So I was thinking this morning about something that has gotten under my skin for some years now, and that I finally feel as though I am able to comment on, and it is this:
People who say: "Oh, you've never known love until you've had a child."
o.0
If YOU have ever said this to someone, I am going to ask that you stop reading this now. Or, at the very least, please don't take this personally. Because I have a few things to say regarding this statement.
First and foremost, yes. As a matter of fact, YES I HAVE.
I have loved deeply, and fully, and to the depth of my being. I have loved without condition, and without any thought of consequence to myself. I have loved with reckless abandon, with purity, and with a completeness that is staggering. And I did all of this before I ever had a child.
This is NOT to say that I don't love my child---you wanna fight? 'Cause those are fightin' words. . .
No. I love Nolan with my whole heart and soul, and I would gladly jump into a fiery pit for him without a nanosecond of hesitation. All I am saying is that this kind of love is NOT something new to me.
And I'm quite sure that I can't be the only person who feels this way.
(Honestly, I am not sure why people say this. Unless maybe it is sort of like the "bless your heart" sentiment, in that you say it when you don't really know what to say. But somehow, I think not.)
Before I had Nolan, people would say this to me: my doctor, a stranger at the grocery store, random people here and there. And now that I take the baby with me when I go out, people say it still. Some version of "You've never really loved until you've had children". . .and it makes me SO MAD!! How do they know how deeply I've loved?! Who are they to assume that I've never known a love like that?? And, in addition, this phrase also said to me that I was missing out on something. That I wasn't experiencing the fullness and joy that life had to offer me simply because I had not had children. (Which would mean that 34 years of my life had essentially just been rendered meaningless and wasted. . .)
And that is just wrong.
While it IS true that I now cannot IMAGINE my life without this little baby in it, I simply cannot say that the love I feel for him is something new.
Because I love my husband just as much.
Not in *exactly* the same way, mind you. . . with Nolan, I know that no matter what happens I will always be his mother. Nothing can change that. And there is a certain kind of contentment that comes from that knowledge. But aside from that aspect, it almost perfectly mirrors the way I love all the important people in my life.
For example: My brothers. When I was 5, my younger brother was born. And I just adored him. Loved him completely. And at about that time, I started having nightmares about him. (My brain has tried to kill me many times. Luckily for me--I've outsmarted it so far.) I would dream that we were in a shopping mall or some other public place, and he was kidnapped. I can remember it now as clearly as if it actually happened. . . I ran outside the mall, chasing the kidnappers, and just reached their car as they were pulling away. I was frantic. I was desperate. I even remember what kind of car they were driving: a white Volvo. I know that because Volvo's have distinct door handles, and that's what I was reaching for as they drove off. I woke up crying. I couldn't have been more than 9 years old. And I was having stress dreams. . . .Now that I think about it, that's a little neurotic. . .
But it's the same way with my step-brother. . .to this day I still have stress dreams about him. He's gone, he's dead, someone's hurting him---you name it, I've dreamt it.
The point I'm trying to make is that this is nothing new to me. I love deeply, and much. And having a child has done nothing to change that. It has only added to the list of people that I love completely.
The best example is, of course, my husband. I love him when he is right, and I love him when he is wrong. I love him when he's wonderful, and I even love him when he pisses me off (and he often takes advantage of this fact by saying 'I love you' when I am pissed at him, because he knows that, if pressured, I will always say it back. It is simply not in my nature to miss an opportunity to say 'I love you'.). I love him all the time, no matter what. And that is because I LOVE WHO HE IS. I love the person that he is. I think that guy is GREAT. And if he makes mistakes sometimes, it is only because he is human. So I simply love him. Period. As unconditionally, as fully and completely, as I love my son.
So for everyone out there who doesn't have children yet, for everyone who doesn't WANT children, and for everyone who has ever been told "I bet you never thought you could love this much", I would like to say, from the bottom of my heart----No. As a matter of fact, Yes. I HAVE loved this much.
Mind your business.
;)
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
My Life Through Email. . .
So recently I've been thinking about how--since the dawn of the cyber-age, anyway--the major happenings in my life can be tracked through my email. (In that I can go back through and read old emails, if I so choose, NOT in a Big Brother is watching/tin-foil hat kind of way. I just want to make that clear.)
Even so, this is a big idea for me to get my head around.
From almost as far back as I can remember, I have had a journal of some sort. Or, more honestly, I've generally had 2 or 3 at any given point. Some were nothing more than a spiral notebook, kept in my car, and to be used in every emergency from a quickly scrawled grocery list to a 'We are broken down--coming back with money for meter. Please don't tow!' note left underneath the windshield wiper on the car in precisely such a situation. (Pleased to report--we weren't towed.)
Then there's always at least one 'pretty' journal. . . the powder-blue suede one with silver on the binding has held a place on my bookcase for years. As I know that (due to just how completely PRETTY it is) this is a journal that I will have for quite a long time, I keep important things in here. Journal pages from important times in my life, or perfectly unimportant times when I simply felt the need to write, passwords to different accounts online, and running lists of what would be a good idea to get so-and-so for Christmas.
It's a very important journal.
. . .And since I can never remember my password, my Neopets would *literally* die without it.
=)
And then there's the notepad with polka dots and 'Joy' written on the spine that's always kept near the kitchen, generally with a pen sitting on top of it. This is because the kitchen is usually the first place we go after waking up in the morning, and when Michael and I are on different shifts the kitchen counter is the choice spot to leave a 'Good Morning, I love you' note.
. . .Or sometimes even a 'Good Morning, I love you, I took $10 from your wallet to put gas in the car and I found another spider last night we need to spray' note.
(It's been known to happen.)
All I'm saying is that these are my credentials for being a lover of the written word, and a lover of being the WRITER of those written words. I like having journals around. I like their appearance, and I like their physical presence.
So imagine my surprise when I realized that the most thorough, and most reliable journal of my activities for the last several years was never even written, but typed. . .
(I had mixed feelings, I will admit. Much like the whole Kindle debate. In which, I'm happy to report that Logic prevailed, but the romance and beauty of an actual bookcase still remains. It was a happy compromise.)
But these emails contained the daily minutia that I didn't have the time to record in any of my notebooks, as I can type much faster than I can write.
So I started going through old emails.
And was quickly re-introduced to the fact that I *might* be a slightly warped individual. =)
But more than that, these emails were perfect journals, and helped me REMEMBER so much more! So many small events that made up our daily lives that make me so happy just to think about. . .
(Probably NOT surprisingly, the bulk of these emails have been to either my mother or my husband.)
One of the more recent, a short email (which is an anomoly for me, as you'll soon learn) about feeling Nolan kick for the first time:
Subject: IT'S ALIIIIIVE!!!!!!
