She may be cute, but she’ll gouge your eyes out over an M&M.

Today my sweet widdle punkin was THAT kid.

I took her to the small play area in the mall to burn off that sugar high before heading off to pick up Doodicus from school. There were two other kids there, both girls. One was the same age and the same size as Aitch. The other was  about the size of a one year old or so, but I think that was due to some kind of developmental delay as she just seemed to be probably closer to 18 – 20 months old. Either way, she was a tiny little thing with bird-like bones.

A poor night’s sleep, attributed to a cold, plus being significantly past her nap time made her like a monkey hopped up on crack. She went up to the older girl’s father and just started chatting him up. “My name is Aitch. I’m two! See that big girl. She’s my mommy!” and then she’d run off to jump on the rubber lion or hippo or climb inside the tree and then UP the tree. The other two-year old would try to follow her but dad was a bit of a helicopter and would pull her down as she started up.

The Tiny Toddler screeched and ran (always on her tippy-toes) around the small, padded confines of the play area. At one point she climbed up the three stairs to make her way down the slide. Except Aitch suddenly was pushing her down the steps to go in front of her. I stopped my texting (shuddup, I was paying attention) and scooped up Aitch and reprimanded her while reminding her to take turns.

Then she started climbing the tree again and so did the other girl, only to be yet again pulled down by Helicoptor Dad. After a few laps running from one end to the other, Aitch ducked inside the tree and sat on the floor to catch her breath. Following her was Tiny Toddler who sat down in front of Aitch on the floor inside the big rubber tree. That’s when I saw Aitch kick Tiny Toddler, which elicited a gasp from her mother standing next to me watching.

I quickly went over, pulled Aitch from the tree, and told her that she was done playing and we were leaving. I told her to apologize to the little girl, which she did, but screamed and cried the whole time we walked away from the play area to the exit.

Now I KNOW I did the right things in removing her from scene and making her apologize, but still. When the roles were reversed (and they were when Doodicus was that age as he always seemed to be on the receiving end of an aggressive player), I thought the other child’s parents were assholes for not reining in their little deviant. Now I’m the asshole parenting that deviant. My sweet widdle punkin deviant.

What? I always look this cute before delivering a round-house kick.

Breakin’ It Down

Abortion – what is currently chaffing my ass right now is the argument by the Republicans and Tea Party who think there should be significantly less government involvement in our personal lives, i.e. Health Care Reform. Ironic considering that they also want to make women criminals for having an abortion. If that’s not getting too involved in my personal business, I don’t know what is.

C-sections – woman’s body and all that aside, what makes me nutty is there are those who – unintentionally, I’m sure – make me feel that I didn’t advocate myself strongly enough to work harder for a VBAC from my physician. My choice was made. It’s a done deal. I hate the phrase, “You should have…” I had no problem with recovery or breastfeeding because my OB was competent and WE made the best decision for me.

Home Births – I shudder at the thought. The cleaning up would be left to relatives and friends?? As if. I can’t imagine my son in 20 years walking his fiance through the house and proudly boasting, “and this is where my mother pushed me through her vagina!” if he’d been a home-birth baby. Plus? I don’t want to be the person who is thinking “You should have…” if there’s life-altering complications.

Breastfeeding – Gross. I don’t want to see your boobs, even if I’ve told you I do. I’m with the party that uses the argument, “pooping is natural too but I don’t want to see that either”. And no, I don’t need reminding that I had some success breastfeeding Aitch. I missed it when it was over, but I am SO grateful I didn’t have to continue it up through the time she was able to use words to ask for the boob.

Pacifiers – are for babies. Get that? B A B I E S. Not toddlers. I recently had a mom rub it in my face that her daughter, six months older than Aitch, was potty trained by Aitch’s age. It took all my willpower not to throw back in her face, “but at least I don’t stuff a ‘pacie’ in her face every time she whimpers because I know how to interact with my pants-shitting child.”

Co-sleeping – again, like home birthing, I think this is to the parent’s benefit and not the child’s. Especially if the parent is always complaining about how little sleep they got. “But at least my sweetie-pie slept like AN ANGEL! and is in a wonderful mood while I’m sucking back my seventh cup of coffee!” Here’s the deal: if ALL of you got quality sleep, you’d ALL be in good moods and therefore a better home environment.

