Not-so-Pregnant in Texas

3/1

2007-03-01T08:33:00.000-08:00

Oh Happy Day!

A little while ago (ok, a couple of months ago), I mentioned that I was going be moving out of blogger and into my own domain.

Well...that day has arrived thanks to Dee at Voices in my Mind. From here on out, I'll be writing at: www.notsopregnant.com

To encourage the move over (and to make up for the annoyance of having to update the link to my page on your blog roll or memory), I'm offering a cute new video of Zac as a peace offering.

What are you waiting for? Go on over!

2/28

2007-02-28T07:03:00.000-08:00

I need a time out.

I'm just going to go sit over in the "naughty spot" until I can handle parenting a toddler that is quickly approaching the terrible 2 stage. I might even need 2 minutes for every year of my age, so I'll be there for a little while. Don't be surprised if I fall asleep. I'll use my time in the naughty spot to think about what I've done and how I can avoid similarly bad parenting in the future.

For the past three days, Zac has been pushing every g-ddamn button I possess. I will admit that on Saturday, I screwed up his sleep schedule by taking him to my Mom's chorus performance, which didn't start until 7pm. He fell asleep in the car on the ride there and would have been perfectly content to sleep the rest of the evening in his car seat if I had let him.

But no, I was the mean Mommy that ripped him from the comfortable haven of belted security and forced him into an umbrella stroller. He cried for non-stop for 30 minutes before my Dad took him into the bathroom and he calmed down.

When we got back to my parents' house, he was awake until 11pm and still managed to wake himself up at his regular time of 7:15am. He fussed the entire day and screamed from 4:30-6:30am, Monday morning. I knew that I had two choices at that point: have both us try to make it through our days exhausted and ready to kill someone, only to be called by the Shoe Nazis at 2pm saying, "Zachary is having a bad day. Can you come pick him up?" or we could go back to bed. I picked the second option.

Then on Tuesday, somewhere between my mailroom and the Shoe Nazis headquarters, I lost my entire set of keys. It was a nice day and I felt like walking, not remembering that keys, wallets, cellphones and assorted items bounce out of the stroller. When I got to Zac's daycare, they were missing. I retraced my steps twice from the mailroom and back and couldn't find them. I had to call the "emergency maintenance" man to let me into my apartment and spent 45 minutes slapping mosquitos away from Zac's head while he screamed with hunger and frustration.

As soon as the maintenance man, who apparently isn't very concerned about emergency situations, arrived, my Dad showed up right behind him with the spare set of apartment keys. Zac screamed and screamed, refusing to eat his dinner or drink his bottle, until my Dad held him. Zac finally calmed down for him and ate his ravioli and sliced pears.

Now, the kid is so upset all the time that he cries whenever anyone is more than five feet away from him. He cried for a solid hour at dinner last night at a Mexican restaurant with my friend David. He refused to walk (again!) and only wants to be carried to the car and back. He's holding on for everything he can and it makes me want to scream.

Anyone interested in parenting a toddler that screams more than he smiles? Let me know. Until then, I'll be in the corner over there, thinking about ways that I can occupy Zac while I'm in timeout.

2/26

2007-02-26T10:50:00.000-08:00

In honor of One Weird Mother, who encouraged me to stop complaining and start acting. I wrote this e-mail to my future city government after reading these two articles that One Weird Mother linked to on her blog.

I agree with her. It's time that both women and men start addresses the systemic imbalances that working parents face - in the workplace, in civic life, and within our homes.
______
Dear Fruity Parks and Recreation Department,

I'm moving to the City of Fruit in Spring 2007. I went to the City's Parks and Recreation Department website this afternoon and was amazed at all of the activities that you offer for city residents! It's great to encourage residents to be active and involved in their community, especially while getting to know their neighbors.

However, I was extremely disapointed that most of the activities for younger children are offered exclusively during the day. I would love to enroll my 20 month-old son in Toddler Buds tumbling class or take the Awesome Abs or 20/20/20 fitness class for myself, but all of these activites are only offered during traditional working hours. Fortunately, there are other fitness classes that are offered for adults in the evenings that I could attend, but that isn't the case for toddler classes. Both sessions of the Toddler Time class, in addition to all of the preschool activities, are offered only during the morning hours.

As a working parent, I'm frustrated and confused as to why the Fruity Parks and Recreation Department would choose to only schedule classes for children and their parents in the morning. Working parents deserve as much quality time, interaction, and city-sponsored activities with their children as those children that are fortunate enough to have stay-at-home guardians, especially for toddler-aged children.

What are the plans to address this situation in the future? I'm cc'ing JB, Director of Parks and Recreation, and MS, Recreation Superindent in the hopes that these individuals can help shed some light on the scheduling issues and the plans for making classes more inclusive for working families. Thank you.

Sincerely,

NSP
Future City of Fruit Resident

2/22

2007-02-22T07:18:00.000-08:00

"I hated everyday of highschool.

It's funny I guess you did too.

It's funny how I never knew.

There I was, sitting right behind you..

I guess you finally stopped believing that any hope would ever find you

I knew that story, I was

sitting right behind you"

It's not too much of an exaggeration to say that I couldn't wait for high school to end. I didn't "fit" anywhere or into any of the groups and did a pretty spectacular job of isolating myself.

I was a smart kid that didn't want to hang out with the other smart kids who practiced math sets for their SATs after school and on the weekends. I was an athletic kid that would rather talk about books than stats. I wanted to be in the popular group, but I didn't drink or smoke in highschool and I wasn't religious enough (yes, there was a very religious church-going popular crowd) to fit into the other popular group. I just floundered socially. Academically, I never felt inspired. Some of the work was challenging, but not engaging.

Basically, I joined as many extra cirriculuar activities, sports and honors groups as possible to make sure that when the time came, I could get as far away from high school as I could.

I went to Smith College, 3,000 miles away from my home town. There, I found the love and support that I had been looking for in highschool. I found interesting, fiercely intelligent women who didn't put me down for using "big words" to express myself. We all secretely admitted that we liked to read, write, draw, paint and go to elitist coffee shops where people recited spoken word poetry. It was a coming out moment for the intellectualism that we had supressed throughout puberty. I reveled in it and drank up as much as I could.

Just recently, I had a friend from high school tell me that a mutual friend was looking for me on myspace. I've had a myspace account for the last two years or so, but left it completely blank and only used to occasionally message people or check other people's pages. I updated my page, added some pictures, and suddenly - it's like a windown into my past has blown open.

The crazy part is that I love the fresh air. I love finding out who got married and who got their master's degrees in chemistry or education. I'm sure that it's time that has helped heal some of the wounds that teenagers mutually inflict on each other, but people genuinely seem surprised and happy to hear from me. It's allowed me to reconnect, not only with the people that I grew up with, but with a part of myself.

I had written off the teenage version of myself as someone that I didn't want to know. Turns out, she had a lot of problems and a whole hell of a lot of insecurities, but the NSP in high school wasn't as bad as I had originally thought.

2/20

2007-02-20T08:06:00.000-08:00

I didn't know it at the time, sitting in the restaurant at Simon Pearce in Queeche, VT and drinking a chaste sip of wine, how my life would change after my pregnancy. I didn't know the full implications of my decision then.

A baby was only an abstract thought to me. I had very little morning sickness and for the first 12 weeks of my pregnancy, it was easier for me to believe that I had ovarian cancer than a child. All of the pregnancy tests in the world couldn't convince me that I would be able to carry a growing infant to term in my body.

Then I did. Zac came and he was beautiful, if completely unknown and foreign to me. I wish I could have those early days back with him. I would give almost anything to hold him against me and feel his soft, downy head. It's probably the most accute form of revisionist history to wish that I could look down and see him nurse again. I miss the unbelievably small onesies and sleeping next to him throughout the night. I see little babies in the mall or in the waiting room of my organization and think, "How was he ever that small?" Even at one month old, he looked like a little mini adult, fully formed and ready to play.

Now he wakes me up by coming as close to my face as possible, with our noses almost touching, and yells, "HA!" as soon as he sees my eyes open. His mouth hangs open in a goofy grin and he opens his eyes as wide as possible to greet me good morning.

I get up, turn on some cartoons for him to watch, get undressed to take a shower and am once again faced with my post-pregnancy body. It's covered in stretch marks and parts hang lower than I think they should. My stomach has the odd dual lumps, with my belly button in the middle, separating the twin hills. When I spin around to turn on the shower, I remember why I turn out the light before I get undressed.

Trying to date with this body is like trying to write a novel with a worn down nub of a pencil. It's possible to do it, just not easy. The pencil can form words and convey the thoughts of the author, but its a dull instrument when compared to a computer or even a pen.

It's not that I want to trade my body or even go back to the body that I had before Zac, it's that I wish I could embrace the beauty of this pencil, bitemarks and all.

2/19-2

2007-02-19T10:12:00.000-08:00

Last night I was laying in bed reading another silly Anita Shreve novel. This one is set in New Hampshire, specifically the part of New Hampshire that I lived in for over a year. The story centers around the towns that crisscross the New Hampshire/Vermont border from the middle of the state upwards. The action in the novel occurs during a very cold, snowy winter in the hills. There are driveways that people can't get up, even in ambulances, and the ice is an omnipresent character in the story.

I laid there and thought, "Now New Hampshire is a perfect place to be very, very sad." All that snow, ice and freezing temperatures seem to encourage long periods of introspection and depression. People close their doors and hole up in their houses. The lack of friendliness in the town's people only personifies the belief that you either, "Live Free or Die" in that state. Independence is cherished and any sign of public weakness should be crushed out immediately like a cigarette butt.

It really is the kind of place where you could go quietly insane and no one would notice. The neighbors might find you once the ground thaws and the snow melts, but it would be too late by then.