=======
And then there's the email I got while at work one day, that told me we were getting our house:
Subject: - "Clear to Close"
=======
So. . .feel perfectly justified in judging me now, if you wish. But keep in mind, when we lost our internet privileges at work several months back (sidenote: something I *almost* very passionately waged a veritable Crusade about. . .and then discovered that I simply lacked the energy. . .), the only thing we were left with was cnn.com and email.
And I quickly grew weary of being knowledgeable about current events. Much too beastly. I'll continue to get my news from Comedy Central, thank-you-very-much.
My point is that even if I'm not feeling very talkative in my daily life, odds are my fingers won't know when to shut up.
And of course, in a forum such as this, I am forced to completely overlook the major category of my old emails: notes sent to my husband---wishing him a good day, bitching to him about how I had inevitably been wronged by someone in one way or another, and reminding him that we are out of toilet paper.
And peanut butter.
As strange as it is to believe, my husband and I actually *met* via email communications sent through Myspace. . . .And it just so happened that we knew a lot of the same people. . . And he was really cute. . . AND he had great taste in music. . . and. . .
Well, SOME things won't be recited here =)
Primarily because I can't get INTO my Myspace account.
Because I lost the notebook that had my log-in information in it. . .
(True story.)
So.
Technology: 1
Notebooks: 0
Even so, this is a big idea for me to get my head around.
From almost as far back as I can remember, I have had a journal of some sort. Or, more honestly, I've generally had 2 or 3 at any given point. Some were nothing more than a spiral notebook, kept in my car, and to be used in every emergency from a quickly scrawled grocery list to a 'We are broken down--coming back with money for meter. Please don't tow!' note left underneath the windshield wiper on the car in precisely such a situation. (Pleased to report--we weren't towed.)
Then there's always at least one 'pretty' journal. . . the powder-blue suede one with silver on the binding has held a place on my bookcase for years. As I know that (due to just how completely PRETTY it is) this is a journal that I will have for quite a long time, I keep important things in here. Journal pages from important times in my life, or perfectly unimportant times when I simply felt the need to write, passwords to different accounts online, and running lists of what would be a good idea to get so-and-so for Christmas.
It's a very important journal.
. . .And since I can never remember my password, my Neopets would *literally* die without it.
=)
And then there's the notepad with polka dots and 'Joy' written on the spine that's always kept near the kitchen, generally with a pen sitting on top of it. This is because the kitchen is usually the first place we go after waking up in the morning, and when Michael and I are on different shifts the kitchen counter is the choice spot to leave a 'Good Morning, I love you' note.
. . .Or sometimes even a 'Good Morning, I love you, I took $10 from your wallet to put gas in the car and I found another spider last night we need to spray' note.
(It's been known to happen.)
All I'm saying is that these are my credentials for being a lover of the written word, and a lover of being the WRITER of those written words. I like having journals around. I like their appearance, and I like their physical presence.
So imagine my surprise when I realized that the most thorough, and most reliable journal of my activities for the last several years was never even written, but typed. . .
(I had mixed feelings, I will admit. Much like the whole Kindle debate. In which, I'm happy to report that Logic prevailed, but the romance and beauty of an actual bookcase still remains. It was a happy compromise.)
But these emails contained the daily minutia that I didn't have the time to record in any of my notebooks, as I can type much faster than I can write.
So I started going through old emails.
And was quickly re-introduced to the fact that I *might* be a slightly warped individual. =)
But more than that, these emails were perfect journals, and helped me REMEMBER so much more! So many small events that made up our daily lives that make me so happy just to think about. . .
(Probably NOT surprisingly, the bulk of these emails have been to either my mother or my husband.)
One of the more recent, a short email (which is an anomoly for me, as you'll soon learn) about feeling Nolan kick for the first time:
Subject: IT'S ALIIIIIVE!!!!!!
I CAN FEEL HIM MOVING!!!! IT FEELS LIKE HE’S UP PRACTICALLY IN MY RIB CAGE ON MY LEFT SIDE!!!!
This is insane!!! Like I can actually FEEL HIM!!! Feels like he’s doing flips. . . I guess he didn’t like that Subway sandwich with jalapenos that we had for lunch. . .
=======
And then there's the email I got while at work one day, that told me we were getting our house:
Subject: - "Clear to Close"
I just wanted to give you the good news…We just heard back from our underwriter..and we have a Clear-to-Close !
Thank you!
=======
Then there's the time the Star Wars exhibit came to the Huntsville Space and Rocket Center and we were taking the boys, and I was trying to find out if anyone else in the family was interested in going with us:
Subject: Evil Outings. . .
Greetings General---
As a recent instance of rebel-sabotage ( . . .VERMIN!!!) has left us incapable of generating our June Storm-Trooper Newsletter, I am sending this communication so that you will be briefed on our dark-doings and grisly goings-on. . .
Well Summer is here and every Storm Trooper on rotation is just pleased-as-punch about the announcement of our yearly Evil Outing. After MUCH heated debate, and extensive loss-of-life, our meeting ended in the decision to travel north to the ancient city of Hunt’s’Ville to view the ancient rockets there on display. Currently, plans are in the works to deliver the miniscule padawan (Codename: Eats-His-Boogers) to the Space and Rocket Center in Hunt’s’Ville on July 2, 2010. I have obtained data that suggests that tickets to this event are sold in 30-minute increments. We have obtained our passes for:
Friday, July 2nd
Night Admission
5:00 p.m.
We’re going to tour the normal Space and Rocket Center stuff that morning, and we’re doing Star Wars that night. I’m not sure how the tiny-jedi is going to fare on this all-day adventure. . . For that matter, I’m not sure how I will fare, either. (I have some very valid concerns about nap-availabilities. . .)
Any-hoo. . . this is just if ya’ll are interested. Seriously, though, if you think your child may have some inclinations toward someday ruling the galaxy, that’s REALLY the kind of thing you need to encourage when they’re young. . . =)
Hus, kisses, and Space-snuggies----
Darth Mater
=======
Or finally, the email sent to my mother in regards to Muscles, our youngest kitty (stripes on top, polka dots on his belly). Muscles just showed up at my mother's house one day as a kitten and wouldn't leave. . . until Michael, Cana, Devin and I came over for lunch one afternoon and left with him =) What follows is the email I sent her in jest regarding the adoption of Muscles:
Subject: Madam
Dear Madam:
I am sending this letter in regards to the kitten that my husband and I received from your facility during the month of September 2009. (UPC # 68C43Y519)
Frankly, ma'am, we are dissatisfied.
I'm not certain what sort of second-rate establishment you're running, ma'am, but when we left your establishment we expected to return home with a FULLY FUNCTIONAL KITTEN. (Your brochure assured us of as much.)
Sadly, upon a full inspection of the kitten-in-question, my husband and I were SHOCKED ma'am---SHOCKED!---to discover that we had been duped by an establishment of your pedigree. . . .I'm sure you're feeling very pleased with yourself. . . Took us for a couple of rubes, did you? Thought you'd get away with your little racket, and no one would be the wiser, eh? . . .