Sleep Training (CIO) – goes with above. “I can’t STAND to hear my baby cry!” That says it all right there. Oh, and the same thing that gets said about pacifiers.

Vaccinations – Go get your kid vaccinated, mmkay? They may feel like shit for a day, but it’s better than them being dead forever.

Oh, and for circumcisions? We did just because it was the thing to do. Not for religious reasons. We did not discuss how he might feel as a boy without one in school around his peers. It’s just the norm. And even with the recent push to NOT circumcise, I still would make the same decision today.

But if you want to smoke crack, then hey, who am I to pass judgement?

I try to be open both in life and here on my blog. The anonymity of a blog made it easier to talk about dildo-shaped ultrasound wands and foreign masses growing on my butt because you don’t have to see the utter shame in my face. However, in real life, it’s easier to talk to my close friends about politics, religion and certain parenting choices because I chose to hang with friends who are generally of similar personalities.

For me, these two worlds rarely collide and intermingle. I do not share my rectal exam story with my IRL friends, nor do I discuss certain parenting preferences on my blog. When my friends share something deeply, DEEPLY personal (she shaves what where and with who wearing WTF??), I’m sorry, but I can’t ever look at her or her guest bathroom ever the same. As for discussing hot topics here, while I know most of you share very compatible views, there may be one or two that do not and despite me being mostly abrasive, I try at least to keep the readers I have even if no new ones are ever to be part of my future again.

Here’s just a handful of topics that I LOVE to talk about with my IRL friends and family that I wouldn’t dare try to cover here in a way that could be considered even remotely diplomatic:

  • Abortion
  • C-sections
  • Home Births
  • Breastfeeding
  • Pacifiers
  • Co-sleeping
  • Sleep Training (CIO)
  • Vaccinations

I would rather keep topics here fairly neutral rather than be oblivious to my on-line friends just for the sake of increasing traffic. Getting and keeping trolls for some bloggers seems to be like a badge of honor. They can keep on with their troll-trolling and incendiary statements. More power to them and all that jazz.

What topics, if any, do you refuse to discuss on your blog, if you have one? Or with your IRL friends?

Preemptive Grief

It’s been over a year ago that my dad fell and fractured his hip. He despised being a resident in the nursing home so much that he made sure to exercise a little longer, sometimes even taking an extra session a day on his own. Age and osteoporosis had taken a major hit on my dad’s brittle bones.

Late this past fall, he fell again. The first time, a horse had given him a upercut to the head. This time, the dog, not use to being leashed, became excited and wrapped up my dad’s legs like a bolo. He laid on the couch in agony until finally my mother who had been gone all day arrived home to find him. An ambulance took him to the nearest hospital, a tiny one story building in a town less than 15 miles away. The doctor who examined him told him he just pulled a muscle. Go home and take it easy…

That was a Friday. Over the weekend my dad could barely function, he was in such pain. On Monday they went to see the local practitioner who then sent him here for xrays. Imagine my surprise and anger to find out that my dad had actually fractured a disc and that an xray had never even been performed at the hospital. What kind of physician examining an elderly patient with a history of osteo and presenting with severe pain due to a fall does NOT order an xray?! Oh, this kind.

He spent the first 30 days of his stay at the nursing home flat on his back because the injury was inoperable, not even getting out of bed to use the bathroom or eat. Nearly another month after that in physical rehab. Thankfully, he’s home now, but he’ll never be fully recovered.

A few weeks ago, I got a call from my SIL (my brother’s wife): they had now taken my mom to the hospital. Diagnosis? Septicemia after a nasty bout of UTI. Her doctor told her that she was lucky they caught it early as she was discharged within a couple of days with instructions to take it easy and drink lots of fluids.

My mother, god bless her often bitter and crabby heart, has been a rock throughout my life. But we’ve (we, as in my siblings) noticed her mind is slipping. She often repeats a story several times within a short span in a way that you know she doesn’t remember already saying them once, twice and sometimes three times before. Whether it’s due to her forgetfulness or not taking her doctor serious, her UTI infection was not clearing up and this past Thursday she was once again admitted to the hospital with severe dehydration.