Then I started thinking of all the places where I was unbelievably miserable. The places where I experienced chest tightening anxiety attacks and self-hatred so extreme that I rarely got out of bed. Places where, at times, I functioned only on a life-preserving level. Certainly, Lebanon, New Hampshire tops the list, but it's closely followed by McCall, Idaho - Telmen, Zavkhan, Mongolia - Oxford, England - Philadelphia, Pennsylvania - Friendswood, Texas.

Wherever you go - there you are. Unlike the airlines, your being never loses your baggage.

My baggage is a slightly different from other divorced/single parents that I've met. My baggage doesn't have needs. My baggage doesn't call me to tell me that it needs money or emotional support. I don't have to respond to my baggage and I can go weeks pretending it doesn't exist. My baggage can't keep me from seeing my son because it's in a bad mood (really, we all know that depression and it's twin, anxiety, are rarely in good moods. That's contrary to their nature). It can keep me from enjoying my time with Zac and from appreciating the joy and beauty around me, but I don't have to ask it to file a joint tax return or for extra time on the weekend to be with my son.

The flip side of this coin is that no one claims Zac and I as "family". There is no former partner that I can call that will stop everything to support us, even if they don't love me anymore. It's Zac and I. I make all the decisions, even though I yearn to be in a family of my own making.

I want someone to say that they will always love me - no, love us - regardless of the mistakes I make.

2/19

2007-02-19T06:52:00.000-08:00

I wanted to write a post about choices and how overwhelmed I feel with trying to make decisions by myself, but the words won't come. I woke up this morning with a sore throat and a tooth that aches all the way down the gum line and into the bottom of my mouth.

I spent three hours in the dentist's chair on Friday getting a temporary crown on my cracked tooth. In my ignorance of dental procedures, I thought that they just had to slap on some metal in the shape of a tooth and I would be good to go. Unfortunately, the whole procedure involved more drilling and shoving rope underneith the gumline to get an accurate impression of the tooth. I was basically miserable and it was only the laughing gas that kept me from horribly embarassing myself and cursing out everyone in a five mile radius.

On Saturday and Sunday, I drove around looking for new apartments. It was basically an exhausting task and I would only wish it upon someone that had absolutely nothing better to do with their time (like napping, playing with their kid or filing their taxes). The average rental price for a two bedroom apartment in the area where I was looking was $950-$1100. I would have to sell a kidney to be able to afford that. It was so disheartening to go into "luxury apartment" after apartment, only to find that even a one bedroom was out of my price range. The non-luxury apartments butted up against a major highway and had boarded up windows in some parts. There is no middle ground in this suburb: you either have money or you don't.

I found one place that is less than the median that I might have a chance at affording. I need to check around for daycare centers today to see if it's even an option. Even though I'm pretty sure that I can't afford to send Zac to a montessori school, I'm going to call the two in the area to check their prices.

West Virginia didn't return my call last night so I need to talk to him tonight. As always, the status of my relationships seem to greatly influence (perhaps determine?) my emotional state.

Note to self: Work on that shit in therapy.

2/15

2007-02-15T08:06:00.000-08:00

Occasionally, it's incredibly obvious to me that I have a couple people in my life that do nothing but make me doubt myself. Slowly but surely, I'm trying to find the courage to stand up for myself and say, "No, I'm sorry. I deserve to be treated better than that." It's difficult for me because I so readily believe all of the negative things that I hear reflected back.

Take for instance an e-mail that I got yesterday. It came from a man that I've never met in person and have been communicating with, off and on, for the last six months or so. He asked if we could meet. I told him no because I was dating West Virginia and I'm really not a good enough liar to try and keep secrets from someone that I care about. He responded with this:

"Ha....you're a woman that values honesty and integrity. I'm sure. What you really are is an emotional wreck whose vulnerability gets you into relational trouble on a dangerously consistent basis.

But I understand. No (redacted) for me. Hope you enjoyed the breakfast.."

Now, normally I completely and whole-heartedly own up to the fact that I've had emotional problems in the past and continue to struggle with depression and anxiety. However, having a virtual stranger call me an "emotional wreck" is something that I am not prepared to accept, mutherfucka. I guess we can all see why I've never agreed to meet him. What does he think? That being mean to me will convince me that he's the man of my dreams? *scoff*

When I told West Virigina that story last night after dinner, he just shook his head and asked why someone would say such a horrible thing. I wondered the same. He pulled me close and told me that everyone in the past that had left me for someone else, lied to me, or consisently put me down for either over-thinking or over-feeling (and it's interesting that people feel I can do both simultaneously), did me a favor. They did a favor by leaving and giving me the opportunity to reach my full potential without their baggage. They did me a favor, he said, by letting me meet someone that can appreciate every part of me and can see how much I have to offer.

Those words were such a nice way to end Valentine's Day.

2/14

2007-02-14T07:31:00.000-08:00

After reading some of my comments, it's clear that people think I have some kind of karmic debt that I'm repaying to the universe. It's possible that's true. It's also possible that I just don't chronicle enough of the, "Awww....schmoopy, poopy" moments of my life in this format.

Maybe I focus too much on the negative (like a tooth cracked on a conversation heart. As MNS said, what kind of f'ked up metaphor for love is that?). Part of me worries that I'll alienate people that either don't have kids or are struggling to get/remain pregnant if I write about all the cute, wonderful things that Zac does on a daily basis. Part of me thinks that I might hit myself on the foot with a large hammer if I only wrote about my kid day-in and day-out.

I do talk about him quite a bit in everyday conversations. Somedays, it feels like he's the only thing that I've done right so far.

In March, my Peace Corps friends are hosting a reunion. A conflicting schedule in Houston means that my parents might not be able to watch Zac for the weekend. When I asked about bringing Zac with me up to Maine, I was told in the kindest, most sincere terms that it would be better if I didn't bring him to the party.

That leaves me in a bit of a bind. Even if I flew with him (which I promised to never do alone again. I still have some bruises for trying to carry a toddler that refused to walk, a diaper bag, a carry-on bag and a 20 pound car seat while sprinting for my connecting flight 3 concourses away), I would still have to find someone to watch him for me and couldn't bring him into the house where I was staying. If I left him at home with a patchwork of babysitters and friends, I would be worried about him and undoubtedly bore my friends to tears with stories about him.

I'm not sure what to do. Clearly, the simple answer is: "Just don't go" and I'm debating that point in my mind. After Peace Corps, everything went downhill. In New Hampshire, I kept getting fired from jobs for being "too depressed" and I met the FOB and decided to overlook some very obvious drug and alcohol problems to be with him. I abused my body and left my mind to rot. I fought with my family and isolated myself from a number of friends.

Then I got pregnant and I moved to Texas. I started this blog. I lived with my parents and I gave birth. After all of that, when I see Zac walking or playing in the bathtub with his cups, I'm filled with the knowledge that he's the best thing that's happened to me so far. I love the way he holds my hand when he walks and how he gets so excited when I pick him up and let him play with my hair. I love his smile and his laugh. I love the sad face that he gives me when he's working up the energy to cry.

Especially, though, I love how proud he is after he makes a basket:

I'm not sure if I'll go to the reunion or not. I'd really like to and I think it might be good for me to reconnect with the people that I shared so many difficult experiences with. I just know that there are times that I wish I could share the love I feel for this little boy with everyone.

2/13

2007-02-13T12:18:00.000-08:00

Reason #2,457 why I hate Valentine's Day:

I swipped a handful of these little gems off my co-worker's desk. When I bit down, I cracked my back molar and had to make an appointment at an emergency dental clinic to get it fixed.

Turns out...when the dentist says that you need to get a crown on your tooth after a root canal...it's best to listen, no matter how much it costs or how much pain it will cause to get it.

P.S. - Happy Birthday Mom!

Edited to note - The dentist was able to save most of my tooth. After numbing the whole right side of my mouth, she extracted the cracked part of the tooth with one swift motion. It looked like she was pulling out a splinter. My mouth wept for its missing parts.

Jenna asked how this happens to me. It happens the same way to everyone that can't afford quality dental care. I got three root canals in September and never went back for the crowns (at $700 a piece over two dental visits).

2/12

2007-02-12T09:15:00.000-08:00

"I'm not ready to make nice,

I'm not ready to back down,

I'm still mad as hell

And I don't have time

To go round and round and round

It's too late to make it right

I probably wouldn't if I could

Cause I'm mad as hell

Can't bring myself to do what it is

You think I should"

Dixie Chicks, "Not Ready to Make Nice"

I cheered last night when the Dixie Chicks won Record of the Year at the Grammies. I personally love this song, although I struggle with staying "mad as hell" at anyone other than myself for more than 20 minutes or so. Well, that isn't exactly true because I'm excellent at holding grudges and never letting someone forget how they wronged me. It's just the actual yelling, screaming and silently seething part that I'm not very good at.

I wish I was better at that, to be honest.

Thordora mentioned in her post today that she feels all emotionally clogged up. Her anti-depressant isn't letting anything come out and I understand how that feels more than most people. Sure, my recent hormonal surge caused me to cry every day and oddly start producing breast milk again. Sure, that was weird as shit because - really - I'm pretty sure having your breasts ache after crying isn't a completely normal reaction. I admit all of that.

I'm back to my normal routine of, "Just get through this". Just find a way to make it through and not fall asleep at your desk. I'm so tired all the time. So worn out. Even in the midst of a new person coming into my life, I can't garner much motivation to do anything. My sex drive has never been this low. I keep looking at West Viriginia and apologizing for how I feel, but I don't know how to change it.

All of the "shoulds" keep kicking in, this time about a new relationship. I should want to have sex with him more. I should feel better about myself. I should appreciate that he's into me and all of the compliments that he gives me (even though it secretly freaks me out, especially when he said he was going to call last night and didn't).

Zac will at least be happy. Everytime this week that he's been in room with West Viriginia and I, he starts to cry whenever we touch. It doesn't matter if it's as something as simple as putting his arm around me or his feet on my lap. Zac will start to cry and immediately walk over to me and demand that I pick him up. WVa had to move his feet so Zac could sit on my lap and glower over at his "competition" for my affection. He's never been like this and, honestly, I don't really know what to do.