Well not on MY dime, Madam!
We are hard-working, common folk, but do not take us for simpletons!! It was a mere matter of weeks before we discovered that THIS KITTEN had been constructed using INFERIOR PARTS! Imagine our consternation when we discovered that the KITTEN that our son had been playing with was a LEMON!! To begin with, it is painfully OBVIOUS that he was constructed using parts from SEVERAL DIFFERENT KITTENS!! (Stripes AND spots?? Honestly . . .I don't know how you sleep at night.)
However, the FINAL STRAW was when my husband pointed out that this inferior kitten was PERFECTLY UNAWARE of PROPER LITTERBOX PROCEDURE!! He poops in the box, turns around, places his front paws OUTSIDE THE BOX, and THEN proceeds to 'cover up' his poo---WITH HIS FRONT LEGS SCRATCHING AIR!!! OUTSIDE THE BOX!!!!
After a discussion with my husband, I am sorry to inform you that we are FULLY prepared to take this issue ALL THE WAY TO THE TOP! To the highest branches of government!---To the Better Business Bureau!! ---TO 'CAT FANCIER'S' MAGAZINE!!
----Unless we receive a fully-functional kitten from your establishment within one week's time.
I can assure you, ma'am---We are QUITE serious. (We do not take kitten-pilfering lightly, ma'am.)
Please ship the 'refund-kitten' to the address shown on our file. (I will be shipping the 'inferior' product back to your Corporate Office as soon as he is located.)
We also need one (1) replacement 'Friendly-Frog'.
Good day to you.
=======
So. . .feel perfectly justified in judging me now, if you wish. But keep in mind, when we lost our internet privileges at work several months back (sidenote: something I *almost* very passionately waged a veritable Crusade about. . .and then discovered that I simply lacked the energy. . .), the only thing we were left with was cnn.com and email.
And I quickly grew weary of being knowledgeable about current events. Much too beastly. I'll continue to get my news from Comedy Central, thank-you-very-much.
My point is that even if I'm not feeling very talkative in my daily life, odds are my fingers won't know when to shut up.
And of course, in a forum such as this, I am forced to completely overlook the major category of my old emails: notes sent to my husband---wishing him a good day, bitching to him about how I had inevitably been wronged by someone in one way or another, and reminding him that we are out of toilet paper.
And peanut butter.
As strange as it is to believe, my husband and I actually *met* via email communications sent through Myspace. . . .And it just so happened that we knew a lot of the same people. . . And he was really cute. . . AND he had great taste in music. . . and. . .
Well, SOME things won't be recited here =)
Primarily because I can't get INTO my Myspace account.
Because I lost the notebook that had my log-in information in it. . .
(True story.)
So.
Technology: 1
Notebooks: 0
Monday, September 5, 2011
Letter to my first-born son, written June 15th, 2011
Oh Nolan, My Grey <3 <3 <3
You are both a miracle and an enigma to me. I sit here at work, scant DAYS away from being 8 months pregnant with you, and AT LAST (!!!) able to expect your arrival within the next 4 or 5 weeks! Looking down at my overly rounded belly now, I see what might be your hand or your foot travel across the side of my abdomen. These tiny things help to remind me every day that you are REAL! You are MINE! And you are almost HERE!! And you are just going to be one of the most LOVED, CHERISHED, and ADORED babies to ever live on this planet!!
I have spent more than half my life wanting to be your mother, Nolan Grey. And I promise that, though I will never be perfect, I will work as hard as I can to be the best mother to YOU---and to make sure you know how much I love you each and every day that you're alive. . . .To be perfectly honest, even at this late hour, I am STILL awed and AMAZED that the reality of *YOU* has happened to *me*!
One day. . .I will tell you the story of how I wished, and prayed, and WAITED on you for years and years and years and years. And I will tell you the story of how I *almost* gave up on hoping that I would ever get the chance to see you or to know you. . . This was the source of a very deep, and very personal, sadness in my heart for more years than I care to count. . . .
BUT!!
In my deepest heart of hearts, I NEVER stopped carrying the Hope of YOU. I carried the Hope of You around in my heart, every second, and every millisecond, and every month, and every year for seasons innumerable. . . and from time to time, as the years wore on. . .I DID despair. But the sweet Hope of You kept me strong---stronger than I think I might've been by myself. And so I carried on.
Carried on into so MANY uncertain tomorrows. . . Grey days and bleak avenues, and long seasons of sadness that I feared might never end. Dark days I faced. And faced. And FACED. And then Dark days I rightfully escaped. And suddenly I looked up one day to find myself ARMED! I had spent these years armed with Books (beloveds, and true friends), and Music (which has been my joy and my salvation again and again and again), armed also with Humor (the laughter that kept me sane), and always, always armed with the Locket around my neck that held the Hope of You, my dear Grey =)
And then, on some sunny afternoon in the not-too-distant future, when you are young and strong and brilliant, and carry in your pockets the laughters of a thousand different days, I will sit you down and tell you the story of how I met the love of my life. Your Father. And how from the moment we met. . . I *knew*. I knew it was Him. The same Him that I had spent my entire life looking for, and the very same Him that I had waited my entire life to finally meet. His name was "Michael", but to me he was The One, and I knew it as well as I knew my own name. As well as I knew, from our first meeting, that my place was with Him. That this man was my family, and my home. And I would never again in my life want to live without him.
And he chased away my nightmares, and he reminded me how to laugh when I had quite forgotten how. . . And he gave me FAITH again, in all things good and true. And he renewed in me my passion for both Life and Laughter. . .a passion that had lain high on a shelf for misty old months on end.
I had found everything I ever needed or wanted in Him.
. . . .
And STILL I held on to the Hope of You. Because You were the ONLY thing missing to make all of my dreams---even the ones I thought never had a chance---come true. =)
So I love you Nolan Grey. I love you more than I ever dreamed I could love someone I've never seen face to face. And I will spend every moment, for as long as I walk this good earth, loving you, protecting you, listenening to you, and wishing and dreaming for you. And hopefully one day I can also find the words to explain to you that you were never ANYTHING so blasphemous as an accident. You are the Gift that I waited so VERY long to recieve.
You are my miracle of miracles. And the hardest thing I have ever had to do is wait. . .until I can hold you.
Love you forever, until the stars cease to shine,
Your Mama
You are both a miracle and an enigma to me. I sit here at work, scant DAYS away from being 8 months pregnant with you, and AT LAST (!!!) able to expect your arrival within the next 4 or 5 weeks! Looking down at my overly rounded belly now, I see what might be your hand or your foot travel across the side of my abdomen. These tiny things help to remind me every day that you are REAL! You are MINE! And you are almost HERE!! And you are just going to be one of the most LOVED, CHERISHED, and ADORED babies to ever live on this planet!!