In all likelihood, by the time you read this she will be back home, but we as an extended family can no longer joke and tease about sending our parents away to a nursing home. The reality is harsh and cold and almost impossible to wrap my head around. I imagined my dad going out the same way my grandfather had: a heart attack while on the tractor in the fields. A noble way of going if born and bred to farming. As for my mother who always has had a sharp tongue? To watch her slowly slip away mentally is gut wrenching. She doesn’t remember many of the funny stories I tell her about Aitch or that Doodicus is getting awesome grades in school.

I don’t want to grieve for my parents already, but that’s what I’m feeling. And each time I see them looking smaller, paler, more fragile – basically at their worst – I have a harder time remembering them at their best.

You would do ANYTHING? Here’s my bank account information for the transfer.

When I was trying to get pregnant or found out I was going to miscarry, there were certain phrases that people seemed to think were helpful. Many of you know these phrases and their just-as-annoying variations all too well:

  • It’s God’s will.
  • You just need to relax/take a vacation.
  • If you adopt, you’ll get pregnant.
  • Just watch mine for the day and you’ll change your mind.

Being the recipient of such useless remarks would make my blood boil, but there really is nothing that can be done except go to my blog and complain about them. And it definitely isn’t just me. Google “things not to say to an infertile person” if you really want to know.

Now that I’m an Involuntary Stay At Home Mom (ISAHM), I’ve heard the following response to the announcement I am no longer working enough times to make me want to beat the person about the head with a used toilet brush.

“You’re SO lucky! I would do anything to stay at home with my kid(s)!”

I am so lucky?! How is losing nearly half our annual income, investment portfolio, and health benefits “lucky”?? My children who had formed bonds at daycare and established routines now feel lonely and bored at home because their mother, who has never been unemployed has no idea what to do with her children at home except help one with homework, put together puzzles, or watch entirely way too much TV.

I would do anything…is such a crock of shit. Anything? Hey, it’s not that hard to do. No magic genie needs to be summoned in order to become a SAHM/D. You just need to quit your job. Simple. Oh, you don’t want to lose your health insurance and then worry about how every specialist that you need to see means that down the road if you want to purchase private health insurance, it means a major hike in premium and that’s IF they will even cover you? Heaven forbid you get cancer and become uninsurable. Or your son get diagnosed with psychological problems. Don’t worry if you have asthma or if your spouse is overweight.

So no, you wouldn’t do anything. You like the idea of it, and sure it even sounds great to me, but the reality sucks. Unless you know the person who just told you they are a SAHM is doing so voluntarily, please keep that “lucky” and “anything” remark behind closed lips. That’ll keep me from taking better aim.

Twittering My Thumbs

Image representing Twitter as depicted in Crun...
Image via CrunchBase

I must have felt that there just wasn’t enough social media in my life, what with facebook, a blog, and flickr, so I started a new Twitter account. I had one, but like my other blog, people I knew from my personal life were aware of it so I deleted it. I justified its removal with the argument that I never used it; that the feedback was for shit. But I started to miss the one-line zingers and stalking of other bloggers without them being able to track my IP address.

I would share my new user name with you, but then I’d have to kill you because every blue moon one of my sisters stops here and you know what? I just have to have somewhere more private. Somewhere I can REALLY let loose about one of the in-laws if I want. Or somewhere I can say my husband is a dickbag without having to elaborate WHY exactly he is a dickbag at that particular moment.

So if you want me to follow you on Twitter, let me know. Or more importantly, if you want to follow me, let me know. Maybe then I can even out the following:follower ratio, which right now makes me look like a major looooser.

Hat Tricks -or- It Really Is All My Fault

image from Nemerowski Media

It’s a hat trick of posts about Doodicus! And if you’ve turned my blog into some kind of drinking game where you throw back a jigger of tequila every time I complain about something, seek emergency services for the alcohol poisoning immediately. I will bring sunnier and simpler posts the next time. Promise!

Every Friday the teacher gives her students a list of spelling words to study over the weekend. On Monday they take what is referred to as the pretest. If the student does not get 100%, they have the rest of the week to study and take the “post test” on Friday. In other words, ace the first test and you get a breather for the rest of the week and free time while the rest retake the spelling.

Because I am not the good mom you foolishly perceive me to be, I did not check his homework on Friday. I did not check it on Saturday (I claim the out-of-town defense). On Sunday we decided to review his homework including the spelling words. Spelling words? What spelling words? I don’t think we got spelling words…oh, yeah, we did have spelling words but I forgot the list.

