be sad when those get lean as she grows up.

Esther is so full of love. Her very favorite thing is to have both Mama and Daddy to play with at once, going back and forth with kisses and hugs, playing peekaboo and pillow fights with first one of us and then the other. She will sit in her kiddie pool with me and splash me enthusiastically, laughing hysterically, and then hurl her wet self into my arms for watery kisses.

She's quite the water baby. We have yet to find any form of water she doesn't love - bathtub, kiddie pool, backyard pool, overcrowded municipal pool, parking lot puddles, the ocean, you name it. I took her to the municipal pool a couple of weeks ago, with her floaty vest and water wings on, and walked around the pool holding her at the surface. She tried to push away from me and swim off on her own. Once she gives up her noon-to-2-pm nap, I can enroll her in swim classes. I too was an early and dedicated swimmer, and it pleases my heart to no end to see that she's inherited my love of all things aquatic.

She is incredibly active, always in motion, endlessly curious, constantly learning. She climbs everything without any fear. She is a little problem-solver too. If you put something up high to get it out of her reach, the moment you look away she'll be dragging up a chair or a toy to climb up on and retrieve it.

Esther, my sweet little love, my sunshine, you have my heart. Every day is made better by virtue of your being part of it. I can't wait to see where you go and how you grow from here.

Bug off!

2006-07-28T13:45:00.000-04:00

As I was getting ready for work this morning, just at the buttcrack of dawn, I noticed this huge (about 1 inch) hideous (multi-legged) bug on the bathroom ceiling:

I didn't have the time or the stomach to deal with it. So instead, I left this note on the bathroom door for my husband to find when he woke up:

I usually take care of killing my own bugs, but this one was just stomach-turning. Not what I want to deal with before my eyes are even fully open!

Ain't I all domesticated 'n stuff?

2006-07-26T12:35:00.000-04:00

I am SOOO not a cake-baker. But the little girl wanted to make a cake, so we made a cake together. Or "together." By far the best cake I've ever made. That tells you a lot about my prior cake-baking success.

Oh yeah, and while you're at it, take a look at my great big, toddler-type little girl:

It's just amazing how they keep, you know, growing.

Turn and face the strange.

2006-07-22T07:41:00.000-04:00

'Cause it's fun using song titles as blog titles.

My husband has had an idea for a business for years - since he first started working in the motorcycle industry. We feel like we are finally both set up and motivated to go for it. I'm not going to go into the business itself here right now, but suffice it to say it's going to involve a sizeable startup loan or a new line of credit or some such gamble on the future.

Little girl is almost two. In three more years (she was a late September baby) she'll start kindergarten. We need to be able to send her to a school that's out of our poorly-performing district, either by buying a house in a better neighborhood, or by sending her to a private school. And we need to be able to send her to college if that's the route she chooses to go.

I make enough for us to subsist from pay period to pay period, with minimal but constant saving and occasional small luxuries but no real forward progress. But I can't afford a new house in this market, and I can't send her to college and also retire. My husband believes deeply that this idea is a sure-fire thing, and it sounds good to me. If it works, five years from now we could actually be (gasp!) prosperous! Having two solid incomes would be huge. And after the money fight a few months back, the fact that he's excited and motivated to do this represents (I think) a change of heart on his part on the whole money issue.

We both agree on how an ambitious small business should be established and operated. Heck, I've run my own small business before, although it didn't involve anywhere near the startup expenses. As it turns out, I'm a lot less risk-averse than my husband by a long shot. He's very anxious and unsure of his ability to make this happen, whereas I have absolutely no doubt that he's got it in him.

He actually hit the nail on the head a couple of days back. He said "maybe it's just that I'm lazy." DING DING DING!!! Someone give that man a prize! He just goes from day to day doing absolutely nothing. He's far too busy reading the newspaper and multiple magazines cover to cover and watching MSNBC news all d@mn day long. He hasn't really learned how to just get up, put your shoes on, get out and do what's on his to-do list. I know it's just a motivational issue.

He's been telling his friends what he's looking to do, as he should, asking for help and referrals and suchlike. The only problem is, I'm worried someone else will pick up his idea and run with it before we do. So now that the idea is out there, he really needs to go for it. I've told him that I will support him and do anything I can, but that it needs to be primarily his project that he directs and moves forward.

OK, got to go now, promised the little girl I'd color with her once Miffy was over.

Blah.

2006-07-17T13:52:00.000-04:00

I feel blah. I have for awhile now... that's why I haven't been posting. Not really an out-and-out depression, but more like I just cannot muster up the energy to put down in words what's been going on in my head and in my life. Nothing is particularly bad right now, at least not in my own life, but the oppressive not-quite-enough state of my financial life is getting really aggravating. Plus it really feels like my twin home states of Rhode Island and Massachusetts, and my nation, and the world as a whole are going to hell in a handbasket. Now *that*, I could do a whole great big long post on, and perhaps I will someday soon. If only I could gather up the energy to do it.

On the plus side, my little girl is just thriving and learning and growing every day. My blahs lift the moment I see her. She really is my sunshine, my only sunshine.

My blog is doing something funny.

2006-07-06T06:27:00.000-04:00

I can only pull up my background, with a little streak of color in the upper left corner that links to the Blogger homepage. This is a test post - I'm hoping that republishing my blog will solve the problem.

Update: Problem solved! Yee-haw. If only all problems were so easily solved.

Sleeping on her own!!!

2006-06-28T19:58:00.000-04:00

Omigod, this is such a big deal. I've finally trained her to go to sleep, in her own bed, all by herself! I couldn't figure out how to do this b/c she sleeps in a big-girl bed and she would get out and pound on the inside of her door and just wail for hours. Well, I followed the "Healthy Sleep Habits, Healthy Child" formula: every time she got out of bed, pick her up and put her back into bed, then leave. No eye contact, no affection, no talking, no playing. The first night we did it, I had to do it continuously for about 40 minutes. I didn't even try to count how many times, but I'd put her in her bed and then hear her footsteps behind me following me back to the door as I walked out. Second night, she only needed to be put back in bed six times, and she fell asleep after fussing for about 15 minutes. Third night (last night), she only needed to be put back in bed twice, but fussed for 25 minutes before falling asleep.

Tonight we followed our new routine. Bedtime at 7PM; we'd been doing 8PM but the book says she was probably overtired by then and that was hindering her sleep. Bath, brush teeth, hug/kiss Daddy nite-nite, then sit in the glider for a nice leisurely booby session with lullabies. Then place her in bed, hand her her Pooh and her stuffed puppy to hug, sing her one more lullaby, kiss goodnight and then leave. And you know what? Not one fuss. Not one time out of bed. She just closed her eyes right where I put her down and when I checked back 15 minutes later she was asleep in the same position.

Hallelujah.

Up until now, I'd been putting her to sleep for the night laying down on her bed with her, laying across my chest, drooling on my upper left arm. Often she wouldn't close her eyes, wouldn't allow herself to drift off. Other times she would go to sleep, but the instant I rolled her off me she'd wake back up and fuss and climb back onto me. So very, very many nights when I went to sleep at 8PM because I couldn't get free. For awhile that was OK, but I'm ready to stay up until the late, grown-up hour of 10PM now. It's only been 21 months, after all!

Oh yeah, and my little girl turned 21 months old yesterday. To celebrate, she had a growth spurt. Not really upwards, but filling out her lean frame. She's really eating very well now. And her hair is coming in too. I can finally put it up in those tiny little baby elastics - one at the crown of her head, one in the back, and one teeny little tail over each ear. The hair from all the various points of her head is too short to make it to one big ponytail, or even to two pigtails. Anyway, it's very cute. She looks so "big girl" that way.

My beautiful girl

2006-06-26T13:19:00.000-04:00

My hubby got a fancy new digital camera for Daddy's Day. Here are some pictures of our beautiful little girl, courtesy of the Fuji Finepix.

And one last, perhaps my favorite, evoking the joys of co-bathing. Can you see the manaical glee on my child's face? That's because she'd been splashing me, in the tub, and her daddy, outside of it, for a good ten minutes by then.

#1 on my list of things that suck.

2006-06-24T13:47:00.000-04:00

Tonsils.

More than likely you had these out when you were a kid. Somehow, I missed the opportunity to lie in bed and eat ice cream for a coupla days. As an older kid, I was aware that they weren't routinely taking them out any more because they supposedly are part of the lymphatic system and supposedly contribute a useful function. Blah blah blah.

Tonsils, as far as I can tell exist for one reason. They exist to do this thing, maybe 3-4 times a year, where they get nasty and inflamed and white crud crawls out all over them. They hurt like a bastard, and make swallowing an exercise in pain tolerance. Breathing sometimes even becomes a challenge.

I'm done with this. Even my doctor finally agrees. I've been through enough with no trend towards improvement evident. I got a referral to an ENT doctor and hopefully can schedule the procedure for about 2 weeks from now. Out they come. Of course, it's supposedly harder to recover from a tonsillectomy as an adult than as a kid, but I think I'll manage.

I got strep throat, situated firmly in the tonsils, on Thursday AM. I got to take two days of sick leave I really was trying to save up. On Thursday, I was exhausted and spent all day trying desperately to sleep over my little girl's protests. She was really incredibly good. She spent almost the full day parked in front of Noggin on TV as I tossed on the seas of fever. I'm satisfied that I managed to get her diapers changed and to feed her at reasonable intervals, at the very least. It really was all I could manage.

Yesterday the medicine kicked in and I suddenly got all this energy. I cleaned house, cleaned out the back stairwell (no small job with a houseful of men and a huge black dog), dumped out the wading pool to clean and refill it, and did some laundry. I sat in the backyard and kicked cool water at my child as she splished and splashed in her fishie bathing suit. I snoozed with her for an hour. It was a great day except for the fact that I had two scaly alien hatchlings nested in the back of my throat.

This work-free sunny Friday brought to you courtesy of strep throat.

Yeah. O.k.

Anyway, my little girl is blossoming in front of me like a glorious flower - like a tiger lily where I expected a tea rose. She is wonderful and surprising. She has a sense of humor. She is incredibly stubborn and opinionated. And she is utterly fearless - of heights, of speed, of bigger kids, of anything.

This last is both a blessing and a curse. I've spent my life constrained by my fears - of speed, of heights, of being looked down upon. I hate that I can't ride a motorcycle because I am instinctually incapable of trusting centrifugal force to take me around the corner with the bike leaned in at a normal angle. I'd love to see her not be constrained to avoid things that are fun, like riding, or say, skiing. But I don't want her to get beyond herself, or even worse, to not develop that inner voice that tells her she's getting in over her head, or when a person is just plain not to be trusted. Especially that last one. And, of course, I'm afraid she will climb up something too high and fall and get hurt. It is certain to happen eventually - whether actually or metaphorically. So how shall I deal with it when it does?

She is lovely to look at, too. In my humble opinion. She is lean and athletic, straight-limbed and certain in her physicality. Her layer of baby firm/softness is sheathed in warmest, softest raw silk. Her smile alters her entire face in the most delightful way. And she is just ravishing in hats.

I bought my husband a really nice camera for Father's Day. (This was about in the same price range as the beautiful ring he bought me for Mother's Day, which never got posted about because Blogger was not working right that day). We got some nice pictures of the little girl - I'll post them soon, hopefully.

Why I love the farmer's market

2006-06-16T11:45:00.000-04:00

Stopped at the farmer's market at Haymarket here in Boston today with a $20 bill. Here's what it got me:

1 lb. fresh, sweet strawberries
5 big ears of sweet corn
5 green peppers
2 red peppers
2 big gorgeous artichokes
4 Anjou pears
Big bunch of fragrant cilantro
Small tub of blackberries
Little bag of intriguing, red & yellow, doubtless very hot peppers
1/2 dz. heirloom tomatoes
2 pints cherries
3 giant oranges
7 nectarines
1 perfectly ripe pineapple

Oh yeah - and having an excuse to get out of the office into the gorgeous June sunshine? Priceless.

Melancholy.

2006-06-08T21:48:00.000-04:00

Some things are going well. June is a three-paycheck month, so we have some extra cash and are finally going to be able to buy that nice big eight-chair ceramic-tile-top outdoor dining set with the umbrella I've had my eye on for over a year. The little girl is doing fabulous. She now says blue and purple and yellow and orange and green and red. She says sorry though she clearly has no idea what it means. And in the car on the way home from the park at dinnertime, she said home for the first time. And said it again as I sang her to sleep. Her hair is coming in so full now, finally, with the adorable baby curls at the back. She is just so lovely that it breaks my heart.

But tonight I am feeling melancholy. She is down for the night, and my hubby is out playing softball as he does twice or three times a week during the season. This should be a blessed moment of me time. But I've just set my alarm for 4AM and I know I should be asleep right now. I just can't sleep. My best friend is going to be leaving for Indonesia in a couple of months - her husband has been there in charge of disaster relief for many months already. I'm going to miss her so much. And I have so few other friends right now. I have one close friend, G; we've seen each other through hell and high water. But we are friends despite the fact that we don't have a lot in common. We have once-a-week playdates (she has a 1 and a 4 year old) and go to each other's parties & BBQ's. I love her dearly, but I can't talk to her about everything I think about. I had one other very close friend but she's grown away from me in the past few years and sometimes I just don't know what to say to her. I had two very close friends in law school, but now they both live in California while I'm in Boston.

Yes, I'll admit it. I'm lonely. My husband cannot be my entire support network. I never expected him to be, nor did he want that. But sometimes he is just that on a de facto basis. And sometimes I can't stand him. Sometimes I just want to scream at him. I haven't really gotten over the big money fight a month or so back. There's this line in a Pink Floyd song - "quiet desperation is the English way" - and damned if I don't feel English right now. I do still love him, but I hate the way he treats me when we fight. I don't know what we have in common anymore either. He loves motorcycles and football and playing softball with his team. Oh yeah, and sex. I don't know what the hell I love (other than our little girl of course). I love sleeping. I wish I could sleep for a year. I used to love studying Russian and French, and reading about Paris in the hopes that someday I might get to spend the six-months-to-a-year there that I'd need to become fluent. That's clearly not going to happen, at least until I retire. I used to like going to the theater. Now I'd rather sleep. I used to like movies. Now I wait for them to come on HBO so I can fall asleep to them. I like to eat. Yeah, that's going to work out well for my weight when I wean the little girl. I have loved sex at times in the past, but I don't right now. Often I'd much rather just be left alone to - you guessed it - sleep. I don't know if I have it in me to be the enthusiastic exhibitionist sex-crazed slut my husband needs me to be. Aaargh. I'm shutting down this line of discussion right now.

Anyway, what I meant to say is that my best friend is going to be moving to Indonesia very soon and I am going to miss her very much. And I don't have anyone to step into her best-friend shoes. Which means I am soon going to be very much alone. Just me, my sweet and hungry husband, and our wonderful little girl.

I think I'm going to invent an imaginary friend.

This comes as absolutely no surprise to me.

2006-05-30T06:25:00.000-04:00

You Are Bert

Extremely serious and a little eccentric, people find you loveable - even if you don't love them!

You are usually feeling: Logical - you rarely let your emotions rule you

You are famous for: Being smart, a total neat freak, and maybe just a little evil

How you life your life: With passion, even if your odd passions (like bottle caps and pigeons) are baffling to others

The Sesame Street Personality Quiz

I hated myself, just for a moment, for this.