I have spent more than half my life wanting to be your mother, Nolan Grey. And I promise that, though I will never be perfect, I will work as hard as I can to be the best mother to YOU---and to make sure you know how much I love you each and every day that you're alive. . . .To be perfectly honest, even at this late hour, I am STILL awed and AMAZED that the reality of *YOU* has happened to *me*!
One day. . .I will tell you the story of how I wished, and prayed, and WAITED on you for years and years and years and years. And I will tell you the story of how I *almost* gave up on hoping that I would ever get the chance to see you or to know you. . . This was the source of a very deep, and very personal, sadness in my heart for more years than I care to count. . . .
BUT!!
In my deepest heart of hearts, I NEVER stopped carrying the Hope of YOU. I carried the Hope of You around in my heart, every second, and every millisecond, and every month, and every year for seasons innumerable. . . and from time to time, as the years wore on. . .I DID despair. But the sweet Hope of You kept me strong---stronger than I think I might've been by myself. And so I carried on.
Carried on into so MANY uncertain tomorrows. . . Grey days and bleak avenues, and long seasons of sadness that I feared might never end. Dark days I faced. And faced. And FACED. And then Dark days I rightfully escaped. And suddenly I looked up one day to find myself ARMED! I had spent these years armed with Books (beloveds, and true friends), and Music (which has been my joy and my salvation again and again and again), armed also with Humor (the laughter that kept me sane), and always, always armed with the Locket around my neck that held the Hope of You, my dear Grey =)
And then, on some sunny afternoon in the not-too-distant future, when you are young and strong and brilliant, and carry in your pockets the laughters of a thousand different days, I will sit you down and tell you the story of how I met the love of my life. Your Father. And how from the moment we met. . . I *knew*. I knew it was Him. The same Him that I had spent my entire life looking for, and the very same Him that I had waited my entire life to finally meet. His name was "Michael", but to me he was The One, and I knew it as well as I knew my own name. As well as I knew, from our first meeting, that my place was with Him. That this man was my family, and my home. And I would never again in my life want to live without him.
And he chased away my nightmares, and he reminded me how to laugh when I had quite forgotten how. . . And he gave me FAITH again, in all things good and true. And he renewed in me my passion for both Life and Laughter. . .a passion that had lain high on a shelf for misty old months on end.
I had found everything I ever needed or wanted in Him.
. . . .
And STILL I held on to the Hope of You. Because You were the ONLY thing missing to make all of my dreams---even the ones I thought never had a chance---come true. =)
So I love you Nolan Grey. I love you more than I ever dreamed I could love someone I've never seen face to face. And I will spend every moment, for as long as I walk this good earth, loving you, protecting you, listenening to you, and wishing and dreaming for you. And hopefully one day I can also find the words to explain to you that you were never ANYTHING so blasphemous as an accident. You are the Gift that I waited so VERY long to recieve.
You are my miracle of miracles. And the hardest thing I have ever had to do is wait. . .until I can hold you.
Love you forever, until the stars cease to shine,
Your Mama
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Why I have no use for football, but LOVE football season. . .
So. In my corner of the globe the big news today--and facebook will back me up on this-- is that today is the first day of the football season. (. . .I just came SO close to saying "my neck of the woods". Hand to God. But I bit back the urge. Yay me. . . .so where was I?)
Oh yes---the Football. (I have decided that I will capitalize it. Much like Buster Bluth does with 'Army'. Because it just looms that large.) Today. . . (stage whisper) *IT BEGINS!!!*
Allow me to just go on record from the beginning of this little rant by saying that I DO NOT CARE FOR FOOTBALL. Not at all. Never have, never will. I harbor no ill will toward Football, I simply cannot get my head around the fascination with it. And I am no more in the market for a personal allegiance to a particular Football team than I am in the market for a new and improved brand of Jesus. So, and I am phrasing this as kindly as I know how: Take your 'Waaaaaar's and your 'Rooooooooll's to the house next door, because I won't *threaten* you with physical harm, but I may just locate the nearest broom and begin pummelling you with it. For real. Take it next door.
However, as I have lived my entire life (born and bred, folks, born and bred. Don't let the extensive vocabulary fool you =) in the South. . .and in Alabama, at that. . . this complete and utter distaste for all things Football has caused me no shortage of personal distress over the years. As any Alabamian knows, they really like for you to make your allegiance to a certain Football team known and logged by the age of 4. That gives you one year to acquaint yourself with the team and the traditions before school starts around the age of 5. Because once you start school, when the inevitable question is posed (and make NO DOUBT you WILL BE ASKED), generally by day 2 or 3: "Who're you for?" Well, by God, Billy Wayne, you'd BETTER HAVE A FREAKING ANSWER!!***
***Note: A quick footnote about this all-important question-- Playing dumb does NOT work. Don't even try it. I'm serious. A completely innocent "Whatever do you mean?" in response to the "Who're-you-for" question, uttered carelessly in first grade---(It was FIRST GRADE!!! HOW WAS I TO KNOW??!? WHO *ARE* ALL THESE FOOTBALL-CHILDREN?!?!!)--- will do nothing more than cause your schoolmates to raise their eyebrows, shamelessly mock you, and land you in the Special/Mildly Retarded category for the remainder of your public education. This is, of course, a middle-ground scenario. The worst-case scenario does not bear mentioning here. The best-case scenario, if for some reason you SHOULD decide to go this route, is that your classmates will eternally regard you with mild suspicion. . . .Kind of like the kid who transferred in from out of state in 2nd grade, dresses like she is from another planet, and has completely different ideas of what is cool and what is not. Get with the program, New Kid. Jelly-sandals are where it's at.
Enough about the Jellies. Moving on.
And please don't make the mistake of believing that my general lack of interest in the sport stems from a lack of understanding. Because you would be wrong.
Actually, it's kind of cute to think about, but in the course of my illustrious and oft-troubled love life, I do believe that every SINGLE boyfriend has at some point tried to educate me about the finer points and nuances of the game. How adorable. =) They thought that I didn't *care* about it simply because I didn't *understand* it. . . and they could not have been more wrong. It's sort of the same way with British comedy. People tend to assume that if you're not a fan, it's because you don't get it.
No, no, I can assure you--British comedy is very high-brow. Very subtle. Ministry of Silly Walks. I get it.
I just don't think it's funny.
Same with football. I get it. (To a degree.) But at some point during EVERY ONE of those kind (and informative!) monologues about the intricacies of Football, that one boyfriend or male-friend or another was kind enough to provide me with, in hopes of furthering both my education AND my usefulness, I tend to drift off with the faeries. . . I believe that this happens at roughly the same point that I drift off whenever someone has been foolish enough to try to explain to me exactly how a carburetor works. It's not something I do intentionally. Just, at some point, and for some reason, and let me stress that it is QUITE beyond my control, I stop listening and begin wondering why white chocolate is so much better than dark chocolate, or why Einstein's theory of relativity breaks down when you observe matter on a molecular level and why gravity seems to have no effect on these particles. . .
