A Beautiful Case of Luck

He’s always fidgeting, moving, squirreling. That or his nose is buried in a video game. I haven’t seen him in a long time. I mean REALLY seen him. I’ve honestly forgotten how beautiful he has grown. I focus too often on how “lucky” we are to now have Aitch. She wasn’t luck, in that sense. Instead she was a case of beating the odds. The same, but different. But with him? We did get truly lucky. He made us parents by a blessing most take for granted and some even regret.

Truly…beautiful.

Has it changed or have I?

I recently unsubscribed from another blog via my reader. It was an infertility blog written by someone who has gone through some failed IUIs and is waiting to begin another. I started reading her for one of the major reasons I start reading ANY blog: she commented on one of my posts.

She came here via another blogger, who had linked to one of my posts. I love seeing new bloggers stop and comment here. Seriously…I love it. I have subscribed to every blogger who has left a comment.

Every one of them.

Now if I never unsubscribe, I’d have a reader with hundreds of blogs, but my list remains at a near constant number for one of two reasons: 1) they either stop blogging (and I mean completely deleting their blog as I still have blogs in my readers from those who haven’t posted in years); or 2) they never reciprocate. It’s one of the main reasons I don’t subscribe to uber popular blogs because they’re either so popular they don’t even allow comments or they could care less since I’m just one of 233 comments about:

  • Their fear of clowns
  • Their hatred of crocs
  • Their extolling the virtues of mommybloggers who do or don’t do it for money/free/by behaving badly
  • Etc.
  • Etc.
  • Etc.

But I always add because despite what seems to you as perpetual cynicism, I like to meet new people and explore new ideas. So I would read. Occasionally, I would comment, and while I’ll admit I’m definitely not as prolific a commenter as I once was due to a less lenient environment (I use to blog at my other job – there, I said it), I would make an effort. Unfortunately, in most cases my attempts were rarely reciprocated. My poor ego does not thrive in this current blogging market, that’s for damn sure.

So then I’m thinking, why did that person even bother commenting on my blog in the first place? Sure, most of the time, it was in response to a call for support, which I can’t even imagine how I could have got through the past four years without at least one person taking pity on my pathetic little soul. But the things is, I’ve tried to figure out how I’m suppose to take the comment, “I’m so sorry” when left upon the news of another failed pregnancy by someone who never again stops by my blog. Can that kind of singular sentiment without any emotional attachment actually be sincere?

I’ll be blunt and tell you that in the world of Mommybloggers, it’s difficult to break into an already established cloister of bloggers. My circle of parenting blogs is made up of those that I knew before they were parents. And I do love that circle very much because that level and range of snark is totally mutual; but sometimes I really would like to blog with simple joy about Doodicus and/or Aitch…to blog like Mrs. Soup or Amanda or Eden.

When I get the desire to add new reads, I often go back to my roots: infertility blogs, especially those just starting out, like the one I mentioned above. Unfortunately, the camaraderie in infertility blogs has definitely been removed or at the least, watered down. Even the content has become tamer, “gentler”, and dare I say – happier.

Do you think reciprocation in commenting has changed since the “good ole’days”? Or have I become that irrelevant – old news – in today’s blogging nation? Maybe a little of both??

And the Banjo Responds

My dear husband has the emotional sensitivity of a rhino in heat. During one of the five years we dated, we were going through a particularly rough patch over the Thanksgiving holiday, which the family decided to pack up and carry out in Des Moines. Because we weren’t getting along, Sparring Partner didn’t attend. And me, being a sappy girl in love, called him several times, and in one of the phone exchanges I wailed into the phone hoping to instill some guilt, some emotion, from him: “You don’t LOVE me!” to which he replied, “No. Not as much as I use to.”

KaPOW!

Obviously he fell in love again and after threatening him with an ultimatum, marry me or I’m moving one (who’s PWND now, mister!), we were able to accept each other’s emotional – and lack thereof – responses.

Last night we went out with the in-laws. SIL exclaims, “Did Sparring Partner tell you the news?!” and most anyone who has gone through years of infertility will always have the first thought be that someone’s pregnant.

My first thought was correct.

“Number 5!” she announced excitedly.

So Daughter#1 is percolating Baby#3. Didn’t I mention not long ago something about Dueling Uteri. Cue the banjos:

  • D#1 had Baby #1
  •           D#2 had Baby #1
  • D#1 had Baby #2
  •           D#2 had Baby #2
  • D#1 is due with Baby #3

All within the past four years.

 Mark your calendars for next year…

But that’s not really the point, or at least the one I care to get into right now. The reason I mentioned how insensitive SP can be is when we later walked out to the car, I told him thanks for the heads up *sarcasm*.

And he said, “I didn’t know that it would still bother you.”

“You wouldn’t.” was my reply.

Yes, it still bothers me. It will for a very long time. I would love to meet that person who it DOESN’T bother and maybe they’d share their secret with me, and then in turn, share it with you.

Trainee

As most of you know if you have access to my private posts, I am training my replacement at my temporary position. If you have kept up with my Facebook updates, you will also know it has been…interesting, for lack of a better word without actually saying, “Sucking hot, sweaty, fly-covered donkey balls.”