He's jealous and it reminds me of those dogs that will jump up in between people when they start to hug or kiss. Some dogs will bark so loudly that the humans jump apart. My son - he just cries and looks miserable. I don't know if this just the developmental stage he's in or if this is a side effect of him being raised by only one primary caregiver.

Have any parents with partners ever experienced this? Do children freak out about affection within the bounds of a committed relationship or do I need to be more careful about the men that Zac gets introduced to? My Mom (who doesn't really want me to date), hypothesized that Zac senses that I'm in a new relationship and is concerned for me. When I was crying over Mr. Tugboat, he would start to cry as well, for no other reason than his Mommy was crying. After Mr. Tugboat, he got me all to himself. It seems like he doesn't want to give that up and he especially doesn't want me to cry anymore.

Can you tell that I'm blaming myself for everything today? It's just one of those days.

2/10

2007-02-10T16:55:00.000-08:00

This Thursday, Zac went to his first (semi)professional game. My organization got free tickets to the Houston Aeros hockey team and I invited West Virginia to go with me. Unfortunately, the day before I was stuck at a board meeting until 9pm and I didn't get a chance to even see Zac before he went to bed. West Viriginia understood and asked me if I could bring Zac to the game.

We met up at my apartment at 6pm and went over, together, to pick up Zac from daycare. What happened there was every single Mom's worst nightmare.

West Viriginia went into the daycare with me.

One of the Shoe Nazis came over and practically squeeled, "Oh h-e-l-l-O!!! We haven't met yet," sticking out her hand in West Virginia's direction. "My name is Happy Happy Joy Joy and I've been with this daycare for 20 years." West Virigina, still shaking her hand managed to introduce himself before she started launched into her speech about Zac.

"Well, you know," she motioned over at Zac, "he is just such a special child. He really has done so well with learning how to walk." Her words were starting to wash over West Virginia, as he realized exactly what she was assuming. My face was getting redder and redder. I was scooping up Zac's bottle and coat as fast as possible, trying to encourage Zac to run out the door for the first time in his life.

The humiliation just kept continuing.

"It is just so great to finally meet you," Happy Happy Joy Joy croned on. "It's great to see families involved with each other. I hope that you come back and see us just as soon as you can."

From the corner of Zac's daycare classroom, I started thinking, "Yep, I've dropped off and picked up Zac every day for the past year - 5 days a week, 50 weeks a year - and suddenly, like magic, a man shows up! It's like I've been blessed by the Daddy fairy for my good behavior."

West Viriginia shook her hand once more and wished her a good night. Zac and I were trying to make our way to the car as fast as possible without making direct eye contact with anyone over the age of 2 to avoid any further embarassment.

When I got into the car, West Viriginia got in, looked at me and laughed. He said, "I was just waiting for her to say how much he looked like me! I was going to tell her that he's a stud and that it runs in the family!!"

We agreed that she's a little flighty, bless her heart.

2/08

2007-02-08T07:01:00.000-08:00

Ok, so there were a couple votes for the, "Never Been Married" topic, which might be interesting. I hesitate, though, because much like picking a url that denotes the presence of something (namely an inutero child), picking a blog topic about the absence of something (my lack of marriage/commitment status) might also change.

I can remember sitting across from one of my boyfriends trying to explain that I would never agree to get married until gays and lesbians had the right to marry their partners. I didn't want to support an institution that our government uses to bestow or deny rights and privileges to people based solely on the biological sex of who they fall in love with. Some men get that. To other men, I could have been speaking Farisi while inhaling helium. What I was saying about the cultural discrimination of marriage made that much sense to them. I just figured that I never would get married to a man since I never had the option of marrying a woman.

Much like Pamilia, I'm also not really a big fan of all the accuturements of a wedding. The conflict diamonds, the white dress with lace, the expense and the hysteria that weddings can cause those involved in planning the actual day don't seem to be particularly meaningful symbols to me.

Then the Massachusetts Supreme Court gave gays and lesbians the right to get married, even as Vermont voters were driving around with bumper stickers proclaiming the need to, "Take Back Vermont!" from the ill-begotten stepchild of marriage: the Civil Union. Hawaii had completely reversed its Civil Union policy and only pockets of towns in California were allowing gay marriages, pending review from the California state legislature and judiciary. Then one day, Canada made it ok to be queer and married, even while shivering from the extreme cold and contemplating chopping up the dog house for firewood. That was a beautiful thing.

Yes, somehow, the world didn't collapse when MA started allowing same-sex couples to be joined in matrimony. I found myself rethinking my views on marriage and I realized that it's difficult to give the world ultimatums like, "I will never do...until you..." It's possible and I applaud the people that can do it. I've had to be a little bit more flexible and forgiving of myself.

I could have never predicted that four years after graduating college, I would be a single Mom to an incredibly beautiful child. During my pregnancy, I mourned the loss of my dream of being in a committed relationship and raising a family. I had to forgive myself for my mistakes and embrace the joy and laughter that Zac brings into my life. It was a slowly evolving process to reach that conclusion.

It's the experiences that I've had as a mother and a woman that have forced me to re-evaluate where I stand on issues. "Equal rights for gays and lesbians," is so far from being actualized that somedays I want to look up to the sky and yell: "Why? Why are we letting this go on? Why does it matter to anyone who they take into their hearts and into their beds? Don't we have more pressing issues to deal with as a society?" and then I sigh and once again call myself a hypocrite for letting my coworkers and acquaintances assume that I'm straight.

Yes, I've never been married. To be completely honest, at 26 years-old, I've never even moved in with someone. I've been alone and there are days when I don't want to be alone anymore.

2/07-2

2007-02-07T11:27:00.000-08:00

So, I might have a chance to start a paid blogging gig soon. The only problem is, I'm not really sure what I'd like to write about.

I get all of my mommyblog tendencies out on this site and there are already two other single and dating Moms on the other site.

My question is to you, gentle readers, if I were lucky enough to get you to read another blog of mine, what would you like to read more of?

Here are a couple topics that I'm debating writing about:
(A) Weightloss
(B) Mothers and Depression
(C) Working for a Non-profit
(D) Never been Married

or (E) Dear God, woman, don't even think about writing another blog because I can barely stomach this one and only read it because I know you in real life and you will occasionally turn to me and ask, "Did you read my blog yesterday? I wrote about this already."

Ok, here is the rationale. (A) is pretty obvious. I spend a lot of time and money trying to lose weight so it would make sense that I would blog about it. (B) Analyzing the intersection between "Mommy Guilt" and depression, especially generationally. (C) Well, I work for a non-profit and most of my salaried positions have been for non-profits. (D) This phrase tends to come up a lot when I first meet people. Marriage status defines us as individuals and I've spent a lot of time in the past year listening to people talk (endless sometimes) about their exes. I can even tell you the color of underwear and sexual proclivities of some men's ex-wives. Since I've never been married, listening to these stories is akin to listening to someone talk about a mountainclimb to the top of Kilamanjaro (Thank you Dora the Explorer for that reference). I can imagine and I don't really want to go throught it.

Of course there is option (F), which is any fantastic idea that you all have.

Please, please, please....leave a comment and let me know what you think. Otherwise, I will torture you all with more poop stories, so help me God!!!

2/07

2007-02-07T07:54:00.000-08:00

Outside of pregnancy, I've never woken up at 4am and thought, "Cookies. Cookies are what I need right now and I'll cry until I get them."

Apparently, I don't have the mind of a toddler.

Zac woke up this morning and demanded cookies. I don't usually cave into his demands, but I have an inherent aversion to being woken up out of a sound sleep. Just imagine an arm reaching out to silence an alarm clock. Without really being fully awake, your body just instinctively tries to stop whatever noise woke you up in the first place.

That's how it was with me last night as I picked Zac up and brought him downstairs. He ran as fast as his little legs could take him into the kitchen, pointed up at the pantry and then looked at me like, "What part of this equation do you not understand? I. WANT. A. COOKIE" I gave him a handful of Nilla Wafers (which are called cookies in my house because the American lexicon lacks words like "biscuit" or "wafer" when referring to a crunchy baked goods) and he dutifully tromped out of the kitchen, up the stairs and back into bed with his cookies.

If that were the end of story, it would have been an uneventful night. It's just that he wouldn't go back to sleep. The Cookie Monster wanted to play. When I wasn't game he ended up kicking me in the back, repeatedly, until 6am or so when we finally both passed out.

I'm at work right now, still tired and bleary-eyed, but smiling. I have an appointment on Friday to see a psychologist and West Virginia came over last night for burritos and bad television. After I made dinner, he cleaned my kitchen and I almost fainted from joy. He admitted that he's a bit of anal, clean-freak. I think if you have to have a compulsion, there are worse ones than the desire to clean someone else's living space.

Especially after that person just cooked you dinner.

2/06

2007-02-06T08:08:00.000-08:00

Last night I found my exercising nirvana. I went to B*ally's after work to pay my overdue bill and to get rid of some of my karmic guilt. Two weeks before Christmas, an ATM ate my debit card (or I forgot to take it out of the machine, either one). I ordered a new card and received it just before New Year's Eve.

Since all of my automatic bill payments come directly out of my checking account, it wasn' t a huge deal that I now had a new card number. Except at B*ally's, where they charge the number on your card, instead of withdrawing it from your account.

Between my post-holiday breakdown and Zac's sinus infection turned bloody ear escapade, it's taken me this long to get over to the damn gym to pay my bill. I finally did last night.

While my various cards were being processed, I dropped Zac off in the Kids Club area and sneaked into a step class, right as the class was about to begin.

Normally when I'm at a step class, I'm in the back row, turning the wrong way, clapping at the wrong time, kicking with the wrong foot and/or completely falling off my step and catching my spiraling body with my arms just before I slam my nose into the ground. I did gymnastics for thirteen years and was on the dance team in high school, yet step moves confuse the crap out of me, especially when they are shouted out one beat before you are supposed to perform them.