It's not something I'm proud of, but there you go.
And as a child I remember observing the adults around me AFTER the Football was over. I found it BEYOND curious that after the Football had happened, it appeared that whatever had taken place on that green field had the power to affect the moods of those around me.
(---*In my best Spock voice*---) Fascinating.
Those little men on the screen, should they not perform in a manner pleasing enough, actually had the power to ruin the day of the adults around me.
I just couldn't figure it out. . . To me, this would be like something that happened on Sesame Street having the power to make or break my day. But. . . well, I *did* cry when Mr. Hooper died, so maybe that's not the best example. . .
After a time, I found that the very best thing I could do when Football was happening was to curl up in an easy chair with a really good book, and let Eli Gold's voice lull me to sleep. (To this day, when Football is happening on the tv at our house, the announcers' voices always put me in a very relaxed and sleepy mood. . . they're kind of like preachers, that way.) And I'm not trying to brag, but I believe the entire Auburn football team owes me a debt of thanks, as my mid-game nap last season turned out to be their good luck charm. (You're welcome, guys.)
So in truth, I suppose it is strange that I actually *enjoy* Football season, but I do. I love it!
It is generally a marker that means the weather is starting to turn cooler--a sign that the worst heat of the summer is coming to an end. It is a time during the weekend when I *KNOW* that I can spend a couple of hours curled up on the couch with my husband (even if he is perched anxiously on one end of the couch, while I am embroiled in adventures in the deep forests of Middle Earth on the other).
And it is a season that is generally accompanied by all varieties of happy, greasy, comfort food: Sausage balls, little smokies, cheese dips, crockpot treasures, and any other artery-clogging delight your mind can conjure up.
I even like going to the games from time to time. . . Not so much because I have any emotional investment in the final score, but just because I like the pomp and excitement of the event itself. (And again---the food. Let us never forget the food. A hot dog never tastes as good as it does at a game, eaten on bleachers.)
So yes. I love football season. . . . I just don't really care for Football.
So give me a good book and some great snacks, and I'll be curled up with Michael for every game this season, and love every minute of it.
I would even be open to wearing the shirt of a particular team.
I'm not opposed to that.
So if someone wants to donate one, just let me know.
Just keep in mind---I would be less concerned with what team logo is on the front, and more concerned with how soft the fabric is =)
Oh yes---the Football. (I have decided that I will capitalize it. Much like Buster Bluth does with 'Army'. Because it just looms that large.) Today. . . (stage whisper) *IT BEGINS!!!*
Allow me to just go on record from the beginning of this little rant by saying that I DO NOT CARE FOR FOOTBALL. Not at all. Never have, never will. I harbor no ill will toward Football, I simply cannot get my head around the fascination with it. And I am no more in the market for a personal allegiance to a particular Football team than I am in the market for a new and improved brand of Jesus. So, and I am phrasing this as kindly as I know how: Take your 'Waaaaaar's and your 'Rooooooooll's to the house next door, because I won't *threaten* you with physical harm, but I may just locate the nearest broom and begin pummelling you with it. For real. Take it next door.
However, as I have lived my entire life (born and bred, folks, born and bred. Don't let the extensive vocabulary fool you =) in the South. . .and in Alabama, at that. . . this complete and utter distaste for all things Football has caused me no shortage of personal distress over the years. As any Alabamian knows, they really like for you to make your allegiance to a certain Football team known and logged by the age of 4. That gives you one year to acquaint yourself with the team and the traditions before school starts around the age of 5. Because once you start school, when the inevitable question is posed (and make NO DOUBT you WILL BE ASKED), generally by day 2 or 3: "Who're you for?" Well, by God, Billy Wayne, you'd BETTER HAVE A FREAKING ANSWER!!***
***Note: A quick footnote about this all-important question-- Playing dumb does NOT work. Don't even try it. I'm serious. A completely innocent "Whatever do you mean?" in response to the "Who're-you-for" question, uttered carelessly in first grade---(It was FIRST GRADE!!! HOW WAS I TO KNOW??!? WHO *ARE* ALL THESE FOOTBALL-CHILDREN?!?!!)--- will do nothing more than cause your schoolmates to raise their eyebrows, shamelessly mock you, and land you in the Special/Mildly Retarded category for the remainder of your public education. This is, of course, a middle-ground scenario. The worst-case scenario does not bear mentioning here. The best-case scenario, if for some reason you SHOULD decide to go this route, is that your classmates will eternally regard you with mild suspicion. . . .Kind of like the kid who transferred in from out of state in 2nd grade, dresses like she is from another planet, and has completely different ideas of what is cool and what is not. Get with the program, New Kid. Jelly-sandals are where it's at.
Enough about the Jellies. Moving on.
And please don't make the mistake of believing that my general lack of interest in the sport stems from a lack of understanding. Because you would be wrong.
Actually, it's kind of cute to think about, but in the course of my illustrious and oft-troubled love life, I do believe that every SINGLE boyfriend has at some point tried to educate me about the finer points and nuances of the game. How adorable. =) They thought that I didn't *care* about it simply because I didn't *understand* it. . . and they could not have been more wrong. It's sort of the same way with British comedy. People tend to assume that if you're not a fan, it's because you don't get it.
No, no, I can assure you--British comedy is very high-brow. Very subtle. Ministry of Silly Walks. I get it.
I just don't think it's funny.
Same with football. I get it. (To a degree.) But at some point during EVERY ONE of those kind (and informative!) monologues about the intricacies of Football, that one boyfriend or male-friend or another was kind enough to provide me with, in hopes of furthering both my education AND my usefulness, I tend to drift off with the faeries. . . I believe that this happens at roughly the same point that I drift off whenever someone has been foolish enough to try to explain to me exactly how a carburetor works. It's not something I do intentionally. Just, at some point, and for some reason, and let me stress that it is QUITE beyond my control, I stop listening and begin wondering why white chocolate is so much better than dark chocolate, or why Einstein's theory of relativity breaks down when you observe matter on a molecular level and why gravity seems to have no effect on these particles. . .
It's not something I'm proud of, but there you go.
And as a child I remember observing the adults around me AFTER the Football was over. I found it BEYOND curious that after the Football had happened, it appeared that whatever had taken place on that green field had the power to affect the moods of those around me.
(---*In my best Spock voice*---) Fascinating.
Those little men on the screen, should they not perform in a manner pleasing enough, actually had the power to ruin the day of the adults around me.
I just couldn't figure it out. . . To me, this would be like something that happened on Sesame Street having the power to make or break my day. But. . . well, I *did* cry when Mr. Hooper died, so maybe that's not the best example. . .