Hey. No big deal. The teacher posts the list on the school’s website. <login> <click here> <click there> <open this window> <open that window> <????> Here’s last week’s list…where’s this weeks? She. Didn’t. Post. Them.

Hey. No big deal. (lather rinse repeat) We’ll just call a classmate and get the list from them. Except we can’t find the school directory. I blame Sparring Partner for throwing it away. He blames me for not checking the bookbag on Friday. Tempers are flaring. I find the teacher’s email address and send her a note to let her know we don’t have the list (if you get nothing else from this post (and I wouldn’t) remember that little tidbit) and could she reply with it. I finally get a hold of one of the mom’s. Oooh, she says, my son has the list with him but he’s with his dad this weekend. Here’s his number…

Now I’m mad at the teacher, my son, my husband, and my son’s classmate’s mom and her stupid divorce! My eyes shoot out of my head, hit the wall opposite and what part of my brain hasn’t liquified by then is pulsing out the now empty sockets.

We finally got a returned phone call and the list of spelling words. We practiced late last night and again this morning.

Everything’s cool.

And then I check my email. This morning there’s a reply from his teacher:

I don’t have internet at home and I forgot to post them until this morning.  If he doesn’t do well today he can take it again on Friday. Thanks and sorry!

Cheezits Rice! There went my eyeballs again! BRB as soon as I find the suckers. If Aitch doesn’t find them first and get them stuck in the Ball Popper.

Parenthood

I’m not very good at showing my appreciation for your support, more so now then when I was infertility-blogging. I wish there was a way to let you know how much it really does mean to me. However, with that, I probably will then come across as some kind of asshole if I now told you that at this time we probably won’t seek psychiatric help in regards to Doodicus.

Keeping in line with being an asshole, part of the reason is monetary. Please, I know. How could I put a price on his mental health? We put a price on ours during our infertility treatments; we can now as well.

But that is only a very small part of why we won’t seek counseling in the immediate future. It wasn’t that long ago that Dood was evaluated by a psychologist, who while he thought Dood was an excessive worrier, never suggested that we schedule some private sessions with either himself or another professional. Also, I worry that taking Dood to see a counselor might make him worry even more. Worry that something is wrong with him.

To me, that’s not fair. The bullying is not a result of something wrong with Doodicus. It’s due to something being wrong with the bullies and with the system that either doesn’t recognize it or ignores it.

What we will do if he does tell us about teasing in any form is not ignore it. We hear parents tell their kids to suck it up, to grow up, all the time. Sticks and stones and all that shit, you know? But that’s not how we see it. More specifically, how *I* see it as Sparring Partner does occasionally think that Dood can be too immature and too emotional.

The other night, the movie Parenthood (the one starring Steve Martin) was on. If you’ve seen it, you may recall the scene where the child, Kevin, comes unglued because he lost his retainer at the family restaurant. His dad (Martin) complains later that he’s like a high-strung poodle. Kevin’s character is Doodicus. Years ago when Sparring Partner and I had watched the movie, we saw the resemblance. Now that Doodicus is 9, the same age as the character, we no longer think “he’s kinda like that.” It’s “he’s just like that.”

I think what’s important in helping Doodicus right now: recognizing that he is going to need help.

Bullying

A couple of weeks ago when I picked up Doodicus from school, he was clearly upset about something. I have to admit that at first I tried to ignore it because he can be overly emotional about what should be very insignificant things: I combed his hair wrong, his pants are too long, his toast wasn’t cut exactly down the middle; however, not even with me being a hardened bitch could I ignore his attempt to not cry.

It took some gentle prodding for him to finally admit that a couple of his classmates were making fun of his name. At first, I imagined the name that my SIL had once called him when Doodicus was a baby: “Maxi”. Sparring Partner immediately read her the riot act for obvious reasons. And if it isn’t obvious to you, then you were never a school-aged child.

Instead the name they called him was Office Max. I didn’t really think it was that big of a deal, but they must have needled him to no end about it. I tried to convince him that he should have just replied, “That’s the best you could come up with? You guys are idiots,” but snappy comebacks do not come natural to 9 year olds. By the end of the day, it had all but been forgotten.

Some days later I was reading the People magazine which highlighted the deaths of several young people who had committed suicide following some form of bullying. Inside were stories from other students who briefly described the bullying they had been exposed to, including one who said she was bullied “just because.”