2006-05-23T10:41:00.000-04:00

Last night, as I was getting the little girl ready for bed, I brushed her teeth. Then I perched her on my left hip and stepped out of the bathroom. I reached behind me to shut the bathroom door (too much mischief in there for her to make) and as I started to close it I felt some obstacle blocking its progress. Something soft. I instantly knew what it had to be. I started freaking out the instant before she started wailing. Her right big toe, behind my back, had gotten INTO THE CRACK WHERE THE DOOR HINGES ON THE DOOR FRAME. Fortunately I felt it immediately so no real damage was done, but it peeled off that outer layer of skin cells on the underside of her toe, and it had to hurt because she was just WAILING. I sat down on the couch trying to comfort her and apologize all at the same time. Hubby asked what happened and I told him and he said something really harsh - I don't remember what - something like "I can't believe you did that, you could have cut her toe off!" and suddenly I was sobbing these great heaving sobs because I almost cut my baby girl's perfect big toe off. Hubby takes the little girl from me to comfort her and immediately apologizes to me and reassures me she's not really hurt. He got her calmed down easier than I could because I was busy trying not to be hysterical.

She's fine. By the time I got around to taking her to bed, she was pointing to her LEFT big toe and saying "Boo-boo!" But I'm having trouble forgiving myself for having hurt my little girl - for not having been vigilant enough - for letting my guard down. How can I keep her safe from the big wide world when I can't ensure I won't hurt her myself?!

Just when I've sworn not to undercut other mothers...

2006-05-23T10:27:00.000-04:00

...comes this little piece of family drama.

My sister-in-law A's sister M suffers from manic depression, not well-controlled with medication and outpatient treatment. M. has two (living) sons by two different fathers - she divorced the first son's father, and the youngest son's father essentially preyed on her when she was wildly mood-swinging in the wake of the stillbirth at 7 months' gestation of a second son.

My husband's best friend C., who rents our downstairs studio apartment, dated M. for two separate, short blocks of time. The most recent of these was late summer of last year. She had broken up with an abusive boyfriend about 2 weeks before she (re-) started dating C. This time around, C. broke up with M. in less than a month.

Around Halloween of last year, M. discovered she was pregnant. She didn't know who the father was - was it C.? Was it the abusive ex-boyfriend? Given her due date, it could have been either.

Fast-forward to early this May. M. delivers a daughter. She and the ex-boyfriend have blood typing done. They both have the same blood type, but the baby has a different blood type. M. reports to C. that the baby has to be his. M. insists it's C.'s baby and strongly encourages them to bond. C. spends a lot of time with the baby and starts getting attached.

C. goes out and gets his blood type read - it's the same as M.'s and the ex-boyfriend. Hmmmm. C.'s doctor, however, tells him there's a remote chance that a baby could have a different blood type than both its parents - the only way to know is to have paternity DNA testing done. Both C. and the ex-boyfriend are suspicious at this point, so they both have testing done - at their expense.

Result? The baby is not EITHER C.'s or the ex-boyfriend's! Under pressure, M. admits to C. that, during the two weeks between the ex-boyfriend and C., she hooked up for a one-night-stand with a guy she met on the Internet. As a good Catholic girl, she doesn't believe in using birth control. As a fertile Myrtle, she got pregnant. As a good Catholic girl, she refused to consider abortion. As a mother trying to protect her child's best interest, she assessed the relative merits of the three possible fathers, decided C. would make the best daddy, and tried to lasso him into the role.

M. does not work. She receives public assistance and has housing via a Section 8 certificate. C. reports that one of the reasons he broke up with her is that she does not discipline her two sons, or allow anyone else to, and as a consequence they treat her like crap and recognize no limits or authority.

I don't know how to find anything positive in this situation. Not like she's likely to come looking to me for advice - another reason C. broke up with her the first time around is that she called me "a fat fucking ugly Jew who looks like a dyke." Then she was amazed when C. told her he'd known me for far longer than he'd known her and loved me like a sister.

All I can say is I'm glad C. isn't going to be tied to this woman for the next 18 years. That, and I'm so very sorry for M.'s poor little baby girl.

Mother's Day thoughts.

2006-05-15T06:59:00.000-04:00

A day late, but hopefully not a dollar short.

For quite awhile now, I've been wanting to comment on the so-called ongoing "Mommy Wars." If you are fortunate, these have been completely off your radar, and I congratulate you. The Mommy Wars posit opposing contingents of mothers - primarily, stay-at-home versus working mothers, but also no-TV-allowing versus TV-embracing mothers, breastfeeding versus formula-feeding mothers, and single versus married mothers. There's probably other "versuses" out there that I'm blanking out on. It doesn't matter - you get the point.

This stuff isn't new. Women with kids have been taking flak for their decisions since they started entering the workforce in greater numbers. They've been made to feel guilty about putting their children in day care; for depriving them of the supposedly essential, irreplaceable experience of the doting, 24-hour mother. Nor is this an exclusively American phenomenon. I recently read an article on how something like 40 percent of professional German women don't have children; if they do but then return to work, they are denigrated as "rabenmutter" or "raven mother," who leaves her fledgling alone in the nest to fend for itself. What an awful cultural taboo.

But this miserable, misogynistic crap keeps periodically surfacing to the top of the pop culture discussion. Sometimes a well-known individual goes public with excoriations of the working mother or the single mother, a la Phyllis Schlafley. Sometimes it's a book - lately, a screed by one Caitlin Flanagan, who lauds herself for being a stay-at-home mom and a traditional wifey-pooh, when in fact she was a full-time work-at-home mother with a full-time nanny. Sometimes the news comes up with questionable "trends" such as that recently reported of highly-educated, well-paid women leaving the workforce in droves to become stay-at-home moms. Since I became a mother myself nearly twenty months ago, I have found this finger-pointing and the resultant self-doubt triggered in many moms to be colossolly frustrating.

I am frustrated by the way the news, entertainment and publishing industries know they can reliably make bucks by selling us mothers more criticisms of the ways we choose - or are forced - or just plain *want* - to parent. I believe that at some level, the good-ol'-boy status quo patriarchy smiles on all of this, because it knows that for so long as we women are tearing out each others' throats, we are not joining forces to overthrow it and achieve a better world for all of our children. I am so damned tired of reading articles about how badly day care retards children's intellectual development, of reading nasty pointed bad-mommy comments posted on the blogs of mommies who chose to feed formula instead of breastfeeding, of watching the Caitlin Flanagans of the world surf to the upper reaches of the bestseller lists on the credit cards of self-doubting women seeking affirmation or condemnation of their own parenting styles.

One thing I am proud of, however, is how little self-doubt any of this has engendered in me. Nothing I read leads me to question what I am doing with my little girl or why I am doing it. I am doing what I am doing because it is right for me, for us, for my marriage, for her development. I am working because my career makes me happy and gives me personal satisfaction in an area totally unrelated to motherhood. I am working because I *need* to be away from my little girl periodically, in the company of professional adults, to fully understand how lucky I am and how much joy she brings me once I return home. I breastfed her because I was lucky enough to be able to, and too cheap to pay for formula. I continue to breastfeed her now because it brings us comfort and togetherness periodically throughout days in which I am increasingly not the center of her orbit. I let her watch children's TV because she learns from it, and because damnit, sometimes I need to take a shower or load the dishwasher or take a crap in peace. I stay married when it would be easier to walk away because she is at her very happiest when she has both me and her daddy rotating around her like a planet with two moons.

I am at peace with all of these decisions. I do not suggest that these are the right choices for anyone else but myself and my family. But neither do Phyllis' or Caitlin's finger-pointing and shrill accusations move me to self-doubt. These generals in the so-called Mommy Wars find no battlefield in my soul. Somehow, blessedly, I have moved beyond caring what other people - other women - think of me or what judgments they make as to how well I parent. This, for me, is huge. As the chronically unpopular child and teen, I hungered ravenously for approval, and the harder I tried for it the less of it I got. Now that I'm an established adult, I'm done looking for anyone else's stamp of approval. It's not my job to make other people happy, except my little girl. The only person whose approval I need is my own; the only person whose cooperation I need is my husband's. And honestly, my daughter is remarkably resilient. Her emotional stability and intellectual well-being are not fragile like spun glass. They are elastic and capable of infinite expansion in any number of directions. My professional satisfaction will not come at the expense of her adolescent self-confidence. Of this, I am certain.

The whole Mommy Wars thing is a line of bullshit that's being fed to us to make money off of us and keep us busy fighting amongst ourselves. There is no real, authentic conflict at its center. I hereby call it on the carpet for the unclad emperor that it is. And more than that, I would like to call a Mommy Truce, together with a Pact of Peace. It goes a little something like this:

I, Susan D., hereby pledge to support and cheer my fellow mothers at every opportunity. I will not point my finger at any of them in angry accusation. I will not insult their choices as inferior because they are different from mine. I will acknowledge that many mothers make different choices than did I because they had no choice, and I will honor them for soldieriing forward with far fewer opportunities than I have. When I see a fellow mother making what I believe is a bad choice, I will ask myself why I think it is bad. And if then, I still believe it is a bad choice, I will offer aid and comfort rather than insults and anger. And I will be a voice against the forces that hold all mothers and their children down. I will take every opportunity to remind other mothers that they are not each others' enemies but rather, each other's potential allies in the real war for a better world in which to raise our children to reach their fullest potential.

And having taken that pledge, I acknowledge that I owe someone an apology. I was cruel and harsh to my brother-in-law's Babymama on this blog, although somewhat less so in real life. Upon reflection, I do still believe that she has made a number of really bad choices. I cannot offer any further aid and comfort to her, after allowing her to live in my home for six months, but I can say that I am sorry for having essentially called you a bad mother and a sorry human being. I know that you are being the best mother you know how to be, having learned how from your own mother who made her own share of bad choices. I know that your reality is large and frightening and that it intimidates you to face it head-on. I hope that soon you understand that you must face it down in order to move forward, and that you can believe that you do have the strength and intelligence to do it. Your little girl loves you more than the world, and I know you love her too. I hope that you can look into her little face and draw from her the courage and inspiration to fight the powers that hold you down. I think that is why I - and my husband, and my brother-in-law and his wife - were all so angry at you. We all believe that you have the potential to break out of your current circumstances and build a better life for you and your little girl, and we haven't understood why you don't believe in yourself the same way. I can only offer you this much - I believe in you. When you are ready, you will rise up, and there will be no stopping you. And I hope I will know about it, so I can cheer you on.

Happy Mother's Day to all my mothering friends.

Little girl-isms.

2006-05-09T04:23:00.000-04:00

I love the way my little girl says her words.

Blue = boo
Yellow = yewwow
Purple = puhpoo
Please = peese
Fishie = shishie
Happy = hatty
Tree = tee
Snack = saaa

Of course, there's many words she says perfectly.

Up, Down, Eat, Uh-oh!, Mama, Daddy, Shadow (that's our dog!), and her so-far all-time favorite Nooooooo! Nooooo!!!!! Nooooooo!!!!!

The smile that makes it all worthwhile.

2006-05-08T13:21:00.000-04:00

Feeling much better now.

2006-05-08T07:15:00.000-04:00

Wow, that last post of mine was just ridiculously self-pitying. Pity party on poor little me! I try not to indulge in that sort of thing too often. It involves temporarily taking the absolutely bleakest view possible of events and assuming that the bad will continue to outweigh the good.

On the plus side, it was nice to learn I have at least one loyal reader in addition to the one other I already knew about. (Hi Teri! Hi Anonymous!) In answer to Anonymous' comment, I have to say it's much easier to post these deep personal feelings on my blog, to be seen only by a few people who I've never met, than to share it with people I know who would then know that our marriage isn't in fact rock-solid and totally equal - a facade I realize I've gone to great pains to build up. I guess I worked so hard on that facade that I actually had myself convinced for a good long time.

One reason I feel better is that I engaged in a little retail therapy. Of course, it was all at K-Mart - the only store at which I can now afford to buy work clothes - but thank god for the Jaclyn Smith line is all I can say. I bought two skirt suits and two sweater sets (one a nice silk blend) with matching skirts, all nice lightweight stuff in happy summer colors, for about $150. And the stuff fits me well - something I can never say for anything I buy at Target or Kohl's or Old Navy. K-Mart's stuff lasts better than anything from those stores too, surprisingly. Target, especially, sells stuff that you might as well throw away after the first wearing.

The other reason I feel better is that I got to spend lots and lots of quality time with the little girl. She had a fever on Thursday and Friday - don't know where it came from. She didn't seem to be in any distress but she didn't want to eat or drink much and was barely sleeping, and her frustration tolerance was absolutely zero. So I decided I was going to let her nurse as much as she wanted this weekend to help keep her hydrated and nourished and to generally give her comfort. I took a couple of extra domperidone tablets (google it, best thing ever for women with milk production issues) to crank up the ol' milk factories, and let her go to town. Boy, was she stoked. She must have nursed ten times a day all weekend long. Her fever broke with her Saturday midday nap, and her appetite and sunny personality came back. I got super-extra-lots of nice cuddles and milky sweet kisses. She went to sleep like an angel both nights; curled right up on my chest and zonked before the end of the first verse of the first of her three lullabies, with a beatific smile on her face. And there was lots of my very favorite family activity - me and hubby just hanging out and playing with her, loving on her and just marveling together about how smart and sweet and beautiful and incredibly surprising she is in every way. Anyway, long story short, she and I both felt pretty crappy heading into the weekend, but we were able to help each other feel better. She is the best mood therapy in the world. I can't believe I thought even for a moment that she could possibly have been a mistake.

My husband has promised to clean the house today. Let me tell you, nothing says "I'm sorry" like a clean house delivered up with a smile, and a side order of happy baby.

Unhappy.

2006-05-05T12:49:00.000-04:00

I have been remiss in my blogging duties. This is largely because I have been so unhappy in my marriage lately that it just does not bear dwelling on, and everything else I might blog about brings me back to that. At one point not long ago, I would have said we have an ideal, modern, feminist-positive marriage. But we have been fighting all the time for the last month or so. I never see the damned fights coming and when they come, they completely knock the wind out of me. My husband is so very, very mean and cruel and awful to me when we fight. He breaks out the divorce threat each and every time. Other threats he broke out earlier this week included a threat to not allow me to use either of our vehicles - they're both registered in his name b/c I owe the city tax assessor a bunch of money and he has cop friends from softball he says he could get to arrest me for car theft. He's also threatened to rat me out to my boss for something I'd rather not say here but that would more than likely get me fired.

I think all couples fight at least sometimes. But it is absolutely impossible for me to win a fight with him. All I can do is hope to disarm the situation. This happens the same way every time. (a) Admit he's 100% right. (b) Admit I'm 100% wrong. (c) Apologize repeatedly. (c) Fuck him like I'm as hot for his body as I was when we first started dating at age 19 when we were both much skinnier and had never had a fight. (d) Never bring up the subject of the fight again.

My stomach is heaving after swallowing so much of my pride.

Why not leave? The answer is simple - our little girl. He is an UNBELIEVABLE father. And neither of us wants to put her in day care. If we divorced, she'd have to go into daycare so he could work and support himself.

I do still love him. I think. But I don't understand how I can be the one in charge of earning all the money and still I have absolutely *zero* power in the relationship. If our little girl were not in the picture, I would have served him with divorce papers this past Tuesday. Instead, I abased myself to him and then serviced him sexually to defuse the unbearable situation.

How can the best, most wonderful and beautiful thing in my life - our little girl - have maybe, after all, turned out to be the stupidest thing I've ever done? Because right now her best interests in having an intact family and not being in day care are directly opposed to my best interests in getting away from this relationship which is administering regular beatings to my sense of dignity and self-worth.

*wallowing in self-pity, please forgive me*

Reward for a job well done.

2006-04-21T13:07:00.000-04:00

When I came home from work yesterday, our little girl met me at the gate carrying this:

Three dandelions, two violets, and one spray of Queen Anne's lace, presented in an empty Danimals bottle with a radiant smile. Together, rivaling the two dozen red roses given to me by her daddy on Valentine's Day. But then again, I think her daddy probably had something to do with these flowers too, don't you think?