You think I’m exaggerating? The following exchange is just too good to keep under a password. Get this:

Today I was showing her how to order supplies via the internet. I instructed her click the “Add to Cart” button.

As she clicked, Trainee asked me, “What’s a ‘cart’?”

*head-desk*

Mirror

My sister asked how Doodicus was doing this year in school. The short answer, compared to last year? Night and Day in that he’s so much better.

Now whether we can attribute that to the ADHD meds or a year of maturity or a different teacher or a different group of peers or even perhaps, a divine combination of all of the above? I don’t know and frankly, I don’t care. Just as long as I can say things are better right now.

At school, that is.

But the fighting and bickering between the two of the male members of the family at home are enough to make me shout, “Shut. Up!” (which is a statement that is actually banned from our home, so you can guess how pissed I was to have spewed it) last night as they went back and forth, back and forth, about something so stupid that right now I can’t even remember what it was.

One exchange that I had to step in – yet again – was one that centered on a book Doodicus brought home. They have a program at school that after each book read, they test. Generally, Doodicus has been bringing home books that are short stories, a cover-to-cover read in one sitting. However, this particular book was a chapter book that he brought home weeks ago. After supper last night, I told him he had to read a chapter and then he could play. He told me that he was on chapter 15 and that was the last one.

Wonderful! I exclaimed. Finally we wouldn’t have to see it come home again.

While this exchange was happening, Sparring Partner’s Internal Hearing and Comprehension Modulator had been turned to mute, so he missed what was going on, but he saw Doodicus walking around with this book.

S.P.:  “Why don’t you read that? You’ve been bringing it home for weeks!”

Dood: “I’m going to read a chapter now!” (Immediately on the defense, since duh, that’s what he was settling in to do.)

S.P.: “No you’re not. You’re just wandering around!” (Apparently, walking from the mud room where his backpack is kept and into the living room is “wandering”…)

Dood: “I am, too! And then I’ll be done!”

S.P.: “Well, it’s about time. You’ve had the book for weeks!” (So you’ve shouted – STFU, already.) “Sit your butt down and start!”

Dood: “Mommmmmm!” and the tears of frustration begin which of course adds to the tension and in short, more tears.

It’s fucking ridiculous.

You’ve heard similar stories of conflict between Doodicus and his Dad. Sadly, the situation never seems to get better as far as the butting heads go. Afterwards, I try to pull Sparring Partner aside and ask what the fuck is up his ass that he’s always riding Doodicus’s. He’s normally apologetic – to me – which means jack-shit; and he realizes after the fact that he shouldn’t have said most of what he does. If he can’t be the one to grow up and be the adult, he’s going to push Doodicus further and further away when he’s reaching an age and stage where the two really need to get much, much closer. I’m not panhandling for advice at this point since I can clearly see what the problem is, with the major one being the two are EXACTLY alike in personalities.

When you’re staring into a mirror, that person on the other side of the glass is the most familiar, the most recognizable, but also the only one you can never really reach into without shattering the barrier leaving one image standing alone. I fear that day, which as Doodicus gets older, looms ever closer.

Mickey Mouse of a Post

I’m always up for a good (relatively speaking) rant here on my blog, but between my dashed vacation dreams, my FIL’s surgery, my MIL’s extended physical rehab, my mother’s trip overseas, and the training of my replacement at “work” well, dammit, I just refuse to write that many depressing and more-than-likely password protected posts several days in a row.

I think I’m suffering from a chronic vitamin D deficiency. Seriously, if the sun doesn’t start shining and real fucking soon, I’m going to suggest the Army send up a big ole’ H-bomb set to detonate about 20 miles above the Asshole of America so I can at least see my shadow in the brief seconds before I’m obliterated into ashes.

Would you believe that I have a rather inappropriate sense of humor? Of course you would if you’ve been reading me for any significant length of time.

Sparring Partner’s shop has been overrun by mice. He refuses to get farm cats – which will significantly help him with the problem – because he’d have to feed them (WTF?? Dude! They’ll eat the fucking mice!). That leaves him trying to poison and trap a hundred million mice. Give or take a mill’. It’s had little impact. However, with the little victories he does claim, he feels the need to share with me like some primitive hunter who speaks Gruntian and walks like Quasimodo.

So what then do I do? I share it with you, ya’ lucky beetches.

I’ve inserted a jump (or I think I did) because the pictures are rather graphic. And if you hate mice, you’ll hate these pictures even more.

Continue reading Mickey Mouse of a Post

Updating with Nothing

Have you ever met up with a friend you haven’t seen in ages and you have all these things you want to tell them but you only have 30 minutes before you must leave each other so you generally end up saying none of the things that were really important?

That’s how it is right now between me and my blog/you right now. Lots of things to tell you about but I have to filter out the most irrelevant.

Before I can do that, I have to catch up on my sleep. Daylight Savings has kicked my ass but good.

Another day, perhaps, when I’m not so tired emotionally and physically.