Apparently, some of the other gyms that I've gone to had professional steppers in the classes. These women knew every move and performed them effortlessly, stopping only to take a sip of their bottled water and pat themselves with a towel. Last night, though, for the first time, I found myself in a room with other step misfits such as myself. It was amazing. Gone were the skinny women in spandex. In were the well-padded, curvy women that hid behind baggy t-shirts and basketball shorts.

I think I'm in love with this class. After 30 minutes, my legs were tired and my dignity was pleasantly still intact. Zac stopped crying as soon as I left the Kids Club and was happy to see me when I went over to pick him up. My cards were processed at the front desk and everything seemed to be alright with the world, just for those 30 minutes at least.

2/5

2007-02-05T08:41:00.000-08:00

In between the time when Mr. Tugboat and I "officially" stopped dating and before we started being ambiguous friends, I went on two dates. Tug even referenced them in his first comment on my blog as proof that I had moved on from him and that the pot that was calling the kettle black should stop. That particular kettle is bad at remembering names, so he gave the two men that I went out with nicknames: West Virginia and Zoolander. We always referred to them by those names, even off blogger.

West Virginia is 30. Grew up on a dairy farm in the place that he's named after. When I first met him, the schtick of, "I'm just a poor farmer trying to make good in the big city," was too much for me to handle. I don't idealize rural, farming life, in particular because I once chopped all my own firewood and had to haul my large quantities of my own drinking water. To me, indoor plumbing is a plus and avoiding cows at 4am is even better. West Viriginia agreed, went off to college and is now an IT/Project Manager guy of something to do with water systems and filtration tanks.

Zoolander is 32. Grew up in a suburb of Houston and is an actor/model that lives at home with his parents (no joke). He recently moved back to Houston after trying to "make it" in Austin and is living with his parents to save money to buy a house. His real job is waiting tables at a steakhouse. After interrupting every sentence and trying to turn a backrub into more, I let him know that I wouldn't be seeing him again.

Well, a couple of weeks ago, West Virginia called me, just to see how I was doing. He hadn't heard from me since after Thanksgiving and wanted to catch up. During that phone call, he said the craziest, sweetest thing to me. It was something along the lines of: "Girl, you have so much going for you. You are sweet, beautiful, and funny. I hope you are squeezing your lemon for all it's worth and making some damn fine lemonade."

Let me tell you, there is no better way to ask for a second date than a phrase like that.

More time passed with the promise that we would call each other. We finally did get in touch and I invited him over to watch the second half of the Superbowl with me. He came over, we ate pizza, drank beer, and played with Zac, who wanted no part of ever falling asleep again.

Basically, I had a great time.

He was more comfortable this time and a little less, "Aww...shucks, ma'am" and a little more like an interesting, articulate person. He still had the unbelievably annoying habit of asking me a question, listening to my answer, and then responding immediately with a compliment like: "You have very beautiful eyes," which made me want to throw something (like preferrably a full bottle of Bass Ale) at him for not listening to me. But, all and all, I had fun with a very nice guy.

It just reminded me of standing in a video rental store with Caroline from Austin after my date with John Farmer. She said, "He was such a nice guy, but clearly not for you. He'll make a good mate someday." I quipped, "...to someone that isn't me," and we both laughed and acknowledged the very obvious truth.

When I woke up this morning, I thought, "Maybe it really IS time that I give a nice guy a chance."

2/2

2007-02-02T16:55:00.000-08:00

Bloody ears are never a good thing to wake up to. In fact, blood out of any orafice is a down-right awful way to wake up.

Z-man looked at me with a bloody ear this morning and I had no idea to do. There wasn't blood dripping out of it. It was just a little crustiness. A quick glance inside showed me that there was more bloody stuff where that came from.

I tried to get him into an Ear Nose and Throat doctor today, but I couldn't get him in. When I finally got a hold of an after hour nurse that paged the on-call doctor, I was told that a little bit of blood isn't uncommon for kids that have ear tubes. When I asked (ok, shrieked at him), "Do you think his ear drum ruptured??" He answered kindly that his ear drum can't rupture because the tubes have already pierced it.

I said, "Oh" like any over-protective parent would.

I mean..it's blood...coming out of his ear...

Mucus I've learned to handle, blood is something totally different.

1/31-2

2007-01-31T19:34:00.000-08:00

Ok, I promised that I would do a Jenny Craig expose on the costs of the program at the end of the month.

JC expenditures for the month of January 2006:

Program sign-up fee: $59
1st week of food: $99.84
2nd week of food: $90.84
3rd week of food: $98.28
4th week of food: $37.89

Total for Jenny Craig food: $385.63

Supplemental fruits, vegetables and fresh dairy products:

Total for the month: $174.42

Other food and hygiene products for Zac and I: $209.12

This is one of those times that I wish this blog wasn't as frightfully honest as it is. My whopping grand total for food and hygiene for the month is $769.17. Yeah, ummm....yeah. If we put that into perspective for a moment, I'll just say that's more than I spent on rent this month.

Let's go to some of the better news. I will need to be weighed in on Saturday for the "official" weightloss total, but it's somewhere between 10-12 pounds in five weeks. I lost six pounds the first week and was starving the entire time. In week two, I lost another two pounds. Then I entered into the maelstorm of stress and hormones. In week three, I lost .2 pounds. In week four, I gained that back and then a little bit more. My emotional affect was so flat at my consultation that my Jenny Craig counselor told me that she was worried about me. She said that I should call her anytime I wanted, just to talk. Not even about food, just about my life.

Even though I had purchased Jenny Craig food for week two and three, I had hardly eaten any of it. I was too busy binging on pizza and nachos to bother heating up my pre-packaged, two-bites of nothing. Crying while hungry has to be the worst thing that someone could do, so I didn't. I comforted and congratulated myself for submitting my the federal proposal with food. My negative food habits reamined intact, regarless of the amount of money I spent on healthy food and nutritional counseling.

It's only in the last week or so that I started to re-evaluate what I've been doing with food. Since I had so much Jenny Craig food leftover, I only had to buy $38 worth of meals the last week. I spent $30 to purchase a motivational CD and DVD called, "Touchstones to Success". Before you roll your eyes, just know that it is actually good. It has helped me at least notice the cycle of binging, even though I haven't been able to completely end it. I'm not sure I'll ever really be able to think of food as something other than a way to soothe and comfort myself.

That's my ultimate goal and I'm working towards it. Did I mention that my double chin is more of a chin-and-a-half now? :)

1/31

2007-01-31T07:18:00.000-08:00

Babies...yes, let's talk about babies....

We all like babies, right?

It's a mommyblog afterall. The key criteria for writing one is that you actually ARE a mommy, although looking through the archives for January, someone might think that I gave Zac away to a maurading hoarde of oil and gas workers that were intent on driving my utility bills through the roof during this month. Rest assured, I didn't give him away. He's still around.

His ear has been leaking the most horrible green mucus since the weekend. My Dad took him to the doctor yesterday (lack of sick time on my part), and the doctor confirmed that Zac had a sinus infection (and this is the kicker) that was leaking out his ear.

That green mucus coming out his ear?

It's the same stuff that I wipe off his nose on a regular basis, just mixed with some ear wax.

Can you say, "EWWWWWWW"? I can. That is just nasty and it makes me a little lightheaded if I think about it too long. I mean, I knew that the ear and nasal canals were all connected back there. I just didn't need a walking science experiment to demonstrate that point to me.

Ahh...speaking of walking. Watching Zac walk is one of the greatest joys for me. Little kids walk in such a different way from adults. Little kids pick up their legs, bent at the knee, and their whole foot comes off the ground with each step. They rock back and forth, side to side, when they meander over to the toy box or into the kitchen to whine for another, "Cacka" (For those of you that don't speak toddler, that means "cracker". You all will be happy to know that I'm apparently raising a child with a Boston accent. He hasn't said a single "r" yet and doesn't appear particularly inclined to do so.) Toddlers stand, almost perfectly upright, and often use their hands to express their joy while walking. It's just amazing.

Unfortunately, my guy won't (absolutely f'ing refuses to) walk outdoors. He won't even cross a threshold. I open the door to our apartment and he looks outside, then promptly sits down. If I've convinced him just to take a couple steps outdoors, he'll sit down and start to cry within two feet from the house. I still have to carry him to and from the car and in and out of daycare. According to the doctor yesterday, my bundle of joy weighs over 27 pounds. If he keeps this up, I'm going to start practicing the firefighter's carry on him and throwing him over my shoulder, while balancing my work bag, lunch bag and his daycare bag in my arms.

At least his Uncle K and Aunt Jen will appreciate that.

1/30-2

2007-01-30T18:41:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I like to look at people, on television or on the street, even the people at the grocery store or working as a bank teller, and I like to imagine the details of their life. I wonder if they go home to someone special. If there is someone there to hold their hand, to smile when they look at them, to make them laugh.

Then I wonder if their parents loved them and told them how special and unique they were. I wonder if their hearts ache and if they watch television at night and feel lonely.

It's always nights that are the hardest. It's nighttime that makes me want to crawl out of my skin. My heart pounds and I start to feel so scared. So scared by absolute phrases that bounce around in my head and the convey absolute futility. Phrases like start with a pronoun and words like "always," "never" and "forever".

I'll always be alone.
I never believe that I am a strong enough to stand up for myself.
You will never understand.
He always hurts me because I let him.
She has stopped talking to me forever.
I hurt, always and I can't make it stop.

I wish I had an uplifting post in me tonight. I just don't right now. Forever is a long time and there is nothing as certain as always and never. Part of me knows that. Sometimes, the part that makes me so scared doesn't.

1/30

2007-01-30T06:51:00.000-08:00

A long explanation to a little question:

Since I was first officially diagnosed with depression in late 2003, I have seen both psychiatrists and psychologists.