Happy and sad.

2006-04-20T09:29:00.000-04:00

I taught my little girl two new words yesterday.

When she woke up in the morning, she nursed, popped off, and then started blowing me kisses from three inches away. It was, once again, the cutest and sweetest thing ever. I put on a big smile, pointed to my face, and said "Happy!" She got it immediately, put on her own big beautiful smile, and said "Hatty!" I told her, "You make mama so happy," and she smiled even bigger before giving me big hugs.

Last thing in the evening, in the minutes before the little girl's bedtime, her daddy and I had a fight. He has a huge, booming voice that shakes the walls, and he yelled at me and called me stupid. Rather than escalate further, I picked her up and walked out of the living room and into her room, shutting the door behind us. I didn't want to further traumatize her by bursting into tears, but clearly I was unhappy and she looked anxious. I made a sad face, pointed to it, and said "Sad," and she made that crumpled-up face she makes the moment before she bursts into tears. I said, "It makes me sad when daddy yells at me and calls me names," and she threw her arms and legs around me in a full-body hug and put kisses all over my face.

I know it's wrong to let her see us fighting, or to encourage her to take sides. But she happened to be there when the fight just came out of nowhere, and I couldn't hide my upset from her, because right then was time for our bedtime routine. And she really did do the most wonderful job making her mama feel better. But this can't happen again - it's not the job of a 1 1/2-year-old to comfort mama after daddy makes mama cry. Fortunately that doesn't actually happen all that often.

By the way, after further discussion of the quad issue, my husband realized that he's just going to have to trade in his motorcycle or sell it on consignment, emotional attachment or not. He thinks he can get $4K for it. I'd be far more comfortable with financing $1K than $5K. This, I can live with. Or, even less expensively, he's considering just rehabbing a dirt bike he picked up for cheap that's been sitting in his garage for over a year. He thinks he can get it running for just a couple of hundred dollars, and that that would satisfy his need for speed for at least one or two riding seasons. Works for me.

Waterworks.

2006-04-17T09:08:00.001-04:00

Yesterday I was watching my Sunday morning show, CBS Sunday Morning. They did a segment on a musical therapist, who works in the children's unit of a hospital. They showed some of the kids he works with - a 30-week preemie, a 5-year-old boy just two hours past his tenth brain surgery, a maybe 3-month-old baby recovering from a head injury - all these little kids with horrible awful diseases. I was instantly sobbing. No buildup, no sniffles and leaky tears first, just sudden gut-wrenching sobs. I could see that these were all other people's precious little babies, and could sympathize with how helpless they must feel watching their babies suffering and not being able to make it stop. I sobbed through the whole thing, and then went into the living room where I could barely tell my husband why I was crying through the sobs. Our little girl came over to investigate why mama was crying, hopped up on my lap, and let me smother her with kisses and hugs. I asked her never to get really critically ill or injured, please please please, because I just don't think I could bear it.

A little more personal than usual.

2006-04-15T11:21:00.000-04:00

There's no reason I can't express some deep personal shit here given that I have maybe only five occasional readers. (Hi! you all.) I haven't so much taken advantage of my blog's potential for airing the personal shit, but right now I'm just feeling this odd need to spew.

I'm so discontented right now - not all the time, but right now, in this particular second. I'm a federal employee, a member of the executive branch, and I therefore cannot express much of my frustration at the current political situation. There's lots I could say but choose not to for that reason. But events right now are at a point where, in my previous life, I'd have been out marching and shouting in the streets. This job has allowed me and my family a measure of financial security and peace of mind that's never been present before. On a personal level, I've never been doing so well. But on a larger level, things feel so very precarious and full of the potential for chaos and explosive downfall. I will say nothing more specific than that, and I will not say it anywhere else but here. I feel muzzled by my job, and ethically compromised by my addiction to the security that job brings and my willingness to keep my mouth shut just to keep that job. I feel like a sellout.

And it's not like I'm even getting rich. Finally, this year so far, for the first time, I've been able to start saving a little money in addition to keeping all the bills paid. I've never, in my whole 35 years, been able to save money. I've always needed to spend every last dollar I've made just to get by. And now my husband, who I loves dearly, has made it very clear that he needs a quad (a four-wheel off road vehicle). He needs it because he needs something to do. He is a motorcycle mechanic who will no longer ride his motorcycle on the road because of the incivility and incompetency of automobile drivers who he must share the road with. Things with motors that go fast - vroom! - are part of his very soul. I knew this when I married him. I knew this when, as we had previously agreed, he quit working at the motorcycle shop to care for our child. I can see that there is a piece of his male soul that is shriveling up and dying for lack of any outlet for his visceral need for speed. He feels that he can meet that need with a quad, and that unfortunately is going to cost about $5,000, buying something used. He would much rather not trade in his motorcycle because he bought it new and paid it off and is emotionally attached to it. So just as we're starting to get ahead, I'm going to have to take some of the money I would much rather be saving towards our daughter's college education and instead spend it on 72 months of payments on a quad. I'm trying to think of it as something comparable to paying my husband a salary for the work he does caring for our child. But part of me is so incredibly frustrated. He needs this. But I still see it as a luxury item - if we're going to spend $5,000 I'd rather pay a landscaper to fix our yard so our daughter can play on grass instead of dirt, or get our crumbling oil-stained driveway repaved. I don't want to spend my money on this, but for me to tell this to my husband will sound to him like I'm saying that his emotional needs aren't a priority to me. It is - I just wish his priorities were a little less expensive.

I'm unhappy, too, that I don't have anything in my life right now except work (even though I really do love what I do and my specific job) and being a mama to my little girl (even though I truly do love that too). Whenever I'm out of work, I'm with her. He gets to go out and play softball (he's at practice right now) and soon he'll be leaving for a whole Saturday or Sunday, on a regular basis, to go down to Connecticut and go quadding with his brother who already has one and rides it regularly. My having time to do adult things on my own is not currently a priority of his. Granted, I haven't pushed the issue. I've started to lose sight of what it was that I even liked to do on my own before she was born. But I need to. I don't know who the hell I am anymore. I used to independently study Russian, but I've forgotten most of it by now. I still know some French but I've lost a lot of that too. I'd like to take classes, or join practice groups. I want to assert my right to the free time to do that. I'd also have to assert my right to some of our discretionary spending to pay for those things, which decreases the amount available to buy him a quad. That will be hard, because for him it's a deep emotional passionate need, whereas for me it's just something I find enjoyable and fun to do and achieve.

I'm just unhappy right now. Not miserable, not depressed, just feeling a little put-upon and neglected by myself. Our little girl woke a couple of times during the night and then got up too early, so she was whiny and annoying all morning and didn't even have any kisses for me to make up for it. On the days that my role as mama is more frustrating and irritating than enjoyable, it brings my feelings of discontent in other areas to the surface. But every day with a 1 1/2 year old can't be all hearts and flowers and rainbows. And I have to take off my happy-mommy rosy goggles sometimes, long enough to see the garden of my own personality withering and dying from neglect.

If anyone's out there, thanks for "listening" to me whine. I promise I'm done for now.

Achingly sweet

2006-04-14T08:54:00.000-04:00

My little girl and I have a bedtime routine down. I turn off the lights in her room and we lay down together in her (queen-size) bed, and she nurses while gazing at the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling. Then when she's done, she pops off and plays in the dark with the pillows for a few minutes. Then she lays across me (willingly or not), head on my upper left arm, right arm tucked under my back, right arm around my neck, and her body crossed over mine. I sing her the same three songs as lullabies every night: "Good Night" off the Beatles' White Album, "La Vie En Rose" (don't know who originally did this one, but it's the English version), and "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Sometimes, if she doesn't want to go to sleep, she cries and struggles, and I have to sing all three songs twice before she succumbs. When she's finally asleep, I lay there listening to her deep breathing and the ticking of her wall clock for a few minutes (this is what "peace" sounds like to me), before gently rolling her off of me and sneaking quietly out of the room.

Last night, we had a new and lovely development. I gave her a bath first, and smoothed lavendar-scented baby lotion all over her. Then, after we nursed, she was playing peekaboo with the pillows and I asked her if she was ready to go night-night. She replied "Uh-uh." Then I asked her if she wanted Mama to sing night-night songs to her. She practically leapt into my arms for that. She tucked her arm deep behind my back and gazed deeply into my eyes. I asked if she liked Mama to sing to her and she nodded firmly. I said "I love you," and she puckered up for a kiss, still looking at me expectantly. I started singing "Good Night" to her, which goes like this:

Now it's time to say good night
Good night, sleep tight
Now the sun turns out his light
Good night, sleep tight
Dream sweet dreams for me
Dream sweet dreams for you

Close your eyes and I'll close mine
Good night, sleep tight
Now the moon begins to shine
Good night, sleep tight
Dream sweet dreams for me
Dream sweet dreams for you

As I sang, she opened up her mouth and started singing too - "night.... night...night... night..." while still gazing into my eyes. (Actually, it's more like "niii.... niii..." because she doesn't yet have the hang of consonants at the end of words.) She wasn't really on key or keeping to the rhythm of the song, but she was definitely singing along with me, and she did this through the whole song. It took a lot of effort to keep my voice from going all wobbly, but tears of love and joy were pouring out of my eyes. When the song ended, she just closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep as I moved on to "La Vie En Rose."

I held her extra-long after I fininshed "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," just breathing in the scent of lavendar and warm baby, savoring the aching sweetness of the moment. I will always remember that when she was 18 1/2 months old, she sang along with Mama for the first time.

Has it really been 2 1/2 weeks?!

2006-04-12T06:48:00.000-04:00

Whoops, didn't mean to let my blog go neglected for so long! Anyway, Auntie T made it through her surgery and is recovering as well as can be expected. Fingers crossed, she will continue to get better and better.

I have been very, very busy. You know, doing all that lawyerin' type stuff that I get paid for. I'm doing a labor arbitration May 31/June 1 so I have to prep my witnesses and put together my opening statement and solidify my strategy and all that. I really do love this stuff. It's very satisfying to the control freak in me. And I have to say that damn it, I love it when a plan comes together. My theory of the case is applying very nicely to the facts and the evidence, and I am feeling strong and good about it. Of course, anything could fly out of control at any moment, but that's just the litigator's life. I think this one will be fine.

When I'm home I never want to waste my time on the Internet - I want to be loving on my baby, and when she naps, I do more work, or clean my house, or cook, or even get a pedicure (first time since 2 weeks before she was born, what luxury!) And guess what? Right now I hear her waking up! Gotta go, love ya all...

I pray because otherwise I feel completely helpless.

2006-03-23T06:39:00.000-05:00

We got a call last night from one of my hubby's maternal aunties telling us that another aunty is having quadruple bypass surgery today. I love Colin's three maternal aunties, to be honest, more than I love my mother-in-law. They welcomed me into their family with open arms and great good humor. They have been incredibly generous with my babygirl, sparing us much expense in terms of buying the material necessities for her. I have standing invitations to visit any of them anytime. The thought that one of these wonderful ladies is going to have major heart surgery today just chokes me up.

My hubby is an atheist and doesn't believe in or feel the need for prayer. I'm a very badly lapsed, nonpracticing Jew, but every now and then I do feel the need for prayer, usually when I feel completely helpless in a situation not of my own making. This is one of those situations. I am sending a humble prayer out to my Jewish g-d (Hashem?) that he hold my Irish Catholic auntie-in-law in the palm of His hand today, and in the difficult days that will follow. Please, I beg of You - she is still so young, and so loved, and has so much living and giving and loving left to do.

Attention K-Mart Shoppers.

2006-03-23T06:32:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I bought an entire outfit at K-Mart - a suit, blouse, handbag and matching shoes - for about $75. I was pretty glad to be able to find something decent that fit for so cheap.

This is the concrete, physical manifestation of the choices I've made in my life - to work for the government instead of private practice, and to support my family while my husband stays home. Once upon a time, I shopped for suits in the department stores and didn't think twice about spending $200 for a suit, $40 for a blouse, $50 for shoes and another $50 for the handbag. I could even afford to pay cash instead of using a credit card. Now most of my suits come courtesy of K-Mart and Target, and I'm just pathetically grateful that they added halfway decent suits to their lines.

Fair trade? You tell me.

The dumbest emergency broadcast ever.

2006-03-21T09:37:00.000-05:00

*boop boop boop* *boop boop boop* *boop boop boop*
~~wildly flashing lights~~
May I have your attention please. May I have your attention please. There has been an emergency reported in the building. While this emergency is being investigated, the building manager would like you to remain where you are and await further instructions.
*boop boop boop* *boop boop boop* *boop boop boop*
~~wildly flashing lights~~

Thanks, I feel very safe and productive staying put in my workplace while an emergency is investigated elsewhere in the building. Have I mentioned I work in a federal building?

She's really getting the hang of this potty thing.

2006-03-17T08:00:00.000-05:00

She's already figured out that reading material is essential!

The most fun thing ever!

2006-03-17T07:48:00.000-05:00

OMG, you just *have* to try this. It's so much fun, I may well never venture back out into the real world again.

My strip is in the archives under Lawyermommy. Couldn't figure out how to post it here.

Mall rat.

2006-03-16T11:20:00.000-05:00

Yesterday after finishing up work early, hubby and I took babygirl to the Emerald Sqare Mall. I needed to do a little spring-wardrobe updating, and, more importantly, Emerald Square has a really nice indoor playspace with fun play equipment, a nice enclosure wall, and a carpeted, bouncy floor. (No dirt to eat!) Ever since Holy Terror, Hyperactive Boy, and L'il Cherub Baby moved out, I've been concerned about babygirl not getting enough interchild interaction and falling behind in her social development. Well, I'm happy to report that she's doing just fine. There were loads of other kids for her to play with, ages 11 months on up to probably 8 years, and she LOVED it. Within minutes she was running around the place and up and down the play equipment, playing with half a dozen kids at once, shrieking with joy. There were three brothers there, probably ages 3, 5 and 7, all competing for her favors. The 5-year-old discovered if he lay down on the floor near her, she'd walk over, lay down and hug him and give him kisses. I should probably be alarmed that she's already into, and attracting, the older men, but it just seemed really cute at the time. There were tons of moms, and even a couple of dads, there with their kids - I think it's pretty common to bring kids there even without shopping just to give them something to do and blow off steam.

We went shopping too - I got a cute work outfit at my current favorite JC Penney, and we picked out some clearance stuff for babygirl at Children's Place. Then a Peekaboo Kisses book at Borders and a copy of the new Harry Potter DVD plus a giant M&M's cookie at Starbucks so I could use their restroom key. Babygirl had a blast walking hand in hand with Daddy all around the mall. She took a detour into one of those open corner-spot mall jewelry stores, attracted no doubt by all the sparkly shiny things, and made a beeline for the cabinet with all the big diamond engagement rings in it. Good taste she has! And so the fascination with jewelry passes to the next generation...

Babygirl was absolutely exhausted by the time we left. She passed out in her carseat before we even made it out of the parking lot and wound up taking a one-hour nap. All in all, we had a great time as a family. I've never been a big fan of the malls, but then I never needed to know what child-friendly places they are. Looks like we'll be going to Emerald Square a lot more often.

I bought myself a present online.

2006-03-14T08:11:00.000-05:00

They sure do make nice costume jewelry these days. I could never afford this with real diamonds and sapphires in it. Hope the real thing looks as nice as the picture.

This is the downside of being the breadwinner with a stay-at-home dad for a husband - the only jewelry I get, I have to buy for myself.