I knew after reading those stories that I had to say something to my son’s principal about it, especially since the recent name calling was not the first time Doodicus had been upset at the end of a school day. A few months ago, he joined the Y contact football league for the first time. He was so pumped about it, and while we knew he would never be NFL material, we were thrilled that he was putting in the effort of going to practice, a brutal 90 minutes two times a week and the one hour games on Sundays. But after the first handful of games, he suddenly stopped being excited about practice and asking if he could stay home. He finally told us that one of the kids on his team, who also was a classmate, would tell Doodicus that he should just quit football; that he sucked and he shouldn’t come back.

As you can imagine, I was furious. To make matters even worse? This kid’s dad was one of the coaches. At the next practice I pulled aside this coach to let him know, and he seemed genuinely concerned. He agreed to address the kids as a team about how this was to be a learning experience, a fun experience. Doodicus told me later that the coach had reminded the kids about what was expected of them as a team, but the haranguing from that kid did not cease until football season finally ended. I doubt Doodicus will return to football this coming fall.

If you hadn’t put two and two together yet, one of the kids that had been poking fun at Doodicus’s name was the same kid from football. When I sent the principal an email about these incidents, I did name the kid as the bully. The principal replied that they would be on the watch for future interactions, but I honestly have the feeling he didn’t take it that seriously.

Here’s why I am taking it seriously. VERY seriously. As I have mentioned, Doodicus is very sensitive and emotional. He recently got into trouble for something at home and lost privileges to his new ipod for a week. He was so upset, he told me he doesn’t deserve to be alive. You can’t possibly know what that feels like, but I can tell you my blood ran cold while at the same time the surge of adrenaline nearly blinded me. The only thing I could do was to calm and reassure him that it’s the action we were displeased with but that wouldn’t change how much we loved him for him.

And this is not the first time he has made this kind of statement. What scares me more than anything is that we know it won’t be the last. You think I am worrying for nothing? Almost exactly a year ago a nine year old committed suicide in his school. He had been sent to the nurse’s office for disciplinary reasons, panicked, and hung himself in the bathroom.

He had been taking medication for mood swings and for attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, and had been having suicidal thoughts for about two years, the police report states.

In 2007, [his] parents, [J] and [D], sought treatment for their son for ADHD.

And yes, those are the parents’ initials (for those who know us).

So I hope you can understand why the bullying cannot – and will not – be taken lightly. I am afraid. Please don’t tell me not to be.

Three Ways of Being Felt Up

I got to do something fun last week: I got a pap smear.

I know! Aren’t you jealous?

Actually, this is a big deal because it’s the first time I’ve set foot in my gynecologist’s office since my six week postnatal appointment, which was August 2008. And while that doesn’t seem that long ago, let me add that the last gyn appointment that I had that included skipping first base and hitting second and third, was when we decided to go with a donor egg IVF cycle. My RE had required it since I would be 40 at the time of the transfer.

Obviously then, it has been a while.

I decided to see the PA at the office since the OBGYN is usually booked weeks out. This was the same PA who was instrumental in our first pregnancy. In giving us advise, obviously!

My love for my PA was only strengthened when we actually took 45 minutes to just talk and catch up on our lives. Who does that, right?? I then had to ruin the mood by telling her about the weird thing going on down under, my cancer, and of course loss of job and asking where I could get a film mammogram since it seems everyone has gone digital (which can run almost five times the cost). And with  that, we got on with the exams.

I learned two things from that experience: 1) apparently yes, I do still have a hemorrhoid that wasn’t caught during my pregnancy since I was a repeat c-section, and 2) rectal exams are standard for the over-40 crowd.

Thank god she didn’t warn me about the latter until the moment before; however I’m sure she was somewhat glad I had warned her about the possible ‘roid. If I could hear the non-stress fetal testing going on in the next room, I’m sure that patient would have heard the quick horrified shriek from my PA.

Hoping now that my malignant melanoma doesn’t end up being a harbinger of more bad medical news in 2011.

My IRL Friends Suck

A couple of weeks before Christmas, I sent a text message to two of my friends who still work at the life-suck pit where I was fired from, asking them if they wanted to do lunch; a get together before the holidays. I was hurt when I didn’t hear back from either of them. That night I sent them an email that basically said that I know that since I don’t work there anymore, it’s hard to stay on the radar, but it would’ve been nice if they would’ve at least replied even if it wasn’t going to work out that day.