I've told the story of post-Peace Corps time before (severe depression, some post traumatic stress anxiety, brief hospitalization and then intensive out-patient treatment), but I don't usually tell the story of how I got there. In early October winter was about to hit full force in Mongolia. It had already snowed twice and I was sitting in my ger in Telmen (a small village in the Altai Mountains in the Westernish region of the country) and I knew that I couldn't continue living like I was. I had stopped taking care of myself. Stopped trying to get water, stopped chopping wood, started letting my best friend's family take care of me. Some days, I didn't stop crying. The one year relationship that I had been in had recently ended and I couldn't muster up any reason to continue putting one foot in front of each other.

I broke.

I went into the capital, Ulaanbaatar, and talked to a very kind Peace Corps Medical Officer from China, who made me dinner and told me that I was young and resilient. She didn't understand why all of the volunteers fought so hard to stay in a country where they were so obviously struggling on a daily basis. She said that life was long and that I would have many, many more opportunities to volunteer and many more adventures. I couldn't comprehend anything that she was saying. All I felt like was a giant failure and a fool. She convinced me that I should go to America for counseling and medication. I was told that if my treatment went well, that I could go back to my village and continue the work that I had started over the last 18 months.

On the plane ride, in the business class section, the head Medical Officer that traveled with me told me that I wouldn't be coming back to Mongolia with Peace Corps. He said that I was considered a risk to myself and others - an unacceptable risk to the U.S. government. When I landed in Washington D.C., I found out that I wouldn't be staying in a hotel. They forced me to check myself into a nearby hospital, in a locked and controlled Psychiatric Unit.

I spent six of my longest days there. I tried to re-adjust to hearing English spoken all around me by watching daytime television and countless movies. I didn't sleep and barely ate. My anxiety was the highest it has ever been and all the rounded spoons and bolted light fixtures made me want to cram something into my eye socket, just to prove that I could. They gave me an EKG and a chest X-ray, saying that it was standard procedure, even though I didn't have any physical problems with my heart or lungs. I was crying so hard when they took me down to be x-rayed (after cautioning me that if I tried to escape, they would call the police) that a nurse cruelly informed me that: "If you can't manage your emotions, we will sedate you." They gave me both an external and internal ultrasound (hello long tube with a camera and a condom!) for some bleeding and pain in my uterus. I had constant headaches and the tell-tale dry mouth associated with starting an anti-depressant.

After discharging me from the hospital, I spent three weeks going to daily therapy sessions with a psychiatrist in Bethesda, Maryland. At the end of our time, he ultimately did recommend me for further Peace Corps service. The Powers-That-Be, however, said that I had lied on my pre-service medical questionaire about previous problems with depression. They told me that if I didn't accept a "medical discharge", that they would possibly pursue legal action against me. I had to drop my fight to go back to my village and it was told to me in hushed tones that I should keep quiet about the deal I was offered. I was never able to say good bye to the people that I had grown so close to.

With a medical termination, I was able to apply for a Worker's Compensation Claim through the government. Basically, I was classified as a "federal employee injured on the job". My claim was accepted, with the restriction that I could only seek psychological counseling from a Ph.D. psychologist or medical psychiatrist. I began seeing a therapist in New Hampshire, who helped me through some of my worst times. She helped me see that even though I had to leave unexpectedly, that I stayed longer than most people would have and had given 18 months of my time and heart to improving the lives of others, even if just a little.

Fast forward four years to present day. I still have a lot of guilt and shame. I don't wake up anymore wondering what country I'm in and how I got there. I don't have as many panic attacks during movies or while reading books. I don't think that I'm in immediate danger all the time, like I used to. I got pregnant, had a child, moved to Texas, the rest...well, you all basically know the rest.

So, yesterday I talked to a psychiatrist who agreed that I was most likely having an interaction between the two medications that I'm on (my seasonal birth control and Z*oloft). She agreed that in addition to therapy, a psychiatrist should oversee my medication managment (to use the correct buzz phrase) as part of an integrated treatment plan. She's supposed to call me today to verify her schedule and finalize our appointment time. Yes, though, you were all right in that it is VERY DIFFICULT to find a psychiatrist that will (A) accept new patients (B) do more than just prescribe pills and leave the 'talking cure' to a therapist and (C) accept Worker's Compensation insurance.

I've been down a long road. This is a curve along the way, not a cliff that my car is creening towards. I can see that. For once, I can actually see that and that feels good.

1/28

2007-01-28T19:09:00.000-08:00

This weekend, I realized that I have no coping skills left. Everything (and nothing) makes me cry and hollows me out. A song on the radio, a memory, a look, a phone call. I've lost all sense of perspective and ability to say, "Well, these things happen."

Do they really just happen? Are there people out there that can say things like that (and mean it)?

Zac was at my parents' house all weekend. My Dad picked him up from daycare on Friday and cursed his way through rush hour traffic. It took him almost two hours to get less than 25 miles. It took him so long that I once again question whether I should move down south to brave the daily commute to and from downtown Houston.

On Saturday, I had a five hour strategic planning meeting for an organization that I volunteer with. It was an incredibly long meeting that left me drained and not sure that I could even make it home before falling asleep. I fell asleep almost instantly and woke up 4 hours later, still childless and even more disconcerted.

I went shopping and found a skirt on the clearance rack at Anthropologie. It was so short that I'm not sure I could even wear it out by myself in public. I found a top on clearance at Macy's and congratulated myself for the fine clearance shopping and financial acumen. I went home and got dressed, then waited. I waited until 10:30pm and even started putting on my makeup and zipped my knee high boots up the side of my calf. At 11pm, I took everything off, knowing that I had to stop waiting and too afraid to go out by myself. I cried and went to bed.

On Sunday, I couldn't stop crying. I don't know what I'm doing wrong, what happened. A second friend called me and told me that he doesn't want to be friends with me anymore. I lost it. I feel so rejected and so disgusting.

I haven't cried this much since Zac was born. It's been almost every day for the last two weeks. I don't even really want to publish this post, but I feel better after writing it. Zac is in bed, asleep, so peaceful and happy. I, on the other hand, am losing my mind.

Edited to note: The friend that I was supposed to go out with on Saturday night was in contact with me this morning. I found out that he had to go to the hospital Saturday night for difficulties breathing. He apologized profusely for not contacting me sooner and for making me cry. Honestly, I just wish that someone from his family had called me so I could have been there to help him and his kids. It's the kind of thing that always goes through my mind when someone doesn't follow through with something that they say they are going to...that wandering thought, "I wonder if something happened..." It's awful when it really is something that happened.

1/25

2007-01-25T12:09:00.000-08:00

Federal proposal - submitted

Life - moving on

Zac- still not sleeping worth a damn and stands, mesmerized, when the face of Elmo appears on the TV screen and starts talking to him during, "Seaseme Street".

Elmo - oddly talks in third person. "Elmo's happy today. Are you happy today? Elmo is veeeerrry happy today because Elmo is going to go see his friend."

Me - doing better, thanks. Still just so unbelievably tired. My apartment looks like I've been letting Zac run around unfettered for two or three weeks (not true) and not picking up after him (true). Earlier in the week, I had to say to my friend Lars, "Don't worry about that mess on the couch. It's just dried banana. It won't get on your pants or anything." Lars, who has no kids of his own, looked at me like I just grew a second head. I followed up with, "Umm..you also shouldn't get too close to Zac because I think he just pooped and I'm waiting for an e-mail from my boss before I go and give him a bath."

After I got him out of the bath, he sat down on the living room rug and pooped (again). Then stood up and quickly moved away from the offending mess, laughing, while I groaned inside and went into the kitchen for paper towels.

Nothing says, "Thanks for being the friend of a single Mom" like a fresh pile of shit.

Friends, Family, Bloggers, Commenters, and Lurkers - all and all: amazing.

1/24

2007-01-24T12:51:00.000-08:00

In the background of all this noise, behind the computer screens and late night phone calls, you would see a woman with her finger pads aching, frantically typing the last paragraphs on a 25 page proposal or playing with the budget numbers one final time.

While all of this has been going on, I'm trying to complete the biggest project of my (very short-lived) professional writing career. My organization, in collaboration with two other non-profit organizations in the county, are applying for a federal grant program to support legal assistance and representation for victims of domestic abuse. The current budget for the project is in excess of $850,000.

Right now in southeast Texas, funding restrictions prohibit undocumented immigrants and working-poor victims from receiving pro bono legal representation. Even though undocumented victims are eligble for U visas through the Victims of Trafficking and Violence Prevention Act, they can't receive application assistance or even legal advocacy at the Social Security Office or the Immigration and Customs Enforcement Office in Houston. Legal aid funding prohibits the legal representation of any non-U.S. citizens or U.S. citizens above 125% of the poverty line.

Basically, all of those threats that an abuser makes, the ones that sound something like: "If you call the police, they will deport you...You will never see your children again....If you ever tell anyone what I did to you, I will take the kids away from you...You can never get away from me...I'll find you...you are still legally mine," are essentially true for these victims that can't access legal services.

For working-poor women, it's a tough line between "makes too much to qualify for services," but, "still can't afford a private attorney". Very, very few women can come up with a $2,000 retainer for a private attorney, especially when her annual household income is just over $12,000.

That is what I've been working on and why the noises around me sound more like static and less like a cacophonous orchestra. I haven't slept uninterrupted in more than three weeks. The medical mystery has been solved: Zac is getting all four of his molars in at once. He wakes up sometimes 2 or 3 times a night, even while lying next to me. I'm so tired that the numbers start merging in my brain and I end up trying to budget the salary of a paralegal at the same rate that I'm budgeting for a client advocate and counselor.

The enormity of what I'm doing and the amount of people we could serve if our proposal is accepted is enough to keep my head up and my eyes clear. There are many, many women in worse positions than I am. A bruised ego and a hurting heart will heal, even though some moments are harder than others.