Wonderful weekend with new, bigger Babygirl

2006-03-13T07:09:00.000-05:00

Well, as I predicted, she's made us a bigger baby. Just for comparison's sake, here's a picture of her on the same ride-on car, before the winter and another taken this past weekend.

I took her for a ride on her new push tricycle to the local park.

There's a little skate/BMX/board park in the park, which was deserted so early in the morning, so I pushed her up the smaller berms and over the little humps in the floor. She loved this and laughed hysterically. (Please note the safety harness I rigged up in the other tricycle shot before you leave me bad-mommy hate comments!)

"I'm a thug. Better not mess with me!"

She practiced running in our backyard (after daddy and I spent an hour cleaning up a winter's worth of dog shit, that is.) Please be sure to note the super-cool toddler Chuck Taylors, a gift from Uncle T. It seemed like she'd *never* grow into them!

We went to the Pet Show at the Convention Center. It was sponsored by Petco and their mascot, a big red dog who looks a lot like Clifford but isn't, was there. Babygirl loved him and hugged him and gave him kisses.

Wish I had gotten more pics from the pet show - she was over the moon about all the great big dogs and tiny little dogs and bunnies and kitties.

And here's some pics from early Sunday morning, just hanging out with Mama. Look how tall she is! And what stellar bed head she woke up with!

I love my job, but it's hard being here without her and missing all these little moments. But at least we got the most out of our weekend together.

Proper packaging.

2006-03-10T04:42:00.000-05:00

When I took Babygirl to the mall the other day, I went bra shopping at JC Penney. I was really impressed with their selection. What I wanted were some pretty things, things that were completely incompatible with nursing, things that my hubby would like to see me in, and perhaps remove from me. I love what I bought, but of course you can't run around showing off a bra the way you'd show off a new pair of shoes, so instead I'll just post pics here for any passing stranger to see. Note: these are just the bras, you're going to have to take for granted that I bought the matching panties.

I love this one - sky blue embroidery on pale purple fabric. I've never owned anything like this, sophisticated and fancy. I'm wearing it today.

This one is soooo cute - strawberries and vines on pink, with green gingham trim. Again, I've never owned anything like it.

And lastly, because I love my hubby dearly and he's waited so patiently for access to the boobies, this:

No accounting for taste.

2006-03-09T09:19:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was absolutely gorgeous outside (considering it's March and still officially winter). I finished my work tour early, and decided to take Babygirl to the playground. I figured it's nice outside, there'll be other kids to play with, and she loves climbing so she'll climb up everything in sight, right? Wrong. We get there, and there's three other kids to play with, two close in age to hers, and all this cool climbing/sliding equipment. What does Babygirl want to do? Crouch down, pick up handfuls of fine gravel/dirt, and PUT IT IN HER MOUTH. I pick her up to leave and she kicks up a huge fuss. I tell her, Fine, we'll try this again, and if you want to play we'll stay, but if you eat more dirt we're leaving. I put her down. Her feet hit the ground, her knees bend, her hands hit the ground and she instantaneously shovels more dirt in her mouth. Enough. Done! So I scooped her back up, buckled her back into her car seat, and took her to the mall instead, where she got to ride grumpily in her stroller while Mama did some much-needed bra shopping. I figured, at least one of us might as well be happy, and it wasn't gonna be her, seeing as the only thing that would make her happy was being allowed to eat dirt.

By the way, let me just say it's very hard to fish tiny tiny gravel out of a 1 1/2 year old's mouth. It gets EVERYWHERE - along the gums, under the tongue, packed away in the cheeks. And she hasn't figured out yet that when I say "Don't Bite!" what I mean is "Don't Bite!" and not, say, "Yes, please do bite me some more!"

And so continues my babygirl's metamorphosis into toddlerhood.

Making us a bigger baby!

2006-03-03T08:48:00.000-05:00

Babygirl is seriously about to make us a bigger baby. Ever since we introduced her to solids, she's been just a nibbler - a bite here, a bite there, nibble nibble all day long. And only when presented to her; she's never been one to ask. Well, no more. She's known the sign for "eat" for a long time and now she can say the word "eat" too. And the last two days, she's actually been ASKING to eat. I fed her an entire turkey hotdog on Wednesday. And yesterday morning, when she woke up, she woke up my hubby with kisses and then as soon as he opened his eyes, she smiled and said/signed "eat eat!" Literally the first words out of her mouth. She ate constantly, nonstop, all day long. Every time she ran out of food she'd say "eat eat!" again. Hubby was able to feed her an entire banana at a shot, first time ever. She ate macaroni and cheese. And two Danimals drinkable yogurts. And two big sippies of soymilk. And a bunch of Pirate's Booty corn/rice/cheddar puffs. And a packet of Clifford fruit snacks. And half of one of daddy's waffles. And kielbasa chunks out of daddy's dinner. And a bunch of canned carrot slices. And a bunch of those freeze-dried sweet corn niblets for toddlers. Oh yeah, and she's been sleeping a lot too. Solid two-hour naps. Last night she insisted on going to bed an hour early. I'm making a point of dressing her in all my favorite size 12-month clothes now because in another week, they aren't even going to come close to fitting anymore. Yet another bittersweet moment - I'm happy to see her finally getting enthusiastic about eating, and happy she's about to have a nice healthy growth spurt, but sad because she's moving even further away from the sweet petite little baby I loved so much. I'm smiling through my tears.

WW Day 3; babygirl update

2006-03-01T12:37:00.000-05:00

So, it's day 3 of Weight Watchers. So far, so good I guess. I'm in sort of an adjustment period as I learn what things I need to give up as consuming too many of my daily points (2 scrambled eggs = 5 points) and what other things I like that I should make a point of eating now because they take up fewer points. (Broccoli and mushrooms = 0 points, sashimi = 4 points for 8 pieces). My one weakness comes as a total surprise to me. I just love, love, absolutely LOVE my daughter's Silk brand Very Vanilla Soymilk. I can't stop drinking it. I bought her a carton of it in drink boxes but she can't really manage them yet so I've been drinking them myself. 2 a day is 6 points. I try to just have the one in the morning, but come afternoon time I can't resist opening and nursing a second one. Oh well, at least it's extra protein and calcium, and counts as a dairy item for WW purposes. Anyway, yesterday I only needed to use 3 of my "mad money" weekly points, down from 4 on Monday. Today I'm going to try to not use any. So far I've been able to keep my nose out of the feedbag. Hopefully that will continue throughout the day.

Babygirl continues to grow intellectually at an astounding pace. The day before yesterday we were "reading" one of her soft baby books with a tiny rattling stuffed elephant sewn onto the cover. She pointed to it, went "ah ah ah ah!!" and ran away to point out the multicolored elephant dangling from her mobile. Yesterday we were "reading" an alphabet board book and came to a picture of a horse. She said "oooh oooh oooh!!," jumped off my lap, ran into her room, and came back with the little horsie from her barnyard play set. This morning she ran from me reading a Clifford book to her great big stuffed red Valentine's Day doggie to our dog lying on his couch in the living room. She just makes these associations across the board. Also, another piece of big news - on Saturday I gave her a bath, noticed she looked like she was pushing, and whipped her out of the bath and onto the potty. I wrapped her up in her towel and let her sit a minute. Then I heard the soft sound of tinkle hitting the plastic. Sure enough, she had peed in the potty for the very first time! I was kinda hoping it would be a poopy, but oh well - it's still a victory and I'll take it. Kind of makes me wonder how often she's been peeing in her bathtub right along... She's only pooped in the bath twice - now THOSE times I remember!

Mamuschka mania! WW: One day down, 9w6d to go...

2006-02-28T06:56:00.000-05:00

My babygirl's favorite toy right now is the set of Mamuschka nesting dolls I got at a Russian dollmaker's store in Amsterdam. She can entertain herself with these things for, like, half an hour at a time. That's an eternity in baby parenting time. Here's some pictures of her with the Mamuschkas. That's an apron she's wearing; her daddy thought she might like to help me make dinner. Not so much when there's Mamuschka dolls to be played with!

So I started Weight Watchers yesterday. I'm doing their Flex Plan point system thing because basically I need to watch portion control and grazing more than my food choices. Imagine my disappointment to learn that I only get 24 points to eat per day. And that once I lose *1 pound* I'll be in a new weight range that only gets 22 points per day. And that, despite having eaten next to nothing so far that day and being hungry already at the meeting, I had already consumed enough points that I only had *2 points* left to get me through the day! Fortunately, we are given 35 points extra as "mad money" points to consume throughout the week. I needed 4 of those to be able to eat dinner. Part of the problem here is that a cup of coffee with 2 tbsps creamer and 2 1/2 sugars is 5 points. Aaaargh! So I need to start drinking diet soda as a caffeine delivery method. Just not as satisfying at 4AM, let me tell you. Anyway, I'm off to a more solid start today. You basically HAVE to eat fruits and vegetables to feel halfway full because they're the only things that don't have shit-tons of points. So I had a peach and a cup of coffee for breakfast. Halfway through the AM I'll have 2 scrambled eggs and a drink box of chocolate soymilk (which I just love, I know, I'm weird). Basically I just can't snack. At all. Which makes the day super extra long somehow. But I was able to keep my nose out of the feedbag yesterday afternoon/evening. And the silver lining? The medical digital scale Weight Watchers uses for their weigh-in is kinder than my bathroom scale at home! It told me yesterday that I weighed 175.8 lbs. I'll take it.

Tonight I'm going to try to force my lard-ass onto the treadmill after babygirl goes to sleep. Oh, joy.

Cuddlebug

2006-02-27T06:50:00.000-05:00

I had a wonderful weekend with my babygirl. She came grocery shopping with me, and flirted up a storm with all the little old lady shoppers and the cashiers. She ate a bunch of food, bringing much joy to this mother's heart, and is clearly in the process of making us a bigger baby. I had to go down into the basement and break out the plastic totes full of 18-month-old clothes inherited from Auntie G's daughter L; it was like Christmas all over again. Hooray for hand-me-downs!

Sunday is my laundry and housecleaning day. Babygirl spent, literally, an hour playing intently with (a) a clean black bra she fished out of my clean laundry, and (b) a colorful little vinyl teddy bear which long ago broke off the toy bar of her (now retired) walker. Why did it never occur to me before that these two items clearly go together? She laid the bear down and tucked it in with my bra. She wrapped my bra around her head like some sort of bondage gear and then tucked the bear in under her chin. She stood the bear up and wrapped my bra around it til only his head was visible. And then, just like *that*, she was done with both items and moved on to the next thing.

My babygirl loves *loves* LOVES the Wiggles. Just can't get enough of them. We've got 4 Wiggles DVD's with enchanting names like "Hoop-Dee-Doo, It's A Wiggles Party!" and she would watch them all day long if we'd let her. She gets to watch them on my old portable DVD player, which has several buttons that don't work and is therefore the perfect item for a baby to use given that she likes to smack the buttons with her open palm. When not in use, the DVD player in its case hangs by its handle from the top of the bookcase in her room, right above the changing pad on top of her dresser. Interestingly, since we started putting it there, she constantly uses the sign we taught her for "need a diaper change." Then she'll lead me or my hubby into her room by the finger, and while we change her diaper, she'll point at the DVD player shouting "That! That!" You know, she's never enjoyed having her diaper changed, and generally prefers to wait until her pee-pee filled diaper is at the point of exploding to be changed. Now she'll ask for a diaper change practically every half hour because it gives her another chance to ask to watch the Wiggles. We only let her watch twice a day, and use the time she spends glued to the little screen to shower or fold laundry. Does that make me a bad mommy? No, I think not, just an opportunistic one.

Also Sunday, she took an absolutely perfect nap. At 11 AM, she asked for boobies. She nursed until she was done, climbed across my chest into the "put me to sleep" position, laid her head down, and closed her eyes. She was out almost instantly. I gently rolled her off me and made my escape. She slept exactly long enough for me to make a BJ's run for diapers and wipes, and to sweep/Swiffer the back hall all the way up to the second floor, no small task given our big dirty dog and all the blue collar men's boots that go up and down the stairway. I had time to drink one final cup of coffee before I heard from the baby monitor the change in her breathing that indicates she was waking up. I went in and laid down next to her. She climbed back across my chest and spent the next twenty minutes flipping from one cuddle position to another on top of me. She would close her eyes until I thought she was falling back asleep, and then open her eyes and give me a huge smile. Then she'd bury her face in my neck and give me kisses. It was, like, the bestest baby cuddles EVER. All she wanted was to feel her mama's body next to hers, for me to keep her warm, to smell her mama, to feel her mama's touch smoothing her hair and stroking her cheek and smelling her neck. I felt like we were wrapped in a warm cocoon of love, there in her calm, quiet, dark bedroom. I don't know how long the cuddles would have gone on, if my hubby hadn't crept in to check on us. Babygirl sat up with a radiant smile, gave him a kiss, and held out her arms to be picked up and brought out into the world again.

She is so wonderful right now, as she rides the fine line between babyhood and childhood. It is as if she combines the best of both. I love her so very, very much and on some level I can't see how she could ever possibly be as wonderful as she is right now. I file away the memory of our 20-minute cuddlefest to savor, this morning as I ride to work, in a year, in ten years, decades from now as the end of my life draws near.

She is seventeen months old today. Happy "birthday," baby.

Weight Watchers watch

2006-02-27T06:31:00.000-05:00

Weight Watchers officially starts today. As of this AM, the scale told me I weigh 178 when I stepped on buck-naked. I wore my lightest-weight dress to work today, as I won't be stripping down for the weigh-in. (Yeah, that outfit kept me really warm in the 10-degree 6AM Boston morning chill.) Anyway, now begins ten weeks (at least) of dieting, which I refuse to call "deprivation" although they have much in common. And if I'm feeling really motivated, I'll start going into the basement to spend some quality time with the treadmill after I get the babygirl to sleep. Screw it. As long as I'm gonna be miserable anyway, I might as well do miserable right. Sigh... Anyway, my ultimate goal weight is 142, my pre-pregnancy weight. My goal for the ten weeks of this Weight Watchers At Work program is to lose 15 pounds. 163, here I come.

Hi there!

2006-02-24T12:37:00.000-05:00

Things are lookin' up!

2006-02-24T12:09:00.000-05:00

Well, I'm finally starting to feel like I might be able to get a financial toehold in the world after all. I got a nice raise back in November, which was topped off by a cost of living adjustment in January. Then, when my brother-in-law and his family moved out of our upstairs apartment to join my mother-in-law in New Mexico, we got a new tenant in there who's only going to be home on weekends but is paying us nearly twice as much in rent as we were getting. And I filed our taxes electronically, resulting in a nice refund being direct-deposited into our checking account, thankyouverymuch. Long story short, I paid all our bills, made extra-big payments on the credit cards, paid nice extra principle payments on the mortgage and equity line, opened a savings account for the babygirl, and we *still* have more in the bank than we have had anytime in recent memory. Plus I started an automatic withdrawal from my pre-tax paycheck for deposit into an employer-matched retirement savings account. Just 2% of my check, mind you, but that's more than I've ever managed to save before, and I can jack up that percentage anytime I feel the household budget can handle it.

I know it's tempting fate to so much as acknowledge that our financial picture is finally moving from the red into the black, but *hot damn!* it feels good, and I've never had a chance to feel this way before, and it's my damn blog, and nobody reads this stupid thing anyway, so I'll post about it anyway. Finally, at age 35, I'm becoming financially responsible. I'm saving. I'm thinking about sending at least one kid to college, and about maybe even retiring someday. Oh yeah, and the Mega Millions lottery is up to $212 million. I spent $5 on some quick picks today. Sure, that's most likely a waste of $5, but what the heck - you can't win if you don't play, right? Maybe I'll win, and then I'l look at the measly little $400 savings account I just opened and just laaa-aaa-aaaugh.