While one replied she didn’t get the text (which I can believe as she’s not very technologically savvy), the other replied that she was in another town and wouldn’t be back into the area by lunch and that when she did get back to work, she got busy. I’m sorry, but how long does it take to reply with a text, “Can’t today. How about Friday?” I’m sure she had plenty of time to sit in the other’s office and complain about whatever we always went into each other’s offices and complained about…I didn’t bother responding to either of their emails.

So yeah. I took it very personally. I also realized that each time we have arranged to get together, it has ALWAYS been under my initiative. Neither of them have called me or emailed me to get together. And that hurts a lot.

I haven’t had any contact with them since then because I figure after two years, if they haven’t taken that first step, they aren’t going to start. But then a couple of days ago I got an email from one asking if I wanted to work at a school function with them. I haven’t replied because quite frankly, I’m peeved.

Let me just segway here to add that a few days ago I filtered out some of my FB “friends”: those who I’ve never had interaction with. One of those people was my techno-deficient friend’s husband. Granted he had once commented on one of my wall posts, but I then noticed he had friended the ex-coworker who had stalked my blog AND who had given my blog address to the HR person where I temped for 18 months. Now he can be friends with whoever he wants, but you know what? I don’t want him to have ANY information about me that he could let unintentionally slip to her. No way. No how. So I cut him.

Man, I can’t believe what a paranoid and crazy bitch this makes me out to be.

Anyway, still peeving about the whole scenario. I’ve even illogically expanded on why I’m mad: no inquiry as to our holidays (BTW, for the past three Christmases I sent them both cards and never got one in return); she couldn’t have called me? It’s not like I’m working! And she knows that. Also, I’m almost certain that if I accept, they’ll end up not being there and I’ll be stuck with two other school moms that will make me wish I had started drinking at 8 (in the morning).

Did I mention paranoid and crazy?

I will probably accept, but I think I’ll wait a few more days before responding. Not that they’ll sweat it out or anything. Hell, my luck? They’ll tell me that since I didn’t reply earlier, they got someone else to help them.

Looking Back

I was snooping via google for an ex-boyfriend from a past life and found that he appears to still be married. He cheated on her with me. Kind of. As I thought about that whole mess from eons ago, I realized it’s a story I should share with you. Not that you care, but it is my blog after all.

I think I was barely 21 when I met this guy. His name was Rheza and he was Persian. He looked just like David Byrne from the Talking Heads. Not quite as pale, though. He was buff, lean and 10 years my senior. He would dry his dark wavy hair by thrumming his fingers quickly back and forth over his head. He tried it on me once and I almost fell asleep because it was so relaxing.

Not long after we started seeing each other regularly, I was at his apartment which he shared with another countryman watching TV, when there was loud banging on the door. Rheza got up, looked out the peephole, looked back and me, and stepped outside shutting the door behind me. I knew who it was. Her name was Kate and I had been informed that they were recently broke up, but that hadn’t stopped her from calling or stopping by at random times.

When Rheza came back inside I decided enough was enough and he had to tell her to stop bothering us. I don’t remember exactly how our conversation continued from there except that he finally told me that he couldn’t tell Kate to never call again; they were married.

Stunned, horrified and furious, I ran out the patio door and he followed, grabbing my arm to stop me. He sat me down in the quiet area between the apartment complex buildings and explained how his visa had expired and they had married so he could remain stateside.

Our relationship from there obviously got complicated, Kate was always in the background but Rheza assured me he would divorce her…eventually. He didn’t love her, he was just using her until he didn’t need to anymore. He flew me to Florida and introduced me to his older brother, and took me to Disney World. But in the pictures that I still have the tension is visible,  made worse by the fact his brother called me Kate several times during the trip. By the time we flew back home, Rheza and I were barely speaking to each other.

Not too much longer after that, we got into yet another argument about who knows what and he slapped me hard enough to make me see stars. He was immediately apologetic but for me it was the final nail in the coffin that held our relationship.