Right now, I'm just trying to honor the 143 women and children that died last year in Texas at the hands of the abuser.

1/23

2007-01-23T07:30:00.000-08:00

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHH

ggggggggggggggggggRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
____________________

That really does feel better.

It's like I'm living in my own trainwreck. For those of you wondering about yesterday's comment section, he's not talking about getting back together with me romantically. He's talking about waiting for me to be his friend (remember? I was taking space). He's seeing someone right now and told me that she is the most important person to him. "As," he said, "you were when we were dating." I found that out when I had a panic attack last night and I called him. He asked if I could wait 30 minutes because he had to call her back. I couldn't.

When we spoke a little later he told me that he's frustrated because I complicate his life. He wants to move on: be friends, date others, laugh, and enjoy each other's company. He asked that I take more time to resolve my anger because I'm not ready to be his friend.
______________________
Thank you, Anne, for listening to me last night and caring for me.

1/22

2007-01-22T08:21:00.000-08:00

Thoughts in vignette:

Last night I dreamt that I was helping Mr. Tugboat complete an on-line form at an internet cafe. He wasn't able to submit the form and I offered to help him. I spent countless dream hours inserting and reinserting the CD that he had his information on. My Dad walked up to the computer we were at and saw me franticly trying to help Tug. I was stressed because I needed to go somewhere, maybe it was just anywhere off that computer and away from him. I left the cafe and later met up with my Dad in basement, oddly reminicent of the intersecting Lego-land basements at the house I lived in at college. My Dad told me that Tug was dating the woman at the cafe with him, who I knew from high school. He also said that Mr. Tugboat was thankful for the rainy weather because it increased his chances of getting laid because Stacey wouldn't want to drive home in the rain. I told my Dad that it made me want to punch Mr. Tugboat.

Zac has been imitating me in amazing and unbelievable ways. I was sitting on the corner of my bed, with my makeup bag in my lap, putting on makeup - foundation, eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick. Zac stood up next to me and grabbed each item of makeup as I dropped it into my bag. Instead of taking the small piece of foam out of the complicated compact case, he rubbed the entire compact around his smiling cheeks and forehead. The mascara tube was dutifully seized and applied, unopened, to his small eyelashes, while I tried not to laugh. He twisted the lipstick tube over and over, trying to get it open. When he couldn't, and when I eventually took the lipstick away from him to avoid a laundry-catastrophe, he fell onto the floor in a fit of dismay and began crying. I think he wanted the full Mauve Colorstay Lipglide experience. I love him for that.

Depression, by definition, causes people to withdraw into themselves. Even the most outgoing of individuals will seem shut-off and unable to access the love and support around them. I'm essentially an extremely honest, blunt introvert by nature. Even under the best circumstances, I will feel awkward in a social setting and will do better talking to someone one rather than in a group. When I'm dealing with depression, writing on this blog is an act of will. It forces me to continually reevaluate where I am emotionally and what I want to share. There are many days when I just want to write, "AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH" then silence.

My friend in East Texas will think twice before inviting a toddler up to her apartment again. She's in graduate school in a rural town about 3 hours north of Houston. After an evening of whole milk and fabulous Tex-Mex food, Zac threw up all over her queen-size bed. I was able to control his spray to the back wall and her pillow. She handed me the last clean towel she owned (she owns three) and looked perplexed when I asked for clean sheets so I could change the bed for her. She told me that she only owned one set of sheets. I looked at her, in a 4am haze, and tried to remember my life before I had a child. I think even back then, it wouldn't have made sense to only have one set of sheets. That's even before I had a puke-o-matic lying next to me.

1/19

2007-01-19T07:08:00.000-08:00

I have a medical mystery on my hands. Armchair physicians and advice-givers, get your pens out.

Every night for the past two weeks, Zac has woken up screaming. Trust me when I say that my child can scream! It starts out at as a low whine and increases in pitch and intensity until I go into his room. Once in his room, he stands up and holds his arms out: a clear sign that he wants me to pick him up and take him into my room where he can lay in Momma's bed.

If that were the end of the story, I would understand. The theory would be that he wakes up, realizes his alone, and calls out to me until I go and get him and allow him to sleep next to me.

Except, when I bring him into the "family bed", he doesn't stop screaming. In fact, he just gets more and more angry. He starts kicking furiously, pounding his heels against the mattress, throwing the covers off of him, refusing to hold his bear or take a drink of milk. The tantrums next to me can last anywhere between 20 - 45 minutes. By the end of the screaming, I'm willing to buy Zac a car if he wants it. I'll do anything to make him stop so we can go back to sleep. I try and hold him and he pushes me away with a look of disgust on his face.

Last night, I just let him cry it out in his crib for awhile to see if he would fall back asleep on his own. He cried in his crib from 12:30am - 1:30am until I couldn't stand it anymore. I brought him in with me and he cried for another 30 minutes. At 2am, he finally fell asleep, exhausted. We both were. Between crying and lack of sleep, I can barely keep my eyes open at work. They are swollen and bloodshot.

Does anyone know what in the hell is going on with my son?

Here are some theories that I've been playing with (in no particular order):

1) Night terrors
2) Gas cramps
3) Teething
4) Genetic predisposition of men to reject all forms of love and comfort that I have to offer
5) Allergies to....(?)

I'm open to any and all suggestions that don't involve letting him cry for more than an hour or stand out on a busy freeway during rush hour. I just need to sleep, dammit!

1/17

2007-01-17T11:22:00.000-08:00

"And there ain't no talkin to this man...
He's been tryin to tell me so
It took awhile to understand
the beauty of just letting go
Cause it would take an acrobat, I already tried all that
I'm gonna let him fly,"
Patty Griffin, "Let Him Fly"

Yesterday I stopped communicating with Mr. Tugboat. I cried and cried when I sent him the message that I wouldn't be able to talk to him for a while - that I was too angry, hurt, and upset to do anything beyond taking care of myself and Zac.

The amazing thing was that once I sent him that message, I felt so much better. I didn't have to worry about hiding my anger from him or trying not to make the snide remarks that come out of my mouth before I even realize their potential for pain. I gave myself permission to be angry and, oh damn, it felt so good.

I've spent a better part of my life hiding from anger. I always thought that "nice" girls/women/people/caring individuals didn't get mad at people. I thought that if someone made you angry, that the best thing to do was to go on like nothing happened until the anger passed. And the anger always passes, right? That's the crutch of the whole system of denial: the belief that anger can pass. I found passive aggressive ways of making people regret hurting me. I hurt them back with my words and my cold actions.

My therapist in New Hampshire once told me that depression is a form of anger directed at yourself. Usually in the course of treating someone for depression, they find the some of the sources of their anger, let it out, and eventually forgive. Suddenly, I felt lighter and began working towards happiness.

Old patterns are hard to break, though. I was talking to MNS last night about triggers, or things that can set off any kind of emotion, action, thought, or behavior. In my case, my trigger caused a depressive episode. Mr. Tugboats behavior and actions towards me triggered the worst kind of self-loathing that quickly tumbled into full-blown, "I don't want to get out of bed and see any kind of humanity and, Oh God, why am I having another anxiety attack?" depression.

Mr. Tugboat moved on, with Ramona (and thank you, again, MNS, for being like me and immediately thinking of Miss Quimby instead of these guys who put out a song with the lyrics, "Sweet sweet little Ramona, she always wants to come over, Sweet sweet little Ramona, I think I'll try and phone her")

*pardon me while I gag for just one moment......Ok, that's better*

So, just as I had been keeping our relationship a secret from the Internet, he had been keeping it a secret from the women that he was dating. A day after he was with me, he met Ramona. He was with Ramona. Now he's dating Ramona. He said that he wanted to be friends and didn't understand why I was hurt so much. He answered her phone call the morning after, while I was still in his apartment and I had to listen to him talk to her. "After all," he reasoned, "you said that we were going to be just friends. You've moved on (I hadn't). I did the same thing (clearly). I think we should all try to hang out together. I think you would really like her."

Really, Mr. Tugboat? You think so, huh?

Enter stage left: my insecurities of being a stupid, pathetic idiot that constantly gets used by the people I care for (who don't return my feelings). I felt like I had fallen for the biggest emotional con of all times.

I did everything for him that I could think of doing: listen to him talk about his soon-to-be-ex-wife for hours and everything she ever did to him, helped him work through the pain of her finding a new boyfriend, dealing with the frustration of her not letting him spend time with his son, and getting an emergency babysitter for Zac so I could help him move into his new apartment when his other friends didn't show up. I even found him the lawyer that is litigating his divorce for less than $500. The lawyer used to work with me and took on Mr. Tugboat's case as a personal favor for me.

A friend should do those things for another friend. It's just that we were more than friends. To have him start dating someone else after everything I had done for him made me feel used and angry.

In fact, I'm still angry, just able to handle it a little better.

1/16

2007-01-16T08:11:00.000-08:00

I apologize for all of you that got late night phone calls from me last night. I had a headache and couldn't sleep. Then I started crying.

Tears are my Achilles heal. Some people cry and feel better. I cry and feel like I'm staring down rabbit hole. I'm so scared that I'm going to fall into the hole and never find my way back out. I apologize constantly if I'm on the phone with someone while I'm crying, even though I know that the only thing more annoying is someone who apologizes while drunk. Don't even get me started on drunk crying. I've done that recently and it's the worst because I can't stop it. The tears just keep coming then, in embarassingly strong heaves and whimpers.

Do me a favor: if you know me on here, or even if you only know me from here, e-mail me. and let me know who the insomniacs or the, "I don't mind being woken up at 1am" folks are.

It's not easy for me to ask for support.

NSP
notsopregnantintexas@yahoo.com

1/14

2007-01-14T21:06:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Tugboat,

This hurts. I feel like I wasn't prepared for how much this was going to hurt, regardless of my own mistakes. The good Lord knows that I've made plenty of mistakes along the way. Mistakes that hurt myself and others.