*** we're in the money... we're in the money... we've got a lot of what it takes to get along... ***

Getting my nose out of the feedbag

2006-02-22T15:53:00.000-05:00

Weight Watchers starts next Monday. I'm trying to get into the right frame of mind for it by taking ownership of what I'm eating in the meantime. Why is it that when I'm home I can't stay the hell out of the kitchen? It's like I crave the stimulation of eating. Which frustrates me because, aren't I getting the emotional stimulation and satisfaction I need from the babygirl? Apparently not everything I need. But I refuse - REFUSE - to role-model unhealthy, dependent eating habits to my little girl. I grew up with a very unhealthy relationship to food that led to a long and bitter battle with weight, one that I did not resolve until I was twenty when I lost over 70 pounds and kept it off for five years. Of course, that's when I got preggo with babygirl, and now I've still got 40 excess pounds of baggage to get rid of. I want to spare her this battle. I don't want her to remember me floating back and forth from the fridge to the cabinets, grazing nonstop and having to tear myself away to spend quality time with her. I absolutely love the time I spend with her. But there is some deeply buried but very vocal piece of my consciousness that wants to eat NOW, to eat FIRST, before anything else including spending time with my precious little one. That piece of me needs to quiet down. I need to learn how to meet the underlying need so that I can get it to quiet down. In the meantime, I keep telling myself when I drift in the direction of the kitchen, "Get your nose out of th feedbag, woman!"

You may feel free to borrow that line if you like it.

happy happy joy joy

2006-02-18T12:39:00.000-05:00

I have finally gotten high speed Internet service at home! Fare thee well, dial up service. It's so nice to click and a link and - boop! - I'm there. I don't often get to blog from home because it takes so freaking long, but wait, now it doesn't anymore. Thanks, Cox, you're a pal.

Also, it's Saturday and I have the whole house to myself. I got the babygirl down for her nap 40 minutes ago, cleaned the kitchen/bathroom floor *right quick*, and now have maybe 35 whole minutes left to myself. What a blessed, wonderful thing it is to have time to myself! And it so rarely happens anymore. I'm going to eat leftover pizza for lunch (note: Weight Watchers not starting til next week), read the last few pages of a novel while I flip through my fave blogs, and enjoy the sound of Carole King's "Tapestry" coming through the baby monitor. I really couldn't think of any nicer music to leave on in her room to calm her in her sleep. Hee!

Have a nice weekend, everyone. I know I will. I played hooky from work yesterday (it's OK, I don't have anything due until mid-March) and also have Monday off for President's Day. You know, every weekend should be a four-day weekend.

Bye!

Weaning (sob!), Valentine's Day

2006-02-14T07:52:00.000-05:00

Well, it's happening sooner than I thought, and I am both happy and sad about it. There is no doubt that my babygirl is weaning. Her consumption of pumped milk has dropped to nearly nothing - she's been taking just a couple of ounces of her "breakfast bottle," which was always the most crucial bottle of her day. The rest of my milk has just been sitting in the fridge, slowly going sour. Yesterday I did the unthinkable - flushed two full 6-oz bottles down the toilet, because they had spoiled. And then I dumped the 4 oz. remaining of her breakfast bottle down the sink. I'm down to one pump a day at work, just enough to give my boobies the signal to keep making enough milk for an early AM feeding.

But she's also scaling back on her consumption of milk from the tap. On the days I'm home, I breastfeed her when she first wakes up, but she doesn't ASK for it; she wakes up and I offer it to her. Then she doesn't generally ask to nurse until the mid- to late afternoon, right about the time I get home on workdays. This is the only nursing session she actually asks for anymore. And even then she remains distractible - by the TV, by the dog, by her daddy. Our afternoon nursing session tends to be long, but she isn't doing a lot of sucking and swallowing. She holds me in her mouth, sucking just a bit, while she futzes with my bra strap and shirt and face. When she finishes, there's clearly still more milk to be had that she just doesn't want. This nursing session is more about being close to me than it is about nourishment.

She still nurses when I put her down to bed for the night, of course. She doesn't have to ask for this nursing session; it's our entrenched routine. I read her a book, usually "Goodnight Moon," we lie down on her bed, I give her boobies, and she falls asleep. But this nursing session has also gotten shorter, and she is less likely to fall asleep on the boob. Sometimes she plays with my nipple a bit before she'll even take it into her mouth to nurse. I think she'll be ready to give this one up soon.

I had hoped, no, planned to nurse until she turned two. So on a certain level, it's unexpected and sad that she's not interested in continuing the nursing relationship for that long. I'm trying to look at it as a good thing - she is so happy and self-confident and secure of her place in our lives and the world, and has adjusted so well to real food and drink, that she just doesn't feel the need to nurse the way she did when she was just a little thing. I'm also very psyched that soon I'll be able to stop pumping, and frankly, stop thinking so damned much about my breasts. But I have such mixed feelings at this very real, very obvious transitional step in her life. Never again will she be my little tiny nursing baby, my little boobie baby. Never again will I hear what I called the "boobie chuckle," that half-laugh, half-anxious-cry that used to come out of her mouth as I set up the Boppy, placed her on it, and unfastened my shirt and bra to allow her access. Now she's an independent little toddler, complete with sippy cups of soymilk instead of bottles of breastmilk. I'm happy to see her turn into a toddler. Her every developmental step fills my heart with joy, pride, and pure pleasure. It's just the baby she's left behind that I will miss - for how long I don't know, but certainly for awhile.

Anyway, on a less bittersweet note, happy Valentine's Day!!! My hubby bought me two dozen long-stemmed red roses. They're gorgeous and even smell nice, if not very strong. He actually gave them to me yesterday, along with cards from both him and the babygirl. It's OK that he gave them to me yesterday, because that gave me time this morning to divide out one dozen and wrap them up to bring into my office. (Flowers always mean more when they are at the office where everyone can *see* them, am I right? Bad, shallow, petty little me!)

Thanks, honeybear, for the flowers and for everything. I try to make a point of telling you how much I appreciate what you do, but I don't know if I say it often enough or in the way you'd most like to hear it. So I'll say it here for all the world to hear. I love you and I am an incredibly lucky woman, to have a man who loves me and our daughter so very much, who is faithful and loyal and supportive and constant, and who can be tender and loving and strong and macho all at the same time. Without you, I could not have the happy, mostly-balanced life that I do. You are all that I want and more than I deserve. Happy Valentine's Day, my sweetie, and many, many more.

A-HA! Pictures!

2006-02-09T07:48:00.000-05:00

It's pretty unusual for the picture icon to return immediately, but it did today. So here, for your enjoyment, are some really cute pictures. If I do say so myself. And believe me, I do.

My babygirl's growing up. Dieting time approaches.

2006-02-09T07:22:00.000-05:00

My babygirl, at 16 months, is starting to scale back her nursing and also her consumption of pumped breastmilk. Yesterday she nursed when we woke up together at 6:30 but then not again until 3PM. Even then, I initiated nursing because my boobs were throbbing and aching. She did nurse three more times though, including her going-to-sleep session, which clearly is going to be the last nursing session to go when she finally weans. Its form has changed throughout her life so far, but right now the way it goes is that she nurses for a crazy long time, then finally decides she's had enough, rolls away from me and falls asleep. But the fact that she went for eight and a half hours without asking to nurse really blows my mind. She's always been such a boobie baby.

On the days that I work, her daddy gives her the milk I've pumped on previous days. For most of her life, she would have three or even four 6-oz bottles over the course of the day. When I first returned to work I was pumping four times a day to keep up with her need. Yeah, it was as rough as it sounds. Finally I went down to three pump sessions a day, and that's where I've been ever since. This usually allows me to generate two and a half bottles a day. Then, on the days I'm home, I manage to squeeze in one small pump session per day to top off that third bottle. Within the last few weeks, since we started giving her soy milk instead of whole cow's milk, she's really cut back on her breastmilk consumption. Two bottles, or sometimes even just one, per day. I've been freezing one or two full bottles every work day. Clearly I don't need to still be pumping three times per day. Starting today, I'm dropping to two sessions. Hooray! If she keeps cutting back I'll drop to just one session soon. And there, on the horizon, I can see that happy day when I pack up my pump, bring it home, and stick it in the basement to await the possible arrival of baby #2. I will so NOT miss pumping.

The downside of all this is that I will need to start watching my diet soon. I gained 70 pounds while pregnant. I lost 30 immediately but have been carrying around the extra 40 ever since. Why? Because I discovered that for so long as I am breastfeeding, I can eat ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING I WANT and not gain an ounce. Or lose an ounce for that matter, but c'mon people, eat and not gain weight? Yeah, sign me up. Now that the breastfeeding is winding down, though, I need to scale back my eating and even start hacking away at that forty pounds that stands between me and all my nice size 10-12 clothing packed away in bins in the basement. Coincidentally, there is a new Weight Watchers group forming at my work starting next Monday. I think it's a sign that I'm meant to join. I hate dieting. I hate exercising (for exercise's sake, that is, as opposed to doing fun things that get my heart rate up). I've actually never done a diet that required me to count anything, whether calories or points or whatever else. But the time has come. I cannot put off the inevitable anymore. I cannot pretend to be a woman in control of my destiny and still be a slave to my food dependencies to the extent that I waddle around with an extra forty pounds on board. And I cannot set a good example of healthy food behaviors for my child this way, something I swore I would do to try to spare her the misery I went through as an overweight kid and teenager.

This is going to be tough. I love to eat. I love to eat healthy food. I love to eat unhealthy food. I love sweets. I love fats. I love carbs. I love meat. I love veggies, especially slathered in butter. I love fruits, especially when they are inside pastry or pies. I love dairy products, especially the full-fat versions. I love eggs, and could happily eat three a day every day (as I did while pregnant) for the rest of my life. Shit, I'm making myself hungry right now. But I am going to have to scale back on my indulgence of all these loves or else I will stay heavy and that's just not acceptable anymore.

Anyway, 'nuff said. Here, for your entertainment, are a few more cute pictures of my babygirl. Because of course everyone in the world enjoys pictures of my babygirl as much as I do. Of course.

Wait, I'm missing the icon to post pictures. Don't know why this happens and when it does I never know how long it will last. But it looks like you'll be spared for at least a few hours til my picture icon comes back. Sigh...

On being a mommy and a working lawyer.

2006-02-03T06:56:00.000-05:00

I tend sometimes to take for granted how very fortunate I am. Not only do I have a happy, healthy child, but also a good and satisfying career and a solid, secure marriage. I am blessed, especially, that my husband is sufficiently secure in his masculinity that he had no problem giving up his job to stay home with the babygirl so I could keep working. And it took a while to achieve a relatively seamless integration of work and motherhood, but I think I've more or less gotten there.

This is largely possible because of the particular job I have. I am permitted to work from home one day per week, which I do on Wednesdays. (Thank you so, so, so much, super-extra-cool boss o'mine!) This is very important, because my job is so far from home that I have to wake up at 4AM to be able to start and finish my day before rush hour traffic in either direction. Wednesday work-at-home means I don't ever have to wake up at 4AM more than two days in a row. And even though I'm working, I can take breaks and lunch with my babygirl and my hubby. Little moments of happiness scattered through my otherwise-mundane working day.

Truly, I appreciate that I was not the one who had to stay home with the baby. Because, you know what? Even though I truly value every minute I get to spend with her, I still get bored sometimes. Especially now, in the winter, when we cannot go out and enjoy our big backyard or the park across the street. I have always gotten bored sitting at home, especially in the winter, and the mere fact that I now have a child there with me has not changed that fact. I could not handle being home all the time, whereas hubby is a homebody and doesn't seem to mind. Thanks for covering the home front, sweetie-pie.

That being said, I still miss my babygirl every day that I have to go to work and be away from her for basically 10 1/2 hours, including travel time both ways. She is always on my mind, if only in the back of my mind, as I am doing my work. She is my motivation for efficiency and thoroughness. I am always thinking, "I have to rip through this so I can leave on time to get home to babygirl." "I have to get this right the first time so I don't have to stay late fixing it while babygirl is missing me at home." Hubby and babygirl call me once a day at work, on my cell phone - I call it my "baby call." He and I say hi, and catch up on minutiae of the home front, and then he passes the phone to babygirl. She puts kisses on my picture on the screen, and says MAMA MAMA MAMA MAMA and DOGGY DOGGY DOGGY, and presses buttons in my ear, and laughs when I make raspberries. It is the highlight of my day.

And just to help me through my day without her, I've put up pictures of babygirl all around my office. There's at least one picture from every Kiddie Kandids sitting I've taken her to in her lifetime, and there's been a lot, starting at 3 1/2 weeks old. Here's some pictures of my office, just to give you some idea of how thoroughly my babygirl has permeated my professional environment. To be fair, some of the pictures are of other kids - my nephews, my buddy G's two kids - and some are of other grownups and even my dog, but 90% of them are of the babygirl.

I hope I can be a positive role model for my babygirl as she grows up. I hope she will see that a woman can be a mommy and still have a life of her own. I hope she will see that a mommy can support a whole family on her own. I hope she will have a relaxed, peaceful, balanced, happy mommy who doesn't need to pin the weight of all her hopes and her dreams on her kid(s) instead of achieving at least a few of her own ambitions. But at the same time, I fear that my hubby will spoil babygirl for all other men - after all, her male role model stays home with her, makes her the center of his life, cleans the house, does half the cooking, and is warm and loving and nurturing all at the same time. In short, my hubby is everything a man used to look for in a wife. How likely is she to be able to find a man half as good once SHE grows up and has her own hopes, dreams, and ambitions to fulfill?

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

2006-02-02T08:09:00.000-05:00

My sister-in-law A. along with Hyperactive Boy and L'il Cherub Baby moved out to New Mexico, flying out there with my mother-in-law, yesterday. My brother-in-law T. will be joining them in about three weeks, after he gets done shipping some of their stuff out there, selling other stuff, and trashing the rest.

These are pictures I took at the airport. First one is A. with L'il Cherub Baby; second is Hyperactive Boy. I already miss the hell out of 'em all already.

Random babygirl pix.

2006-02-02T07:44:00.000-05:00

My hubby's too-damn-cool-n-hip middle brother M. and his lovely girlfriend bought babygirl this pj set for Xmas. I had the hardest time photographing her in it because my GOD, the girl never stands still for even a second, especially once she sees the camera come out. For those of you who STILL can't read them, the shirt has the AC/DC band logo, and the seat of the bottom says "Dirty Deeds" as in the AC/DC song "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap." Too funny, and too damn cute.

Babygirl gets the most amazing bed head, every time she sleeps. Sometimes it's cute. Other times - just plain scary. I thought that THIS particular bed head was especially epic.

More pictures of babygirl's room.

2006-02-02T07:20:00.000-05:00

We are continuing to restore babygirl's room to its pre-Babymama-occupation state of peace and harmony. First, a picture of the changing table/dresser from the furniture set I bought while pregnant. I just love this set. I miss the matching crib being in her room, especially now that it looks like it won't be returning (babygirl sleeps just fine in her queen-size bed, thank you very much).

This is my nursing/rocking corner. Notice that the black rocker is dressed up with colorful fleece blankets, and all babygirl's books are neatly stacked (momentarily) on the second shelf of the bookcase. Note also that you can very faintly make out a toy motorcycle on the bottom shelf - a gift from daddy.

This big, dark, ugly dresser was brought up from the basement for Babymama to use instead of stacking hers and Holy Terror's clothes on the floor. See how it just sucks up all the light and energy around it? What a fitting metaphor for the entire Babymama episode. I'm pleased to say that my hubby moved it out of the room yesterday afternoon.