So now, over 20 years later it would appear that his marriage hadn’t been the sham he had tried to make me believe it was since they are still married. Not sure how they reconciled his cheating or his violent temper, but I also can’t help but wonder if I had been thinking of them, had they ever thought about me? Did my name come up during arguments, maybe even still? Is that an egotistical thought? Sometimes I do wonder, what if, but not for long. I remember that dizzying slap, the grip on my arms that left bruises, and the fact that he (and she) are still both 10 years my senior and I know I’m not missing out on a thing. We often have to rerun our past to know our future is pretty darn good.

Can I Leave It Up To A Coin Toss?

I’ve been vacillating between letting 2011 being my year of forgiveness: forgiving my former employer for being a cocksucker, forgiving myself for being hard-headed and abrasive, so I can go on to be a kinder, gentler me.

Or to be the year of shirking this neutral pansy cape I’ve been wearing and scream out, “Fuck you, you losers!” like Superman in the phone booth and stop worrying about diplomacy, both here and in my personal life.

Either of these options actually make me cringe a bit, and I realize that it will probably take me all of 2011 to figure it out.

I all but gave up looking or a job. When my computer was infected and I had lost a recent version of my resume about a month ago, I never went back to rebuild it. There’s currently two positions I found locally I should apply for but the idea of being rejected again overpowers the very slim possibility I would even land an interview. The lack of confidence I feel contributes to my desire to go with Option #2 above in the harsh day light. It’s at night, when I invariably wake up to stare at the shadow of the ceiling fan that I wonder if I wouldn’t be more at peace with Option #1 because my ass is sore from the repeated self-kicking.

Last night as I was cleaning off the remains of supper (the one Sparring Partner cooked (he always cooks)) while he was playing a computer game with Doodicus, I felt oddly at peace rinsing the dishes, stacking the dishwasher, wiping the table and clearing the counter. Like I was happy, carefree. And now this morning again I am knotted up with stress and once again disenchanted.

Not looking for answers. Just airing my brain while Aitch sleeps in after her repeated wakings last night. Once at 3:30 a.m. to play with her stuffed toys in her crib and the second time at 5:30 to whine loudly. Literally, whine like a puppy. SO annoying!

And at that, I hear her. She must be more rested than her mom, as she is playing quietly. I wish I was 2 1/2 years old again.

High Horse

I must not be reading the right blogs because while I’ve read references about bloggers who write about writing too-personal posts, it wasn’t until today that after googling “mommy bloggers too personal” that I actually found a blog specifically written about whether mommy bloggers are getting too personal.

Could I have possibly squeezed in one more “personal” in that sentence?

What annoys me about what I have termed the High Horse Mentality is that it’s coming from big-name bloggers. Big Name bloggers who probably started off anonymous writing under cute pseudonyms who got popular for their writing, then got enough emails to convince them to write a book, which of course required them to write under their real name (because no one is going to pay good money to buy a book with an author’s name like Yo-yo Mama). This always leads to publicly acknowledging that their child’s name is really NOT Doodicus but is indeed Norman, and look! Here’s a picture of Norman naked in the tub/sitting on the potty chair/playing with his Barbies.

And THEN they wonder why they get creepy emails from Lester of the MWLBs.

While I’m on the topic of annoying things bloggers do, here’s a common mistake most bloggers make. In fact, I’ll admit I made it (I makes lots of them…), don’t ever say, “My blog is for ME and I’ll blog what I want!” Wake up. The ONLY blog that is truly written solely for the blog owner is the one set to private. Completely private. Not this private-but-my-family-and-friends-can-read-it, because the pictures and stories that get shared are not for YOU then, now are they?

Blogging has kept me sane over the years, especially during our ART years. I also think blogging is a dying art. I get more feedback on Facebook nowadays then I do here, but I will continue to maintain my blog for a couple of different reasons: 1) there are things I can still say here that I can’t on FB. I am friends with my family, in-laws and classmates there – many times regrettably so; and 2) I find it reassuring that with how things are right now with my son that I am not alone. Who knows what the coming months and years will bring for my daughter.

As for worrying about my kids someday finding my blog? I sincerely hope they do and realize that I wasn’t just “the Mommy”. I am a real person who worried about their future, proudly shared their accomplishments, and really did hate the constant picking up I had to do and that my annoyance wasn’t just for show. If they can’t appreciate that then I guess I could always lie and deny that this blog was about me or them and they need to stop being so damned paranoid.

Ah, the beauty of an anonymous blog.