(May angels wing thee to thy rest, Mr Hooper. Were it not for you, I might never have learned about Friendship, Muppets, and the magic of Cooperation. =)
After a time, I found that the very best thing I could do when Football was happening was to curl up in an easy chair with a really good book, and let Eli Gold's voice lull me to sleep. (To this day, when Football is happening on the tv at our house, the announcers' voices always put me in a very relaxed and sleepy mood. . . they're kind of like preachers, that way.) And I'm not trying to brag, but I believe the entire Auburn football team owes me a debt of thanks, as my mid-game nap last season turned out to be their good luck charm. (You're welcome, guys.)
So in truth, I suppose it is strange that I actually *enjoy* Football season, but I do. I love it!
It is generally a marker that means the weather is starting to turn cooler--a sign that the worst heat of the summer is coming to an end. It is a time during the weekend when I *KNOW* that I can spend a couple of hours curled up on the couch with my husband (even if he is perched anxiously on one end of the couch, while I am embroiled in adventures in the deep forests of Middle Earth on the other).
And it is a season that is generally accompanied by all varieties of happy, greasy, comfort food: Sausage balls, little smokies, cheese dips, crockpot treasures, and any other artery-clogging delight your mind can conjure up.
I even like going to the games from time to time. . . Not so much because I have any emotional investment in the final score, but just because I like the pomp and excitement of the event itself. (And again---the food. Let us never forget the food. A hot dog never tastes as good as it does at a game, eaten on bleachers.)
So yes. I love football season. . . . I just don't really care for Football.
So give me a good book and some great snacks, and I'll be curled up with Michael for every game this season, and love every minute of it.
I would even be open to wearing the shirt of a particular team.
I'm not opposed to that.
So if someone wants to donate one, just let me know.
Just keep in mind---I would be less concerned with what team logo is on the front, and more concerned with how soft the fabric is =)
Friday, August 26, 2011
2nd found Poem---The stars I don't give a second glance
The Stars I Don't Give a Second Glance
Oh the days here are silvered and sunny.
And the nights hold a thick, magnolian romance.
And I guess that the lesser gods would
count me as 'lucky'. . .
But the stars. . .I don't give a second glance.
So I live now in a leaf-filled, pine palace. . .
no walls will you find around me!
And I drink deep of life
from this gold-plated chalice
in my own falsely rose-tinted reality.
And as the music grows dim,
I fear the last note is done. . .
But. . .this heart that is haunted
still BEATS LIKE A DRUM
Just waiting
to be heard by
Someone.
Oh the days here are silvered and sunny.
And the nights hold a thick, magnolian romance.
And I guess that the lesser gods would
count me as 'lucky'. . .
But the stars. . .I don't give a second glance.
So I live now in a leaf-filled, pine palace. . .
no walls will you find around me!
And I drink deep of life
from this gold-plated chalice
in my own falsely rose-tinted reality.
And as the music grows dim,
I fear the last note is done. . .
But. . .this heart that is haunted
still BEATS LIKE A DRUM
Just waiting
to be heard by
Someone.
Discovered poem-----Less for my sanity
I recently came across several of my infamous, but occasionally not-too-shabby, attempts at poetry.
So here are a few of the ones I've found.
Less For My Sanity
Less for my sanity,
more for Humanity. . .
Get me off to someplace that's
good, golden and green.
And do forgive these breaks I take
away from my own head
--that aches--
And also please forgive these flaws
flayed ALL OVER me.
Forgive these warnings
I DON'T heed,
Forgive this oft INSATIABLE need
For help I want but
eternally refuse to take.
And please forgive this life I lead,
spent ever-searching for reprieve,
Learning to bend just
SO I WON'T BREAK.
And for some strange reason. . .
shook me straight to my CORE
. . .seeing you in your hat, and
--Imagine that!--
. . .said you were looking for something MORE.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Anniversaries, adults, and adequate seating
This morning's post is brought to you, first and foremost, by a lack of sleep. Traditionally I tend to get weepy when I have not had enough sleep, but today it would appear that I also get very chatty as well. Or delirious. Choose your adjective.
So today I was thinking about how lately I feel like SO VERY MUCH the grown-up. . .you know: having babies, washing clothes, worrying about the economy. . .and it hit me that one of the main "I Am Now An Adult" markers in my life is something so much more obscure.
First, some back story. I guess one of the larger reasons (the logical ones, anyway) that I am feeling like a grown-up is that my wedding anniversary is coming up next week =) It will be our second wedding anniversary, and also the anniversary of the day we met exactly three years ago.
It will also be the one-month anniversary of my son's birth.
It's a big day and I'm happy about it. . . .And I'm thinking of all that we've crammed into those three years. . .
We got married on the sidewalk on a street corner in downtown Birmingham. The exact same corner where we had met for the first time one year to the day earlier. We rented a loft downtown. And it will always be a kind of Golden Place in my mind, because I have NO bad memories of living there. . .kind of like those photographs from the 70's where everything just looked sunnier.
We took the kids to the park. We took the kids to the Art Walk.
We took the kids to the Star Wars exhibit.
We went to movies. We walked to bars. We saw LOTS of live music. We grilled out in the courtyard. . .
. . . we had friends over for dinner. We celebrated birthdays, and we smiled and laughed A LOT =)
We dressed like pirates.
We sang Personal Penguin.
=)
We found out we were having a baby!! We moved into a house (with a backyard and everything!!!). We gave thanks for friends and family, and we laughed. And then we laughed some more.
And I counted myself as one of The Blessed.
Because yes--I DO know exactly how lucky I am. . .
I know that every blessing that I hold close to my heart did not HAVE TO be. And I feel that an eternal and almost overpowering sense of gratitude is the very least that I can do to show my appreciation.
But oddly enough, all of these things: the house, the baby, the man of my dreams. . . are not what has actually made me feel like a grown-up.
Nope.
It's the kitchen chairs =)
This week Michael brought home four brand new kitchen chairs for our dining room table.
(From World Market--$25.00 each. . . QUITE the deal, and something that I make no apologies for being QUITE pleased about. =)
And as I was standing in the kitchen this morning admiring them, half-asleep after being up with the baby and wondering if it was too soon to make coffee, I realized that THIS is what makes me feel like an adult---kitchen chairs.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not COMPLETELY ghetto. I have, after all, had a kitchen TABLE for years =)
. . .just no chairs.
For some reason, no matter where I lived (which has been almost exclusively in one apartment or another over the years), it never really seemed like a priority to purchase chairs to go with the table. I entertained notions of eventually purchasing a bench of some sort. . . but those notions were hazy at best, and certainly nothing I ever actually acted upon.
True, in the loft we had kitchen "seating". . . there was a concrete slab of an island or a bar in the center of the kitchen, and we ate many meals there. But those were meals taken on bar stools, and never in a chair. . . .Certainly never in anything that had a back, and thus I feel justified in not classifying them as chairs.