I never meant to hurt anyone else, especially those that I care the most about.

Yet, we keep repeating the same mistakes with each other. As I said on the phone, I'm angry at myself. I'm angry at you. I'm angry at how vulnerable that night made me and how I've been trying to recover ever since.

Maybe I should have written the, "Five Things You Don't Know About Me:" meme so you would learn a little bit more about what I was hiding. There is so much that I hide, even from those closest to me.

I guess there is no time like the present, here is my, "Five Things that Someone That is Dating Me Wouldn't Know" meme:

1) I'm looking for the grand romance. Sometimes, when I'm in the middle of getting to know someone, when I smile when they call, when I feel so special, when they make me laugh, I feel like I'm the best version of myself. One day, I want to be able to find that version of myself without the interest of someone else. I'm working on that. Until then, sometimes when I start dating someone, I think, "Is this it? Is this the romance that I've been waiting for because, good Lord, I've been waiting. I'm trying to be patient. I'm trying not to force it. I'm trying. Oh shit, this isn't working. I am forcing it. I suck. I'm pathetic and I suck."

2) I wish with all of my being that I was perfect. I will never be and everyday I think about what I could have done better.

3) It's not just that I like to be held. I like someone to reach out to hold me, to tell me with their actions that I'm the person that they want closest to their being.

4) I'm scared that I won't find anyone that will truly love me.

5) When I'm feeling insecure, I'm ten times more likely to spend time with someone that will find me interesting, appealing, and wonderful, even when I'm not. It's my greatest, most embarassing flaw: my need to be liked.

So, that is it. Here is my heart, laid bare. So unbelievably lame. I wish I were different. I wish that I could not care about anyone. I wish I wasn't crying right now. I hope that in the morning, I'll forget that I even wrote this.

Sincerely,
NSP

1/11

2007-01-11T12:48:00.000-08:00

I'm living with a 3-foot tall tyrant.

Last night I was curled up in the fetal position on my couch trying not to keep my uterus from turning into a piece of balled-up, paper at the bottom of a trash can when I look over and see Zac frantically walking back and forth across the living room holding a car in each hand. I was IMing my friend, Edrick ben Patrick, about how the Tylenol wasn't even beginning to mask the cramping when I mentioned that Zac didn't even look tired.

He stopped mid-sentence and reminded me who da Momma in the house was. He said that Zac doesn't get to pick his own bedtime and that I needed to put my foot down, put him into bed, and then crawl into my own bed after him.

Can you tell that Patrick doesn't have any kids?

He has an excellent point, though. There are times when dragging him, kicking and screaming everywhere just feels so tiring. There are nights when I want to go to the gym, but I know that Zac isn't up for it, so I don't go. If I take him when he's tired, he starts crying the minute our feet him the padded floor. He knows he's going back in daycare and he wants no part of it. Within 10-15 minutes, I hear, "Will Ms. NSP please return to the Kids Klub area?" I sigh, pick up my towel and gym bag, and over to pick up a kid that has had a complete meltdown in the Kids Klub. Tears are streaming down his face and he buries his head in the crook of my neck, refusing to even look at the child care providers. Guilt doesn't begin to describe what I feel.

I know that I need to set boundaries and stick to them. No one needs to go all Dr. Phil on me. I think I'm a fairly stern parent. I gave my child a timeout on Christmas morning because he wouldn't share his cars with his Grandpa. People may disagree with me about my discpline, but when it comes down to it, he's my child.

It's just that I notice there are times when, to avoid the feeling that unique blend of single-parent guilt and emotional apathy, I wonder if I tend to treat Zac like he's an equal partner in the household. The, "I'm the parent, you're the child" dynamic is quite frankly exhausting. Waiting until he's tired rather than putting him to bed at 8:30pm exactly is sometimes easier than listening to him cry (and vomit - he's learned how to make himself throw up!) for an hour.

I want to do what's best for him by providing him the boundaries that he needs to grow up to be a respectful, empathetic individual. If I don't, my only other option is to deal with a tyrant that throws himself to the ground and cries when he doesn't get his way.

I have to find some way to balance the demands of a tyrannical toddler with the practicality of every day single parenting. Does anyone have some ear plugs that I can use for a couple of years?

1/09-2

2007-01-09T17:49:00.000-08:00

Zac and I had an eating contest tonight (because we're crazy like that over here.) I put a Jenny Craig meal in a head to head battle with a Gerber Graduates meal. Both meals were pre-packaged in didn't require refrigeration, which is just a little freaky if you consider that they both included a meat product. Both meals involved some kind of pasta with a tomato-based sauce and both meals needed to be heated up in the microwave to become edible to those not legitimately starving.

Let's meet the contenders! On my right hand, I have a Jenny Craig Chicken Parmasian meal weighing in at 200 calories: On my left hand, I have a Gerber Graduates Microwave, Spaghetti with Mini Meatballs & Sauce, weighing in at a light 80 calories:Just to give the Jenny meal a fighting chance in the beauty and fitness category, I'll show you what she looks like with a side of steamed green beans with 2 tablespoons of margarine:

It's really no suprise that JC recommends that you serve their meals on plates. She looks so much prettier this way.

In the first round, JC went down fast and hard. I was finished in under 10 minutes and hungry again in under an hour-and-a-half. The meal tasted like a more adult version of Spaghetti-O's with the tell-tale smell that accompanies a canned tomato product. Zac on the other hand, enjoyed smearing his meal over every available surface for a good 25 minutes. At the end of the fight, here is what each contender looked like:

Notice the green beans in the bowl that clearly weren't eaten at the end of this very colorful meal. Notice also that he somehow avoided getting spaghetti sauce in his eyes, leaving him looking like some kind of toddler raccoon.

It's clear who the winner of this competition was:

He looks so much happier than I do after eating.

1/09

2007-01-09T08:11:00.000-08:00

I have a rule about posting while angry. Nothing really productive usually comes from a post written in anger. It hurts and once my anger cools I'm left with the awkward situation of either living with my embarrassing post or deleting it.

This morning, it's not that I'm angry, just unsure where to go emotionally from this point.

Last night Blakken came over and we watched the University of Florida kick the ever living crap out of Ohio State last night in the BCS National Championship Game 41 to 14. It was brutal. Instead of watching the game, we ended up eating most of the pan of nachos I made (ok that was me. Sorry Jenny Craig, I'll make it up to you), drinking a bottle of Arbor Mist White Zinfandel (definitely Blakken) and talking. We watched Zac toddle around, playing with his toys and read him the peek-a-boo book that he kept picking up and bringing to us. I had a great time with a good friend. I cherish Blakken's friendship, specifically because it isn't complicated.

I wish I could say the same about Mr. Tugboat. He's my dirty little secret that I've been keeping from the internet. We've been more than friends ever since he dumped me in early December. He said our relationship was moving too fast and I agree, it was. I was more willing at the time to see where the river would take me if I let it sweep me away. The last time I was in love was 2003 in Mongolia and the feelings weren't returned. The last time someone loved me was my senior year of college in 2002. I felt ready for a romance and jumped in. He saw all the swirling water around his ankles and tensed up, stalking angrily back to the shoreline to dry off his feet. Instead of downshifting to a more casual relationship, we ended things completely in theory. In reality, our relationship moved into the grey, nebulous mist of friends-that-like-each-other-a-little-too-much-to-be-just-friends. I know enough about love to recognize that walking down a path with someone under a heavy shroud of mist will leave you feeling damp all over. Usually a blanket and a cup of tea is required to get over that feeling, once you finally decide to go inside out of the weather.

Mr. Tugboat and I decided for the fifth or sixth time on Sunday that we needed to "just friends" if I was going to stay sane. He's in the final stages of a divorce with his soon-to-be-ex-wife. I actually referred him to a lawyer that used to work in my office, who took his case at a cut rate. I'm supposed to be focusing on myself and not dating right now. That's what I said in my New Year's Resolution anyways. Regardless of my best intentions, I kept pulling Mr. Tugboat close, wanting his interest in me, giving my time and my heart, then getting angry and pushing him away when he couldn't give me the affection and attention that I wanted from him. I kept pushing and pulling until I got tired.

It was Blakken that reminded me that the person that isn't getting what they want ultimately needs to end the relationship. Mr. Tugboat was getting all of me and I still felt empty and insecure. I can rationally see what needs to happen. I just need to figure out how to get my heart onboard with the plan. Emotionally, physically, and mentally, I'm drawn to someone that just isn't ready for the kind of relationship that I want. I might even say: that I deserve.

What a shame that readiness for love on one side doesn’t equate to a readiness to nurture that loving relationship on the other side.

1/07

2007-01-07T19:59:00.000-08:00

Ok, I've "officially" been on Jenny Craig now for a week. Here is the honest truth: I'm starving. The 1500 calorie diet is incredibly hard. I find myself to thinking about food all the time and I've succumbed to late-night binging twice this week.

Somtimes I'm just so hungry. When I weighed in on Saturday, I had lost six pounds. My counselor told me that the first week was the "dramatic weight lost" week. I would like to officially rename that week as, "WTF" week. Every day, that is what I kept thinking. Really, "WTF? Is that all the food I get? Is there another course somewhere that I'm missing?" Lunch has been the hardest, going back to my desk still hungry. I've gotten a little panicky, looking around for more food, wondering how I was going to ever make it through the afternoon knowing that an orange and non-fat yogurt for an afternoon snack might meet an ugly end when they are thrown against the wall of my office in frustration. Of course, though, I wouldn't do that because then I would probably roll my eyes, let out a long sigh, and then walk over to the wall to lick it off.

Every Jenny Craig meal is between 190-300 calories, supplemented by fruit, vegetables, and dairy products to average out to 300 calories, five times a day. Go ahead and try to feel full off that amount of food. It's difficult. It can be done, but it's difficult.