My MIL picked up on a hint I dropped (like a brick on her foot) and bought this sorter bin and rack set for babygirl before she returned to New Mexico yesterday. We've moved it to where the Babymama dresser was. MUCH better.

What a room means to me.

2006-01-31T06:51:00.001-05:00

Back in mid-2004, as I grew ripely pregnant, I embarked on the time-honored expectant-mother ritual of preparing my baby's room. Armed with my well-thumbed, tabbed, highlighted copy of Baby Bargains, I put together my baby registry and then strongarmed hubby into driving me up to the Baby Boudoir furniture outlet in New Bedford in the truck. We picked out a lovely baby furniture set that matched the beautiful woodwork already in the room, and I spent the last of my money saved from when I had my own business buying it. I also bought an inexpensive glider/rocker/recliner and gliding ottoman set from K-Mart, of all places, because I couldn't afford a fancy baby glider, and hello, those don't recline anyway. It didn't match, being black, but I left that to deal with later.

And then? The accessory search. I didn't want any trite theme, something that would look SOOO CUTE now but would become cloying after only months of hanging out in the room nursing the baby. I just wanted the room to look happy, airy, mildly stimulating without causing epileptic seizures. After much shopping, and agonizing, in multiple home furnishing establishments, I settled on yellow curtains, a yellow crib bumper set, yellow bed linens for the queen-sized guest bed which we'd decided to leave in there for the time being, and a very cute primary-color checkerboard area rug, again from K-Mart. My best friend's mom contributed a hand-embroidered Noah's Ark themed wall hanging. The one item that took the longest to find was a yellow fleece throw to go over the black glider/rocker.

Then my baby shower happened. Now I had all these wonderful baby things to settle into the room. I spent many a happy hour assembling baby toys, swings, etc. and finding their proper places.

Finally, all was ready. All I had to do was wait. And wait. And wait, as babygirl took her time about being born. We finally brought her home from the hospital, nine days after her due date.

I was so glad for all the preparation we put into her room. I spent hours in there, nursing her, changing her, failing to get her to sleep in her crib, sleeping (or just lying there desperately wanting to sleep) with her on the guest bed. Then she got a little bigger, a little more independently able to move, and we began playing in there with her toys, her swing, her fingers, my toes. Her room was the warm, peaceful oasis of the house. Even when the rest of the house went completely to pot, I made a point of keeping her room neat and clean. Her bed always got made. Her clothes always got folded and put away. Her rug got vaccuumed. The shades got opened every day and the sunshine streamed in through the sunny yellow curtains.

Babygirl learned to crawl, and even started toddling. She loved moving freely between the living room, the kitchen, and her bedroom. She loved it when the dog laid his big, achy Great Dane bones on the bed in her room. She loved it when her daddy and I lay with her on that bed and just rained down our love on her. She loved it when I nursed her, quietly rocking back and forth in the glider with the extra stereo, set up next to me, softly playing classical music.

Then, the soap opera started. The state Department of Children, Youth and Families got involved in my brother-in-law's babymama's life. DCYF quickly figured out that my BIL and his wife had their shit together, and backed down from its investigation of Hyperactive Boy's case. (HB is the son of my BIL and Babymama). But DCYF did NOT like what it saw of Babymama's life, and how it affected her daughter Holy Terror, the spawn of an ill-advised one-night stand. Long story made short, one day at 4PM, Babymama calls my husband, an acknowledged softy, in hysterics. DCYF had given her until 9AM the next morning to find another place to live before they would come and take HT away and put her into foster care. My hubby comes to me, tears in his eyes, and begs me to let Babymama and HT stay with us for a little while until Babymama can get her shit together. With a heavy heart, I agree to let them come and stay in my babygirl's room.

Babymama came, with HT, and proceeded to make our lives absolutely miserable. She was always the victim, you see; nothing was ever her fault, and she was just helpless to make anything positive happen, ever. She had no interest in getting her shit together, or in anything but squatting in our space. HT was herself; that is, a completely undisciplined, snotty, feral little creature who was also miserable in the emotional sense of the word - she was clearly aware on some emotional level that nobody loved her, except her mother, who only just barely loved her and used her for leverage at every opportunity. Babygirl was not pleased either. She knew that they were in HER room, and never did understand why she could not freely come and go as she had since she learned to crawl.

The crib came out of "their" room because we were desperate to get Babygirl out of our bed. This was a huge pain in the ass - the crib was wider than any of our doors, so it had to be taken completely apart. Then our bed had to be lifted up to make way for it to come into our room.

It was so hard, Babygirl not having a room while Babymama and HT were squatting in our home. Babygirl is a lousy sleeper, and in the past we had felt free to plunk her in her crib, shut the door, and let her scream for awhile while we regained our composure. Now that was just not an option. Her sleep problems became our insurmountable sleep problems. No breathing room. No escape hatch. No pressure valve. Just hubby, me and a screaming, angry baby at 2AM when I needed to wake up for work at 4.

Ultimately, it was this problem that finally gave me the strength to show Babymama the door. Babygirl needed her room back. We needed babygirl to have her room back so that we would be able to step away when the nighttime pressures built up to the point of imminent explosion. When it came down to weighing babygirl's welfare against the possibility of putting 3-year-old HT out on the street, there was no question which way to go.

We still haven't gotten babygirl's room back to its pre-Babymama state. Moving the crib back in is just going to be a humungous project, and I'm waiting for a replacement for a critical broken part to arrive. But it is OUR room again, mine and hubby's and babygirl's, and the filthy twilight darkness that Babymama filled the room with is finally gone.

A couple of days after I kicked Babymama out, hubby looked around the room, and said wonderingly, "You know, we made this the nicest room in our house, and we just gave it away for six months." He was right. We've been in our room for 3 1/2 years and it's the only room in our house that has proper curtains in it, not to mention furniture that matches the woodwork. But more than that, the room was our haven. Our oasis. Our peaceful place, full of love and play and calm and music. It was that place, and now we are well on our way to making it that place again. And, you know, it's amazing. The more the room is restored to its harmonious, peaceful state, the more our family life is doing the same.

We will give up our own room before we ever give up babygirl's room again.

Mama's little mischief maker

2006-01-30T11:54:00.001-05:00

I just talked to my hubby and the babygirl on the phone. In the five hours since she woke up this morning, she (a) chewed up a blue crayon; (b) while visiting Auntie A. and L'il Cherub Baby upstairs, found Hyperactive Boy's pack of Trident gum and shoved two pieces into her mouth, wrappers and all, while the grownups were momentarily distracted; (c) snuck a piece to L'il Cherub Baby, in whose 7-month-old toothless mouth it lay undiscovered for nearly two hours; and (d) drank the last mouthful of hubby's coffee and then whacked the mug repeatedly on the rim of the garbage can while hubby dared to take a bathroom break.

All of this with that dazzling smile and that impish gleam in her eyes, I'm sure.

God help us - she's only sixteen months old. Will we ever pee in peace again?

In which my heart breaks into a million tiny pieces

2006-01-27T06:45:00.000-05:00

Last night I was sitting on the couch with babygirl. I hugged her, kissed her round soft little cheek, and said "I love you, babygirl."

She says back, clear as day, "Love you."

Hubby and I looked at each other, stunned. Then tears started pouring out of my eyes.

I felt like that the first time she said Mama, too.

My sweet beautiful smart little baby girl loves me. I know this, because she told me.

Love you too, sweetheart. Yesterday, today, tomorrow, and forever.

Busy!!! And Fours...

2006-01-26T07:44:00.000-05:00

I've not had a chance to post since Saturday's big news because I've been very busy at work doing lawyer-type things that make me feel all tingly and important inside. But I think this phase will be wrapping up soon and when it does, I've got some thoughts I'll be posting, inspired of my new/old, Babymama-free home life.

In the meantime, Teri at Blueberry Pie tagged me for the ubiquitous Fours meme. (I think it's pronounced "Me-Me" and if it's not, that's still how I'm gonna say it!) So, without further ado, here's my Fours meme answer list.

Four jobs I've had:

1. Bakery shop counter sales person. This turned out to be a bad idea as it allowed me to discover the joy of fresh, warm-from-the-oven pastry and rolls. Still an obsession today.
2. Customer service representative for AT&T Long Distance. Eleven words on this one: "Good morning, how may I provide you with excellent service today?"
3. Bill collector for R.I. Hospital Trust Bank, which got swallowed by a bigger bank that also got swallowed and then more, like piranha Mamuschka dolls. Alternate job title: professional bad guy.
4. Lawyer. By far the best fit, and the only one I've ever been truly happy with.

Four movies I'd watch over and over:
1. Yellow Submarine
2. Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon
3. Jackie Brown
4. Everything is Illuminated

Four places I've lived:
1. Providence, RI
2. Boston, MA
3. Allston, MA
4. Revere, MA

Four websites I visit daily:
1. Pibgorn. Beautiful artwork, bizarre storylines.
2. Salon.com. Especially its Broadsheet (women's) blog.
3. Angry Black Bitch. For those who like their politics tart, served with a cold Vodka Cran.
4. CNN.com. Because nobody likes an ignorant lawyer.

Four of my favorite fattening foods:
1. Fettucine alfredo.
2. Annie's Mac and Cheese, made with half-n-half and lots of real organic butter. (My daughter generously shares hers with me.)
3. Pizza.
4. Cheesecake.

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. Paris.
2. Sanibel Island, Florida. My hubby and I got married on the beach there.
3. Home. In bed. Asleep.
4. Hmmm... can't think of anything right now...

Four bloggers I'm tagging:
I don't pass on chain-letter emails as a matter of principle, so I think I'll just let this peter out here. Plus, at this point this meme has been out there so long I don't think there's four bloggers left who haven't done it.

Hope y'all are having a good day/week/whatever. All is well in WOTH-land, and I'm looking forward to having more posting time very soon.

I did it! Hooray!!!

2006-01-21T20:59:00.000-05:00

Well, I kicked Babymama and Holy Terror out of my house today. Backstory - Babygirl has been getting worse and worse about sleeping. She just does NOT sleep through the night. It's like each nice she wakes up more and stays up longer. Last night she slept like a newborn. It was not a good situation. I desperately needed a place to put her that was safe, like a crib in her/Babymama's room, so I could close the door and walk away and just breathe for 10 minutes to regain my cool. There was, however, no such place. I was up, and my hubby was up, and thhe babygirl was up, and there was yelling, and there was breaking down, and it was a great big ugly scene. I *needed* a break - after 16 months of this cr@p from babygirl who has always been a poor sleeper - so I stayed out on the couch and did NOT sleep. I lay there, my mind racing, worrying how to deal with this problem, and the other big stressful problem in my life, that being miserable moochy Babymama who never did bother looking for a job once I bought her a car, or even thanking me for that matter, when suddenly I realized that the answer to both problems was the same, and that it could no longer be put off, but that it had to happen right away.

So when Babymama woke up in the morning, I sat her down at the kitchen table and said "I need you and HT to move out today. Here's the number for [Agency]; it's the coordinating agency for all the homeless shelters in the state and if you don't have somewhere to stay they'll find you a place." As I said this, she blinked like eight times really really fast, looking as though I had slapped her. I stood up the instant I was done speaking and walked out of the door, shutting the French door behind me. Three hours and forty minutes later she and all her crap was gone.

This was the most beautiful day of the last six months of my life.

Hubby and I cleaned out the room. I put fresh linens on the bed and washed the throw rugs. We haven't moved the crib in yet, as we will have to disassemble and reassemble it, not to mention purchase a replacement for a broken part on the slide-up-and-down mechanism, but we will get it done very soon. Babygirl played in there ALL DAY LONG. Running in, running out, jumping on the bed, sliding off the bed, playing with Mama's books on the bookshelf. I was able to sort through her dresser ande clear out all the too-small stuff, and then fold and put away everything we'd been keeping for her in a laundry basket in our bedroom. The room's not back to its prior peaceful coordinated self yet, but it's SOOO much better, and it's ours. It's Babygirl's room again.

I put her down to sleep on the bed in her room tonight; she passed right out and is sleeping soundly there now all bolstered in with many pillows. I'll sleep with her in there tonight, but tomorrow I'm going to buy a baby monitor and maybe sleep with my husband, in our own bed - alone. We shall have to see how it works out from here. But in the meantime, I am so very, very happy.

I understand that she is staying with her mom "for tonight at least." Why didn't her mom take her - and her own grandchild - in six months ago, when this whole mess began?! Family should take care of family. Babymama and HT are NOT our family.

I'd be just fine if I never had to see either of them again.

Good night. I'm going to go have myself some very sweet dreams.

Good dinner!

2006-01-19T06:59:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I made a dinner that I was actually pretty proud of. It was pretty quick, fairly creative, and not terribly unhealthy. The sodium was probably a little high, but calories/fat were low, and it had both fruits AND vegetables. I was so happy with myself that I had to post it here.

What would I name this dish? I don't know - Orange ginger turkey with fruity spring greens salad? Whatever, here it is:

Simmer 4 turkey breast fillets in a saucepan, in ginger-tamari sauce (2 parts) and orange juice (1 part). While that's simmering, take 1 box premixed/prewashed organic baby spring greens, add chopped MacIntosh or other crisp apple, diced pineapple, crushed walnut pieces, and crumbled Feta cheese. Mix well.

The turkey fillets should be cooked by now (they don't take long). Spread a couple of tablespoons of sesame seeds on a plate. Remove the fillets one-by-one from the saucepan, shake off the extra sauce, place on the sesame seeds and then flip over - the goal is not so much to coat the fillets with the seeds as it is to use them as garnish. Place a serving of the salad in the middle of 2 dinner plates. Place two fillets on each plate on either side of the salad portion.

Add additional orange juice to the remaining sauce in the saucepan until the flavors balance out. Warm it back up. Spoon over the salad as dressing. It should be warm enough to just slightly wilt the greens. Spoon a little over the fillets, too, but not too much or the sesame seeds will wash off. You shouldn't need much anyway, as the fillets will be tender and juicy.

My hubby remarked on the nice presentation, and then ate his whole plate. Babygirl ate lots of the apples, pineapples, feta, and turkey. (I'm afraid she'll choke on the walnuts, and she has no idea what to do with salad greens.)

I'm not the most creative or ambitious cook in the world, but once in awhile I pull off a good one. And this one was easy, too, so I'm sure to reuse it many times. Yay, me!

Pictures!!!

2006-01-17T18:46:00.000-05:00

OK, why I couldn't get the upload picture button this morning remains a mystery to me... But anyway...

Here are some pictures from the long holiday weekend. First is a batch of pix from babygirl's weekend playdate with her Gramps, otherwise known as my dad. For Xmas, I bought babygirl a nice, handcrafted wooden dollhouse with furniture, people, and pets. I decided it should live at Gramps' house for babygirl to play with on her visits. First of all, it gives Gramps something specific and defined to do with her, which I think he appreciates. Second, it means babygirl doesn't have to share this very special thing with Holy Terror. (Yeah, we teach our kids that they need to share - what does it say when a parent goes to great lengths to protect her kid from having to share?) I love the relationship that's developing between babygirl and her Gramps - he loves her so much but has trouble expressing it short of just plain beaming constantly. I think he's finally realizing, too, that she's not actually all that fragile, and he won't break her picking her up or putting her down.

Second is a batch of pix from the nuthatch, er, I mean, my home. Babygirl wanted desperately to play with HT, so I let her. They played dress-up, though babygirl was indifferent to the game. The picture of her does *not* do justice to her indescribable cuteness as a little green Tinkerbell. (And I have NO idea what that facial expression was all about!) HT feels completely left out if I don't snap a pic of her when I take one of babygirl, so I took one of her too - she's the angelic-looking smiling toddler in purple.