And then, into my life suddenly-----CHAIRS!!!!!
FOUR OF THEM! . . .Two on the long side, one on each end, and that mythical and storied bench on the other long side. . .
(Completely changes the look of the kitchen.)
Now, you look over there at the kitchen table. . .nay, "nook"!! . . . and it looks like the kind of place where people might gather for meals. Where someone might actually sit down, relax, converse and maybe even eat.
Where we might actually have enough seating for people when we invite them over.
It is an honest-to-God, freaking BREAKFAST NOOK, and it is MINE!!! ALL MINE!!!! (*insert evil laugh here*)
Sincerely,
Danielle, The Adult
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
The problem with these things, and black magic on my baby
I've decided that the problem with these things---and by 'these things' I mean blogs---is that I never know how to start them. . .
Should I have a clear and determined purpose? (For those of you that know me, and you are few, as I have a STRONG tendency toward hermitism, you most likely know that 'clear and determined purposes' are my kryptonite.
**(As for the tendency toward self-imposed hermitization, it is the embodiment of my social anxiety disorder. It plagues me, yes, but sometimes I can't help but laugh at myself. So it's an issue. And I'm working on it.)**
. ' . ' . ' Chasing rabbits again. (Sorry.)
Should I have a general theme for the blog?? And if so, would I then be forced to adhere to that same theme for the life of the blog?!?! (That sounds a little too daunting, and a lot like a little too much commitment for me.) But still: SO MANY QUESTIONS!!!!! . . . How much background information is enough? How much is too much? Should I introduce the major players in my life, much as one would in the opening credits of an 80's sitcom? . . .
(And now I am humming the "Come And Knock on Our Door" Three's Company theme song.)
Side note 1: Michael has always wanted to open a bar named 'The Regal Beagle.' I think this is a business endeavor whose TIME HAS COME!!!
Side note 2: Chris, whom I dated in college, had a SEVERE Jack Tripper man-crush. He thought he (Jack Tripper) was the very definition of awesomeness. He (Chris) was a musician, and even named his band 'The Jack Trippers.' . . . though, come to think of it, I'm not entirely convinced that the band name had more to do with his affinity for Three's Company, or his affinity for tripping on acid.
Side note 3: I've tried acid. I DO NOT suggest it!! And here's why: I talked to a black cat using cat-to-human telepathy, (which I was AMAZED to learn that this was an ability that I possessed until that night) but THIS black cat was a REAL downer by the way, all doom and gloom, nothing interesting to contribute to the conversation, aside from vague references to 'The Plan'---(you know the type.) But once he mentioned 'The Plan,' he got all super-secretive and sketch-ish, so I thought it wise to ask no more questions about The Plan). I looked in a mirror (!!!WHY DID NO ONE WARN ME ABOUT THE MIRRORS?!?!?!!!) and saw my face age decades and decades in the span of a few seconds, and by the end of the night (as I was having, what those crazy kids call 'a bad trip') things were so bad inside my head and surroundings, I decided that I WOULD get out of this, it WOULD wear off, and that there were ALWAYS Three Good Things that would always be around to save me from myself. In no particular order, those things are: food (don't care who you are, the right food with ALWAYS make you feel better), sex (self-explanatory), and Music: To uplift us, elevate us, speak to us, and often times, make it ALL better again. =)
But writing is daunting. Writing a BLOG is daunting! I shudder to even contemplate the potential for typos and grammatical errors. (Best not to even think on it.)
But for some reason this morning I decided I would start a blog, and that's what I am doing. (As you are, by sure, now aware. See? I don't talk down to my readers. Maybe this blog will be a success after all!) And, as I was still quite unsure as to where and when and HOW to start, I finally decided on the most obvious route of "Now". . . . My husband has accused me of over-thinking even the most simple and mundane situations. (He's right. I do this. But please don't EVER tell him that he was right. I get SO FEW chances to be right, that I must SAVOR every one. It is NO SECRET that *I* am the train-wreck-screw-up in this relationship. And it'd make it SO MUCH BETTER if he'd screw up just only OCCASIONALLY!!! But apparently I married the Christ-child Perfect Man. And let me tell you, if you're a screw-up like ME? It can SERIOUSLY, REALLY, SERIOUSLY, SOMETIMES SUCK!!!!) But for now I am just throwing caution to the wind and am going to jump right into this blog mid-episode.
I am tired.
I mean, I am really, REALLY, I-have-a-3-week-old-baby-in-the-house-and-I-have-no-idea-what-I-am-doing tired. Said baby is now relaxing in his vibrating papasan chair, grunting from time to time and seriously just keeping it real.
He appears to be in much more favorable spirits than he was showing signs of at 4:00 a.m. when, to all outward appearances, my child began to be prodded and tortured by the spears of invisible and tiny demons. From what I could tell, Grey Bear (AKA: 'Took') was simply BESET on ALL SIDES by the darkest of forces and the BLACKESTof magicks. (MY belief is that they want him to harvest his super powers, but it's possible they could want him for other reasons entirely. I'll admit that I'm just not sure at this point.)
As did I. And I slept for approximately 90 minutes, which turned out to be more than enough time for me to have a bad dream about the baby. It was your typical stress dream. In it, I was waiting tables at Cucos again. (Which has since closed down, but was a Mexican restaurant where I worked for a while during college, that had Quso dip and Chicken Chimichangas to DIE FOR.) In the dream, I showed up for work without any socks or shoes on, with Nolan in tow, and with no ponytail holder to tie back my hair. Luckily for me, my boss was Dr. Drew Pinsky (note to self: STOP watching Celebrity Rehab. It is an evil trap that you fall for every time. Just shameful.), and he was incredibly understanding, as I have always imagined that he would be, in virtually any given situation. . . .and if it is ever uncovered that he is a serial arsonist or a child molester, well. I am just going to be so disappointed. I tried my best to pull my hair back (I was really afraid it was going to get in someones food, and they would be forced to complain), and went about waiting on my tables. Even as I write this, I realize that I never did get that drink order out to table 26. . . Hell, I didn't even think to ask them if it was Sweet or Unsweet tea they wanted. . . But that had to wait because it was at this point in the dream that I became aware that Big Toookie was no longer with me. . . .where IS HE?!?!!!
And that's when I remember that I have (inexplicably) left my newborn sitting in a metal shopping cart right beside a major intersection. And I run outside to rescue my baby from the precarious situation in which I have placed him.
. . .it was NOT a restful 90 minutes.
However, in a delightful turn of events, it was at roughly the time that I awoke this morning from this bizarre and super-troubling dream that I realized that I am possibly (and QUITE probably) invincible.
. . .I can only assume that most other humans DO need sleep, and this is where the 'invincible' part comes in. . .hmmm. . .but it's possible that they don't, I suppose. . . .I mean, I'm 34 years old and I'm just now finding this out about myself. (There may be others out there. This is all that I'm saying.)