Project Stuff-A-Baby gets under way.

2006-01-17T07:18:00.000-05:00

So, as I posted before, my babygirl hasn't really been gaining any weight to speak of, and the pedi told us that he's expecting to see her grow before her next checkup in April. Part of the problem is that she doesn't generally eat a lot of food, still nurses, and didn't really take to cow's milk. So this weekend I decided to embark upon Project Stuff-A-Baby, as in "full of food," and shopped accordingly. I bought vanilla flavored vitamin/calcium fortified soymilk, a bunch of boxes of Annie's Mac and Cheese with organic half-and-half and butter to make it with, rice pudding with cinnamon and raisins, chocolate pudding, avocados, and french vanilla fudge ripple ice cream. She took to the soymilk right away, and has been reliably drinking it in quantities two to three times that of the whole cow's milk. (It's really affected her poopies, too, but that's another story that doesn't deserve posting.) I feed her, not just at meals, but all the time. I constantly have something ready to put in her mouth if she shows any inclination. She especially likes the rice pudding, especially if there's raisins in the mouthful. And guess what? We bought her those plastic toddler spoons and forks, and she actually has pretty much figured out how to eat rice pudding with a spoon! Sometimes she has the spoon upside-down, but once we turn it right-side-up for her, she can spoon it into her own mouth. Aaaawww! Anyway, I was able to get a pretty considerable quantity of food into her this weekend, but it was a lot of effort. I'm hoping she'll show a little more enthusiasm for the project, thereby making it a little easier for me, as time goes on. Oh yeah - and it would be really nice if she'd stop rubbing her food-y hands in her hair every time she eats. Always the same spots - the clumps of hair behind and above her ears. It's kind of funny - like she has these Hasidic Jewish curls coming down, frozen in place with hardened Annie's cheese sauce.

Ouchie.

2006-01-17T07:12:00.000-05:00

Hubby's truck needed some work. Work that couldn't be put off, because, you see, the four-wheel-drive functionality for which we actually purchased the truck was non-operational. Also, it was making these scary clunking noises. The bill? $783.34. Thank goodness for home equity lines of credit. Credit. God, I hate credit. On the one hand, it acts all like it's your best friend, the one who talks you into doing fun, nice things for yourself that you'd never do if left to your own devices. But then, it sends you a bill for the fun. It tries to offer you pretty little low interest rates to disguise the fact that you're getting deeper and deeper into a hole, but really, even a low interest rate isn't going to save you when you charge more *every single month* than you pay on your various credit instruments. I don't know how I can be earning the salary I earn and still be relying so heavily on credit.

But anyway, the truck is running pretty nicely now. And we'll be ready the next time it snows. Only, perhaps, now that we've spent so much money we don't have making the truck snow-worthy, it won't snow at all anymore this winter? It would be ironic, but a worthwhile trade-off.

why oh why?!?!

2006-01-17T07:10:00.000-05:00

Why is it that on some days, Blogger doesn't give me the controls to upload pictures?!?! Today I have pictures I'd like to post, and Blogger is just not being helpful at all!

What we are going to do about the problem.

2006-01-17T06:53:00.000-05:00

Well, of course the Texas thing didn't work out. I pretty much knew it wouldn't. I just *really wanted* it to.

So here, instead, is what we are going to do. Brother-in-law T. and his wife A. and Hyperactive Boy and L'il Cherub Baby are going to move out of our upstairs apartment and join Mom-In-Law in New Mexico, approximately 2/19. Other brother-in-law C. is going to move from our basement, uh, ultra-efficiency apartment (one big room with a big closet, kitchenette, and half-bath) into the upstairs apartment. Babymama and Holy Terror move downstairs into the ultra-efficiency. They will be allowed upstairs two evenings a week to use our shower, because we can't afford to install a shower stall downstairs. BIL C. can't afford to pay the full rent that BIL T. has been paying, so we'll make it up by charging Babymama $75 a week to rent the downstairs. She will pay this out of her welfare money, or her job if she ever gets one. If she doesn't pay it, we will kick her out. (Free ride's over, you pathetic little mooch.) And she had better not keep coming upstairs to hang out with us, because I will have no problem at that point telling her that the main reason we relegated her to the basement is that we want to be seeing a whole lot less of her.

I am seriously considering hiring an exorcist and a Feng Shui practitioner to help me clean out all the bad vibes in Sarah's room once they're out.

De-Lurk Week: anyone there?

2006-01-12T06:47:00.000-05:00

Aside from the three people I know for sure occasionally read my blog, it's entirely possible that I'm just shouting into the void. And even if I am, I will continue to do so because it's tremendously cathartic and satisfying. But please, if you're out there, I'd like to know about you, so won't you please stand up and take a bow? In the spirit of National De-Lurking Week, I thank you.

Babygirl update

2006-01-12T06:36:00.000-05:00

She had a well-baby checkup yesterday. Folks, my 15-month-old babygirl weighs 18 lbs. 15 oz. Not even 19 lbs. yet. She's 31 inches long. Such a little peanut! But my pedi isn't worried because she is clearly healthy, happy, smart, and active as all get-out. However, she needs to start putting more weight on right about now. Part of the problem is she isn't a fan of whole cow's milk. My pedi suggested Vitamin D and calcium fortified soy milk, and/or Pediasure. We'll give them a shot. In the meantime, yesterday I fed her Edy's Butter Pecan Ice Cream with the pecans picked out. Yeah, she eats THAT just fine! And for dinner, I made her Annie's Shells and Cheese in an extra-fat version, with whole milk and about half a stick of butter for the whole box. She ate a bunch of that too. She loves mac and cheese with these tiny shells because she can spear them on, and eat them off, her little bitty fingertips.

She figured out how to open up the fridge the other day. We heard a rattling sound from the other room, looked at each other quizzically, and then saw her coming into the room with the little tub of crumbled Feta cheese, shaking it manaically and smiling from ear to ear. (Did I mention she loves Feta?) The next day we went out and bought fridge safety locks.

We don't have room for a hamper in our tiny bathroom; instead, dirty clothes just get heaped up behind the door. She loves to dig around in the stack, pull out one of my dirty bras or a pair of undies, HANG THEM AROUND HER NECK, and go walking out into the house. Then she wails when I try to remove them. Said I to her father, "It wouldn't be so bad if she was pulling clean ones out of my drawers to wear." Said her daddy, "Yeah, but the dirty ones smell like you." All together now, AAAAAAAWWWW-EEEEEUUUWWW!!!

Here's to you, babygirl; the most precious and wonderful 18 lbs. 15 oz. in the whole entire world. I love you more and more every day.

Texas...?!

2006-01-11T06:35:00.000-05:00

So, last night Babymama spent some time on the phone with her older brother in Texas. He and his wife moved there with their baby a little while ago, and moved in with the wife's family. Turns out he had to leave his job because it cost more to put the baby in daycare than he made at work. (I guess his wife must be the primary income earner? don't know, don't really care...) He had the bright idea that maybe Babymama and Holy Terror could fly down to Texas and move in with him in his wife's family's house, where they supposedly have a nice empty guest room waiting, and babysit his baby so he can go back to work. He's going to ask them & get back to Babymama on it. I don't know how likely it is - probably not very. It sort of feels like daydreaming to me. Babymama seems mildly excited at the prospect. I think it's sad that her idea of getting herself out of our house is to get herself into someone else's. But you know what? I don't care. If it does happen, the instant she and HT set foot on that plane to Texas, they are officially SOMEONE ELSE'S PROBLEM. For the rest of their lives. Because they will never, ever, ever live with us again.

By the way, aside from my ear which is still screwed up, I'm feeling healthy so far today. Babygirl is still sleeping. And I'm sitting here blogging while eating chocolate chip cookies with milk for breakfast - crispy little mini Abigail's Cookies in a plastic tub from Whole Foods. Delish!

And now for something entirely different.

2006-01-10T07:32:00.000-05:00

I have gotten sick of blogging about being sick and being saddled with Babymama and Holy Terror. Accordingly, today I shall blog about something different - that being my professional life.

I am a lawyer. I really enjoy my profession, most of the time. The cerebral challenge, the logic puzzles, the dry, informational, hopefully persuasive writing - these all satisfy my Libra soul. Not to mention, I win fairly often, and this is also satisfying.

Law school was an educational experience on many levels. I went to the law school that was ranked #26 the year I applied - not first-tier, but extremely respectable. My undergrad alma mater was a very small, inexpensive state college. I had done very well there, I felt, largely because the average student there was so very poor that it made my middling efforts look exceptional in comparison. So I get to this law school and am thrown in with folks whose undergrads are Harvard, Yale, pretty much all the Ivy Leagues and exclusives. I made a concerted effort not to allow myself to be intimidated. I studied and prepared for class. I spoke up in class. And you know what? I was as good at the game as anybody there. And by having the guts to open up my mouth and speak, I got a reputation as one of the smart ones, one of those who "got it." In other words, other students there were sometimes intimidated by me. This was very startling, and educational - it's not the name on your degree, but what you actually got out of your curriculum that matters. Anyway, law school was hard work, but in between, it was a lot of fun, and I made some good friends there. I actually miss that period of my life, sometimes.

The first couple of years out were pretty educational too. First I worked for a tightwad solo practitioner (I always knew I didn't have it in me to give the 70+ hours a week demanded of associates by the big firms.) We eventually had a meltdown due to personality conflicts. Then I went to a "boutique" litigation firm - a small firm specializing in high-profile litigation work which nonetheless billed itself as a "lifestyle" firm. Yeah, what a load of bull. I toughed it out for almost two years. I got married while I was there and my hubby and I honeymooned for 2 1/2 weeks in Europe. I expected to be refreshed when I returned to work. When, instead, I was twice as miserable as I had been before by virtue of having tasted freedom, I knew I had to leave.

I then spent a year and a half as a self-employed contract lawyer, meaning I hired out my services as an associate to solo and ultra-small-firm lawyers needing an extra hand in a pinch. This was the free-est, most enjoyable period of my legal career to date. I met and worked for some really interesting lawyers. Also, I got a ton of really valuable practical and substantive experience. I would still be doing this today if it weren't for one overwhelming cost factor - insurance. Health insurance, and malpractice insurance. These two things were crushing costs. I was barely affording a bare-bones health insurance policy, and malpractice insurance was out of the question. This was just too big a risk to run in the long term.

Duriing this period, I got a callback on a clerkship application I had filed a long time ago. The person selected had bailed out on the clerkship with 4 months to go - would I like to finish out her term? Of course I would. Federal clerkships are like gold on a lawyer's resume. I did 4 months of the clerkship at the same time that I was doing the self-employment thing.

One of my primary tasks during this clerkship was to review, evaluate, and draft decisions on cases in the large backlog of cases coming to the court out of one particular administrative agency. It was pretty boring stuff, but the law of it was easily picked up. Towards the end of my clerkship, I saw a vacancy announcement for a lawyer for that very same agency. I figured, what the heck, and put in my application. I wasn't sure I wanted the job given that the subject matter wasn't overly exciting, and I wasn't upset when I didn't hear anything back.

My clerkship ended. Back to the self-employment thing full-time. Enjoying it, but more and more concerned about being unable to afford malpractice insurance. Getting by, but barely, financially. Then, literally eight months after I submitted my application, I got a callback from the agency. Would I like to come in for an interview? Sure, why not. Shortly thereafter, a second interview. And then I got an offer. I turned it over in my head for a few days and then accepted. With a steady government job, I wouldn't have to pay my own health insurance, and wouldn't need malpractice insurance at all. I had my doubts over whether I would find professional satisfaction there, but that wasn't my primary concern at the time.

I came to be glad I made the decision to work here. First of all, the people I work with are pretty d@mned cool. My boss is just the best, nicest, most understanding guy you could ever want to work for. The people here are a wealth of information wrapped up in various degrees of coolness and/or niceness. I got tons of support during my pregnancy and recovery from my c-section. And there is no pressure to bill hours. As long as you're putting in the required 40 hours, you're golden. Granted, I'd love to make more money, and I'd love to be accruing vacation and sick time faster than I can here, and I'd love to have dental insurance as well as health insurance, but all in all I think I'm happier and have a much more balanced life that most of the people I went to law school with.

I can't say I'll be here forever. It's a very long commute from home, and it's getting inconvenient all the time. (The bus company I've used the whole time just cut out the bus I've taken home every day since I had my babygirl. Now my only choices are a bus that leaves the same time I get off work - 20 min's away - or one that leaves at the start of rush hour and would get me home 2 hours later than I now get home. Or carpool home with the same guy I carpool in with in the morning, passing up my current transit subsidy and leaving me dependant on another individual's attendance blips. Or just drive my butt in and pay $12/day for parking and risk road rage and/or falling asleep at the wheel at 5AM.) And now that I have a kid to put through college I have a nagging feeling I'm going to need to bank more cash at some point than is currently an option. Plus I'd like to retire someday, and have to admit to my great shame that at age 35, my & my husband's current retirement savings are exactly $0.00. So I think eventually I'm going to have to go back to law firm life. But in the meantime, with a small child at home, I know I've got a good thing going on here, and I am very, very grateful.

I fell down at work today.

2006-01-06T10:37:00.000-05:00

My earache is clearly of the inner-ear-infection, balance-affecting variety. As I walked from the restroom back to the office, I turned my head towards a noise and all of a sudden the room spun and I was on the floor. I was glad nobody was around to see.

My incredibly kind boss is giving me a ride to the train station so I can catch the 12:00 back to my car. My doctor is going to try to fit me in around 1 or so. Hopefully he can prescribe some antibiotics. I just cannot go on like this. Seriously, I know it's just a cold. But I just feel so completely done in by now. One cold after another since September, culminating in this. I'm ready to declare a quarantine on my apartment. I'd just have to find Babymama and Holy Terror someplace else to go for awhile. Yeah, right.

Photos

2006-01-05T07:28:00.000-05:00

Because a picture tells a thousand words.

1. My at-work arsenal of over-the-counter cold treatments. Each item has a twin at home.

2. The $100 car we bought for Babymama, in which we installed $184 in alternators and belts. Now get thee a job, woman.

3. Some pictures of babygirl. The last is with E., who was born to a friend from my childbirth class. He's all about books; she won't let me read her one without trying to rip it away and chew it up. But she's digging his baby monitor hard, much as she digs cell phones and remote controls. What's all this gender stereotyping Mars and Venus bu!!sh!t about boys being more mechanical and girls more intellectual?

Uncle!

2006-01-05T06:12:00.000-05:00

OK, cold, you win. I'm at your mercy, down on the mat, crying Uncle!

As if everything else I had wasn't bad enough. Over the weekend I developed, in my left ear, a severe earache. It feels like a vaccuum cleaner is sucking my eardrum in towards the center of my skull. Pain. Deafness.

And on top of everything else? Cold sores. Multiple. All along the left side of my upper lip. Now I don't just FEEL like Typhoid Mary; I LOOK like her too.

Oh yeah - and I have apparently overindulged in Afrin, and it no longer works to open up my nose. So just breathing is an issue on top of everything else.

Please, sweet lord, have mercy on me. I am a good person. I do kindness where I can. I do the best I can to harm nobody. Many people are dependant on me for their basic everyday needs. So can't you please, please, PLEASE take some of the burden of this miserable ongoing cold off my shoulders?

Goshdarndagnabbit, STILL sick, STILL tired...

2006-01-03T13:47:00.000-05:00

For how long can this go on?!?!