This discovery could not have come at a more opportune time, as it appears that now intestinal demons are attempting to convert my baby boy into a pig. . .
(I simply will not abide black magic on my baby.)
Ah well, I guess I shall now happily press onward. No rest for the wicked, I suppose.
But there is coffee.
Oh, there is most CERTAINLY coffee for the wicked. =)
Should I have a clear and determined purpose? (For those of you that know me, and you are few, as I have a STRONG tendency toward hermitism, you most likely know that 'clear and determined purposes' are my kryptonite.
**(As for the tendency toward self-imposed hermitization, it is the embodiment of my social anxiety disorder. It plagues me, yes, but sometimes I can't help but laugh at myself. So it's an issue. And I'm working on it.)**
. ' . ' . ' Chasing rabbits again. (Sorry.)
Should I have a general theme for the blog?? And if so, would I then be forced to adhere to that same theme for the life of the blog?!?! (That sounds a little too daunting, and a lot like a little too much commitment for me.) But still: SO MANY QUESTIONS!!!!! . . . How much background information is enough? How much is too much? Should I introduce the major players in my life, much as one would in the opening credits of an 80's sitcom? . . .
(And now I am humming the "Come And Knock on Our Door" Three's Company theme song.)
Side note 1: Michael has always wanted to open a bar named 'The Regal Beagle.' I think this is a business endeavor whose TIME HAS COME!!!
Side note 2: Chris, whom I dated in college, had a SEVERE Jack Tripper man-crush. He thought he (Jack Tripper) was the very definition of awesomeness. He (Chris) was a musician, and even named his band 'The Jack Trippers.' . . . though, come to think of it, I'm not entirely convinced that the band name had more to do with his affinity for Three's Company, or his affinity for tripping on acid.
Side note 3: I've tried acid. I DO NOT suggest it!! And here's why: I talked to a black cat using cat-to-human telepathy, (which I was AMAZED to learn that this was an ability that I possessed until that night) but THIS black cat was a REAL downer by the way, all doom and gloom, nothing interesting to contribute to the conversation, aside from vague references to 'The Plan'---(you know the type.) But once he mentioned 'The Plan,' he got all super-secretive and sketch-ish, so I thought it wise to ask no more questions about The Plan). I looked in a mirror (!!!WHY DID NO ONE WARN ME ABOUT THE MIRRORS?!?!?!!!) and saw my face age decades and decades in the span of a few seconds, and by the end of the night (as I was having, what those crazy kids call 'a bad trip') things were so bad inside my head and surroundings, I decided that I WOULD get out of this, it WOULD wear off, and that there were ALWAYS Three Good Things that would always be around to save me from myself. In no particular order, those things are: food (don't care who you are, the right food with ALWAYS make you feel better), sex (self-explanatory), and Music: To uplift us, elevate us, speak to us, and often times, make it ALL better again. =)
But writing is daunting. Writing a BLOG is daunting! I shudder to even contemplate the potential for typos and grammatical errors. (Best not to even think on it.)
But for some reason this morning I decided I would start a blog, and that's what I am doing. (As you are, by sure, now aware. See? I don't talk down to my readers. Maybe this blog will be a success after all!) And, as I was still quite unsure as to where and when and HOW to start, I finally decided on the most obvious route of "Now". . . . My husband has accused me of over-thinking even the most simple and mundane situations. (He's right. I do this. But please don't EVER tell him that he was right. I get SO FEW chances to be right, that I must SAVOR every one. It is NO SECRET that *I* am the train-wreck-screw-up in this relationship. And it'd make it SO MUCH BETTER if he'd screw up just only OCCASIONALLY!!! But apparently I married the Christ-child Perfect Man. And let me tell you, if you're a screw-up like ME? It can SERIOUSLY, REALLY, SERIOUSLY, SOMETIMES SUCK!!!!) But for now I am just throwing caution to the wind and am going to jump right into this blog mid-episode.
I am tired.
I mean, I am really, REALLY, I-have-a-3-week-old-baby-in-the-house-and-I-have-no-idea-what-I-am-doing tired. Said baby is now relaxing in his vibrating papasan chair, grunting from time to time and seriously just keeping it real.
So I diligently spent half the night tangling with the problem of exorcising these demons so that my sweet, though quite probably just INFUSED with super-magickal powers, baby could sleep. I was ultimately unsuccessful, but with the sun's first light the Evil Invisibles were sent screaming back to the bowels of Hell and my Took finally fell asleep.
As did I. And I slept for approximately 90 minutes, which turned out to be more than enough time for me to have a bad dream about the baby. It was your typical stress dream. In it, I was waiting tables at Cucos again. (Which has since closed down, but was a Mexican restaurant where I worked for a while during college, that had Quso dip and Chicken Chimichangas to DIE FOR.) In the dream, I showed up for work without any socks or shoes on, with Nolan in tow, and with no ponytail holder to tie back my hair. Luckily for me, my boss was Dr. Drew Pinsky (note to self: STOP watching Celebrity Rehab. It is an evil trap that you fall for every time. Just shameful.), and he was incredibly understanding, as I have always imagined that he would be, in virtually any given situation. . . .and if it is ever uncovered that he is a serial arsonist or a child molester, well. I am just going to be so disappointed. I tried my best to pull my hair back (I was really afraid it was going to get in someones food, and they would be forced to complain), and went about waiting on my tables. Even as I write this, I realize that I never did get that drink order out to table 26. . . Hell, I didn't even think to ask them if it was Sweet or Unsweet tea they wanted. . . But that had to wait because it was at this point in the dream that I became aware that Big Toookie was no longer with me. . . .where IS HE?!?!!!
And that's when I remember that I have (inexplicably) left my newborn sitting in a metal shopping cart right beside a major intersection. And I run outside to rescue my baby from the precarious situation in which I have placed him.
. . .it was NOT a restful 90 minutes.
However, in a delightful turn of events, it was at roughly the time that I awoke this morning from this bizarre and super-troubling dream that I realized that I am possibly (and QUITE probably) invincible.
Yes, at roughly 6:48 a.m. I stumbled upon the shocking revelation that I do NOT actually need sleep in order to survive! (I feel happy about it, but also? I feel very misled.)
. . .I can only assume that most other humans DO need sleep, and this is where the 'invincible' part comes in. . .hmmm. . .but it's possible that they don't, I suppose. . . .I mean, I'm 34 years old and I'm just now finding this out about myself. (There may be others out there. This is all that I'm saying.)
This discovery could not have come at a more opportune time, as it appears that now intestinal demons are attempting to convert my baby boy into a pig. . .
(I simply will not abide black magic on my baby.)
Ah well, I guess I shall now happily press onward. No rest for the wicked, I suppose.
But there is coffee.
Oh, there is most CERTAINLY coffee for the wicked. =)
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