The six adults and four children/babies in my house have been passing variations on the same cold around and around and around since friggin' September. Now I have the version that comes with uncontrollable sneezes, occasional uncontrollable tickle-throat coughing, a low-grade fever, a mild earache, and nasal passages that slam shut like Alcatraz as soon as one assumes a horizontal position. Needless to say, not good for sleeping. I actually slept on the couch to allow my hubby and our babygirl to sleep uninterrupted by my hacking and sneezing.

Anyway...

I just wanted to express how grateful I am to have this space to air those feelings which have no outlet in my flesh-and-blood life. Perhaps you might have read my rant from last week about my long-term guest Babymama. Perhaps you thought it was really frigging harsh. I suppose it was, at that. But you know what? Having expressed those awful, mean-spirited feelings in some sort of outward fashion, without knowing whether anyone will (or has) read it, I feel as if they have been lifted somewhat from my shoulders. Not as if they have been taken away. More as if I have some sort of assistance in carrying them along. I was able to deal with her in a decent, kind, non-confrontative manner all weekend instead of seething over with unexpressed passive-agressive anger. I was able to see that this is a woman who is clearly suffering from undiagnosed but relatively severe depression, not to mention a killer attack of migraine headaches. Should she be taking more responsibility for her life and the course it takes? Absolutely, yes. But does she face more obstacles to doing so than I have ever had to face on even my worst day? Again, absolutely yes. I want to be helpful without being an enabler; I want to give her a firm but friendly push in the right direction without kicking her (literally) to the curb. And, oh yes, I want my babygirl's bedroom back... someday...

Ravished.

2005-12-31T11:45:00.000-05:00

I bought a new book yesterday, hoping to drown my cares in stories of other peoples' problems. I bought "Anna Karenina" by Tolstoy, which I have never read but always meant to.

I am only on page 51, and already I am ravished.

I now have something lovely to do on my bus ride to work, during babygirl's naps, and after she goes to sleep at night. In between, I digest the rich chunks as I pass through my day, turning over and over in my mind such succulent bits as the tense, initial bedroom confrontation between Dolly and Stepan.

It has been a long time since I fell in love with a book. ("Everything is Illuminated" by Jonathan Safran Foer.) I'd forgotten how good it feels.

Miscommunication. Rant.

2005-12-30T06:35:00.000-05:00

I hate that the Babymama situation has become the predominant topic on my blog. I'm sure that any regular readers are totally fed up with the situation and would like to throttle me or else to get over it. More likely, they'll just surf on over to the next, cheerier, happier, funnier blog. Can't say as I'd blame them. But for those of you kind enough to hang on, I say thank you. It means a lot to me to have a forum where I can pour out my thoughts and feelings on this difficult subject - whether or not anyone is even listening. So here's my latest Babymama drama.

Since her car died, my hubby and I have been shuttling Holy Terror back and forth to preschool. Not just to keep her routine intact, but more for our own selfish sake - to get her out of our hair so she doesn't drive us nuts all day. When she's home for the day, Babymama does her usual daily routine - back and forth between nose-in-a-novel and playing video games and talking to her boyfriend on the phone and smoking cigarettes on the (no-children-allowed) sunporch. You will note that all of these are solitary, non-child-friendly activities. Problem. HT is not a self-entertaining child. At all. And she's not very good at playing with my babygirl - her version of playing with her is to show her a toy which she hadn't taken any notice of, get her interested in it, then yank it away saying "no, no, no, it's mine, you can't have it!" Not much fun for babygirl, who by the way is completely capable of self-entertaining for up to 20 minutes at a shot. So anyway, what HT wants is to play with adults. Preferably Babymama, but if not, then us. And she's very insistent about it. She tries to engage Babymama in play, but Babymama tells her "go play" and keeps her nose buried in her book. So HT comes over and bugs me. Or my hubby. We don't really want to play with her all that much because, well, she's not our kid, and we have our own kid to play with. So the more Babymama puts her off and we don't engage her, the worse she behaves, until my hubby is off his rocker and spanks her and puts her in the corner and she starts throwing temper tantrums, one after another. It's absolutely unbearable.

So on Wednesday, HT and Babymama slept late - no getting HT to daycare before the 9AM cutoff. I asked Babymama what she was going to do with HT. She said she was just going to keep her at home. I told her she needed to keep her entertained so she didn't drive hubby and I nuts. Well, about 2 hours later I noticed Babymama was keeping HT cooped up with her in "their" bedroom. Hubby caught Babymama when she came out for a ciggy break and asked why, and she said, "Your wife told me she doesn't want to see HT today." No, that's not what I said at all!!! AAAARGH!!! So after I got my babygirl down for her nap, I took Babymama aside and had a difficult discussion with her. I told her that when HT is home with her for the day, she needs to stop the book-phone-video game-cigs on sunporch routine and actually ENGAGE HER OWN CHILD, thereby keeping her entertained instead of allowing her to drive us up the wall. I didn't care where she did it and I certainly didn't mean I didn't want to see or interact at all with HT; I just didn't want to be saddled with the primary responsibility for keeping her occupied because SHE'S NOT MY KID. Well, Babymama just looked at me in that passive, stunned, deer-in-the-headlights way, nodded and smiled, and said "Oh, OK!" And then she spent the day playing with HT, dressing her up in her new dress-up outfits that she got for Xmas, building with her new MegaBlox, coloring with her, walking her to the park, etc. HT was clearly thrilled. Hubby and I were able to relax and enjoy ourselves and our time with Babygirl. Everything was relatively harmonious in our overcrowded little household. I thought everything was OK, for once.

Postscriptum: A couple of hours after I had my little chat with Babymama, she went upstairs and complained to my sister-in-law A. that I thought she had horrible parenting skills. AAAARGH!!! Actually, I think she is capable of good parenting when she focuses on it and makes an effort, but I also think she has allowed herself to descend into poor parenting since she moved in with us because she was perceiving us as being willing to do it for her. Well, no more. We are HT's Auntie and Uncle, not Mommy and Daddy, and we will just not do the primary parenting thing any more.

I'm so sick of the drama in our house. There is so much talking behind backs going on. I complain to my hubby and my brother and law and my sister in law. Babymama complains to my hubby and my brother and my sister in law. Everyone is so sick of the talking behind backs. But it's so hard to think of just sitting down and having a frank, honest discussion with her, telling her everything I think of her and her absolute refusal to develop any coping skills whatsoever and take any ownership of her own life, because you know what? I HAVE TO FACE THIS CHICK, IN MY OWN HOUSE, EVERY DAY. It's tense enough as it is. I want her out so bad I sometimes cry about it. I just can't see any light at the end of the tunnel. She's so comfortable being dependent on us. Now she doesn't even have food stamps any more and we have to feed her too. But she won't ask for food. She'll just let HT cry because she's hungry and tell her, "I'm sorry honey, I don't have anything to make us for dinner" and then we feel bad and offer to share whatever we're having. Like I'm going to let a child starve under my own roof.

Dammit! Chicky, take some fucking responsibility for your own welfare! Get a job that you can get to by bus! ASK for help, at the very least! For crying out loud, I can't stand the fucking sight of you and your stunned, passive, miserable, pop-eyed face! You are absolutely NOT the first single mother to fall on hard times. Other single mothers fight and struggle and do what they have to do to protect themselves and their children from the circumstances in which they find themselves. You? You fucking collapse. You hide out in books so you don't have to face the wreck you've made of your life. You chain smoke cigarettes. (And where the hell are you getting the money for those, at $5+ bucks a pack, when you can't afford to feed your child?!) And you let other people who are not responsible for your misfortune carry your weight. I can't stand you. I hate you being in my house. I'm so angry right now I want to break something, but there's nothing around me I can break right now, so instead I'm just going to sign off from this post, shut my office door, and have a little cry to get rid of some of this frustration. Rachel, I hate you for doing this to me. This just can't go on. But I don't know how the hell to get rid of you.

In which the holidays inspire an unwarranted level of philosophical-ness.

2005-12-27T08:07:00.000-05:00

Well, Xmas is over. Thank. Goodness. We didn't put on the Xmas dinner this year. My brave, brave sister-in-law A., who lives upstairs from us, took on that task. All we did to help out was contribute a turkey/stuffing, sweet potato pies, and potato latkes. We had our apartment cleaned out all nice-nice in case additional seating capacity was required, but everyone wound up hanging out & eating upstairs. A. was absolutely exhausted by the end. I, on the other hand, had gotten everything I needed to do done on time and had gone to sleep at 9:30 PM on Xmas eve. So I was feeling OK compared to pretty much every other adult in the house.

The difference is that I am Jewish. My babygirl and I are the only Jews in the house. My husband considers himself atheist, but he was born Catholic and still celebrates Xmas, albeit in an entirely secular fashion. Because hubby celebrates it, and because we are sort of the senior adults in the family in our state, I've wound up busting my butt to put on Xmas dinner for many, many years. I think I'm done with that now. IT'S NOT MY HOLIDAY, after all.

The problem is that, while I was born Jewish, I never received any kind of Jewish education or indoctrination. Traditionally, it is the mother who is responsible for making sure the kids get the proper Jewish education. My mother passed away when I was six months old, leaving me with my entirely lapsed Jewish dad to whom it never occurred that I might like to know what it means to be a Jew aside from the fact that every other Jew knows me for one of their own the minute they set eyes on my face. I have felt that ignorance keenly throughout my life. As it was, growing up Jewish mostly meant that I didn't get to receive chocolate eggs on Easter or presents on Xmas. So it was mostly a matter of not getting the good stuff that all the other kids got, without any of the benefits that come of growing up in a faith.

I am pretty up-to-date on the Passover rituals and lore, only because I've gone to seder at my Jewish best friend's parents' home for the past 15 or so years. But I wanted to celebrate Chanukah this year on a more accurate level than I had in the last few years, when I simply lighted my menorah in the front window with no ceremony. So I went online and Googled a Chanukah service, sections of which I selected as being easily understood, not in Hebrew, and not having melodies of which I am unaware. And come sundown, when everyone else was still upstairs chowing down, I brought my dad and my daughter downstairs to light the first candle. I read my ridiculously abbreviated version of the Chanukah service while babygirl desperately tore at the front of my shirt giving that frantic plaintive booby-wanting cry and my dad frowned in that particular hard-of-hearing way he's developed over the past ten years. Pathetic, really, but still a step forward from last year. Last night I lit the second candle while babygirl fought with me to grab the menorah with its pretty flickering lights off the windowsill. Perhaps next year she'll be able to comprehend the point of the whole exercise on some more substantive level. I feel heavily on my shoulders the weight of my responsibility as a Jewish mother to make sure my Jewish daughter knows what it means to be Jewish, and this feels like one place to make that start - in a teacher-one-step-ahead-of-student kind of way.

For the first time in many years, I was mostly an observer of the American traditional Xmas experience. Oh, I mean, I bought presents for all of the kids, but I picked out a small neighborhood toy store with mostly old-world style toys (think wood, not plastic) and did all my shopping there, in one fell swoop, and even let them gift-wrap the goodies. But there are currently four children living in my house, and I saw what the holidays were - and did - to them. Let's call these kids Hyperactive Boy (HB), the Holy Terror (HT; those of you who read my old blog are familiar with her), my babygirl, and the 6-month-old L'il Cherub Boy (LCB). HB and HT are Babymama's kids.

The kids received presents from multiple, multiple sources. First, HB and HT got presents at school from area high schools that held charity events to buy toys for kids in underprivileged areas. Then, they got presents from Babymama's boyfriend. Then from Babymama's mother. All of these presents were opened BEFORE Xmas. There were enough of them, total, to constitute a complete Xmas with no more added in.

Then Xmas itself rolled around. There were presents for all the kids from Babymama, me & hubby, my mother-in-law in New Mexico, brother-in-law T. and his wife A., the DCYF case worker involved in Babymama's case (a surprising source of extreme generosity), and a dozen other random people. The presents under T. & A.'s tree fanned out to consume fully half the living room floor.

Then, Xmas evening rolled around and A.'s entire family brought in more presents, and once again half the floor was consumed. People, this was like the third wave of Xmas presents. These kids got enough presents to constitute three, full, generous Xmases in any other, less fortunate household. Ultimately, babygirl got the least presents of all by virtue of not having two sides of a family to bestow commercially sanctioned blessings, and still her crib (still not used for sleeping!) is filled with Xmas booty.

Let's talk for a minute now about the impact all of this had on the kids. Babygirl and LCB, being babies, really had no clue what was going on - they played with wrapping paper and demanded early, long naps. But HB and HT? Their behavior actually deteriorated at light speed from Friday the 22nd through Xmas night. I don't know if it was too much anticipation or overstimulation or stress bleeding through from the adults, but by Xmas eve night both of them were throwing full-out temper tantrums on the floor, side by side on the floor of Babymama's room, four fists and four feet pounding on the floor. And when it came time to open presents (again, and again, and again), they had no time to appreciate any one gift. They'd open one, exclaim "Cool!" or "Lookit!" and then fling it aside to open the next one. The penultimate moment, the one for which they'd been waiting, was the moment of acquisition - the moment at which a toy passed from "not-mine" to "mine" status. That moment having passed, none of those toys will ever give the same pleasure to either of them they they did, fleetingly, then.

I found the whole thing, the way it changed these children's personalities, to be sickening.

I want in the worst way for that not to be my daughter's ongoing holiday experience. I cannot prevent her from participating in Xmas, because her father and his whole family participates. But I want to shield her from the disgusting greedy commercial acquisitiveness which the American holiday season instills in goyish children. So I will continue to observe Chanukah, minor Jewish holiday that it is, in my own small way with my babygirl so that she knows that not everyone is like that. And I will ask hubby's relatives to respect my daughter's Jewishness by not blitzing her with excessive gifts. (Maybe if they still do so, I will divide the gifts into eight and distribute them to her over the eight nights of Chanukah?)

For my daughter's sake, I must commit myself to furthering my own Jewish education. Maybe I will find an ultra-reform congregation to join which will allow me and babygirl to take religious classes together, maybe even become bat mitzvah together (I never had even that rite of passage). If she wants to choose Catholicism as an adult, I will respect her choice. But in our culture, nobody need make any special effort to make sure she knows what it means to be Catholic. Come hell or high water, I will make it my mission to allow her to learn what it means to be Jewish, so at least when the time comes she can make an educated decision.

(Boy, this came out long and rambling, and not at all what I thought it would be like. That's the funny thing about blogging - my writing has a will and a mind of its own.)

This is what a feminist looks like. Holiday cheer.

2005-12-22T07:26:00.000-05:00

My best friend Auntie M. gave babygirl this T-shirt for Chanukah.

It says (coincidentally) "This is what a feminist looks like." That's the NOW (National Organization for Women) emblem under the catchphrase. None of this is clear in the pic's because babygirl just REFUSED to stay still and face me for a picture without holding toys in front of the design.

Anyway, all my mommy friends LOOOVE this shirt. The funny thing is, they all have baby boys. If NOW made this shirt in blue, I can think of three boy babies who'd be sporting them right now.

In other news, I'm mostly done being sick. But my hubby is just now coming down with it, along with the holy terror and (to a lesser degree) my babygirl. Just in time for the holiday weekend. Happy happy joy joy!

Let's see... partaking in Xmas/Chanukah dinner at our house will be (in my apartment) me, hubby, babygirl, Babymama, holy terror, my dad, hubby's older half-brother and his perpetually tipsy even-older girlfriend, hubby's handicapped/retarded sister, hubby's best friend, hubby's best friend's sister, and our 125-pound dog. Upstairs (in my brother-in-law's apartment) will be brother-in-law, his wife, his and Babymama's 6-year-old son, his 6-month-old baby boy, wife's mother and father, wife's sister with her 6-year-old son, wife's other sister, and possibly wife's other other sister.

It's going to be a madhouse.

Happy holidays, and pass the Manischewitz.