The pattern of using food for comfort and protection against my insecurities has intensified by the lack of caloric intake. I've found myself not necessarily hungry, just craving that full feeling, the feeling that everything is alright within my body and within the world. I'm so used to eating when I'm bored or just eating to feel better that I have no idea what my body actually needs. Hunger sets off the, "Good Lord, what I am doing?" feelings that I want to immediately quash with food, preferrably with something salty and a little savory.

Is losing weight really this important to me? I feel like I'm in some kind of shock therapy treatment. After awhile, maybe the ice baths won't hurt so much and I can focus on the bigger picture of achieving a healthy, more active lifestyle. At this very moment, I would take fat and happy over skinny and neurotic.

1/05

2007-01-05T09:35:00.000-08:00

Mommybloggers tend to get a lot of flack for posting embarassing moments or milestones in their kids' lives. I had read about other women coming into a room to find their child vomitting on the family pet, smearing feces on the wall, or licking their boogers off with their tongue.

No matter how much I read about or even thought about the downright stomach-turning aspects of parenthood, I still wasn't ready for what happened last night.

I drove down to my parents' house around 7pm to pick up some of the items that where left over from Christmas. At 7:30pm, I put Zac in the bathtub and walked into the next room to get his pajamas. When I came back into the bathroom, I found him sitting in the shallow water surrounded by floating brown logs. He wasn't just idly sititng in his own poopy water, he was eating it. It was all over his mouth, up his nose, and on his hands when he realized that it didn't taste good. He was frantically reaching into his mouth to try and take the shit out, but couldn't quite figure out what was wrong.

I almost lost it.

I've seen dogs, horses, sheep, and rodents eat their own poop. I just wasn't ready to see my kid eat his. I'm sure my parents have a story about my sister or I redigesting our bowel movements. I'm sure that hundreds if not thousands of other parents have stories similar to mine. It's not that I think that Zac is too precious or even precocious to NOT eat his own poop, it's just feels like the image of seeing someone I love sporting a shitty brown mustache is burned into my retina.

It makes me wonder what else he's capable of. I suddenly feel like I've entered uncharted territory with my son. It's the land of no boundaries, no inhibitions, and no vomit reflex to digusting images. I wish I was that lucky.

1/04-2

2007-01-04T21:04:00.000-08:00

Oh Caroline from Austin....why do you doubt me?

1/04

2007-01-04T06:51:00.000-08:00

I love that 1976 ABBA song, "Money, Money, Mon-ey!" There is a long-standing joke that when you meet an American outside of our fair country the first thing they will ask you is how much something cost. Example:

Englishman: Good day. Lovely weather were having to-day!
American: Yes, it is. I like your coat. Where did you get it?
Englishman: Uh *stammering a bit* I think I got it at Harrods.
American: Really! I was just at Harrods last week. How much did it cost? Did you get it on sale?
Englishman: *turning red now* Um, well, it was on sale and I don't know, really, my wife does all my shopping for me."
American: Well, they always say that Englishman are a bunch of limp-wristed puffs. Good day. *walks away*"

We are by far the most offensive creatures known to any culturally sensitive population. I personally cherish Americans love of getting a good bargain. It seems like we are always curious about the price someone paid on something; like we are constantly scouting for a better deal by comparing what other sods had to pay for something that we could have got at half the price. We admire someone that consistently gets the best deals for the best products and cheap(ish) gasoline prices let us keep the habit of driving around town looking for a better deal.

This is a long winded way of saying that I will tell you what it cost me to join Jenny Craig. I was going to wait until the end of the month, but I am nothing if not accomodating.

Initial Cost: $49 for a 60 trial membership. It was part of the "Lose All the Weight You Want for $49" promotion.

Cost of Jenny Craig Food for First Week: $100.09

Cost of Additional Groceries that I had to Purchase to Stay on the "Plan": $38.24

Total Cost to Date: $197.33

So, there you have it. That's what it cost me so far. The way the program works is that you eat 100% Jenny Craig food until you reach your half-way goal (which for me is roughly 20 pounds less than I currently am). Then you prepare your own food for 1-2 days per week, eventually transitioning into your own meals entirely.

I'm not going to defend my choice here to spend this money on my health. It's an intensive program (much more so than Weight Watchers, which costs $39.95 per month) that includes a nutritional counseling component and a 1-800 help line. I've already called it twice to ask about substituting food because I'd rather jump off a small bridge than eat a grapefruit in the morning.

The-Blogger-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless coincidentally wrote that being thin and healthy is an investment in your body. I drive a five year-old car that won't be paid off for another three years. I live in an apartment that is 10 minutes from where I work because I hated spending all my time and money on a shitty commute. My biggest expense right now is daycare for my son so I can continue to go to work and pay for my priorities. All of the electronic gadgets that I own were purchased circa 1999, when apparently I had an influx of discretionary cash.

I know you can lose weight for little, if no money. I know that I need to control my portions, exercise more, and eat lots of whole grains, fresh vegetables, low-fat dairy products, and lean meats. But what do you do if you tried that and it's failed. The numbers on the scale kept creeping up and everyday I started beating myself up a little more. What then?

1/02

2007-01-02T18:07:00.000-08:00

I've avoided writing any, "End of 2006, Beginning of 2007" posts because I've been too busy trying to figure out why Zac is screaming at the top of his lungs for hours at a time. I've also just never been much of a New Year's Resolution type of person. It might be a lack of optimism on my part or maybe just the knowledge that I'm not very good at following through on things.

That isn't actually true, though. It's just that I have a hard time admitting, out loud, that I want to change something in myself. It feels intensely private and I wrestled with acknowledging my desired changes on this blog. Then I realized that it would be ridiculous for me to write everyday and try to pretend that I wasn't making major changes in my life. It would almost invalidate what I was hoping to accomplish.

So, my New Year's Resolution for 2007 involves taking better care of myself. While Zac was at my parents' house in between Christmas and New Year's, I realized how much time and energy I spend taking care of him, cleaning our apartment, trying to keep the cat from running out the front door, managing our finances, doing the dishes, watering the plants, and basically keeping everything from molding or dying. Taking care of myself, mentally, physically, spiritually, was always the last on the list, if I even managed to make it on the list.

No more.

I realized that I couldn't keep living my life the way I had been. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a woman that was prematurely aging, who looked unhappy and, more importantly, unhealthy. The fear and shame of having to admit that I need more support to reach my health goals kept me from even discussing my desire to move beyond Weight Watchers or casual dieting. Add in the significant cost of the program and the prepackaged foods and you can quickly see why the edict of: I will take better care of myself, feels so huge. I've made a financial and emotional commitment to use my actions to mirror my belief in my own self-worth.

On January 1st, I joined Jenny Craig. On January 2nd, I went to the dermatologist to get the weird bumps on my arms looked at and to get my elbows to stop itching (keratosis and ecsema, respectfully) and walked to the daycare with a stroller to pick up Zac instead of driving. I have an appointment to get new contact lenses next week and need to schedule a follow-up appointment with a dentist to get the permanent crowns put on my three post-root canal teeth. I've stopped dating at the moment and plan to use this time to focus on loving myself and being the best parent that I can be.

I've decided that I'm going to use this blog to track my progress in keeping my resolution. It involves a lot more than just weight loss, but right now (since I'm hungry and I'm not scheduled to eat again for another 30 minutes), the weight loss program is weighing most heavily on my mind (pun intended).

Here are my assumptions about Jenny Craig and my weight loss:

Assumption #1: I will have more time to exercise and be with Zac if I don't have to prepare my own meals every day. (This was the number 1 motivator for me to join).

Assumption #2: It will be easy for me to lose weight on this program, which automatically sets my daily caloric intake to 1500 calories with a combination of prepackaged, frozen and dry, foods and fresh fruits, vegetables, and dairy.

Assumption #3: I will have more energy and more desire to exercise once I lose weight.

Assumption #4: The cost of the program will only be slightly higher than the cost of me shopping and preparing for all my own food.

Assumption #5: I have a history of issues with food that I might be able to resolve with one-on-one counseling and personalized support.

I'll leave it at those five assumptions for now. My decision to join a hugely successful marketing campaign (hi Kirstie Alley! Don't listen to the haters. I loved you on Oprah), is only part of my resolution. I'm focusing on it because it felt the hardest to do and the hardest to admit to my friends and family. I cried on the way home in the car after my counselor gave me the "Before" profile shot of myself. Hopefully, over the coming months, I will be able to finally affirm my final assumption:

My self-worth is not tied to my weight loss. I am not my body, although I need to cherish and respect the body that supports me.

12/29

2006-12-29T08:34:00.000-08:00

One of the best presents I received this Christmas was an unintended gift from my friend Andre-ah (true spelling of the name has been altered to protect the innocent pronunciation of a beautiful name). We went out to lunch before Christmas and she was telling me about the new healthy-living hypnosis cds that she had loaded onto her MP3 player. She liked to listen to them at night before she went to sleep, although she doubted whether they were working or not because she didn't think that she was open to suggestion very easily, especially subconsciously.

I grew up as the youngest child with a very smart, clever older sister. I know exactly how easily suggestable I am. Growing up, I would have jumped off the nearest cliff if my sister had told me to. My best friend, Jenny Evenson, used to torment me by telling me long, complex stories about the dead guy that was found behind the woods of our elementary school. I listened in wide-eyed horror, believing every word she said. We used to go into the woods behind the school on long summer days and get lost in the tangling underbrush. The school has since built a wire, chain-link fence around the school playground to specifically keep highly suspectible to suggestion kids like me from getting lost and accidentally finding a dead person lying around.

Gullible should be my middle name (please reference all posts under the category, "FOB Sucks" for further proof). I knew that I would be highly susceptible to suggestion and I asked her for a copy of the cd. She happily obliged me and left her house with a copy.

You're supposed to listed to the hypnosis while in a relaxed state. I don't have too many relaxed states, so I started listening to it in the car on the way to and from my parents' house. Clearly, it is single Mom multi-tasking at its best (read: worst) to listen to a relaxing hypnosis cd while driving in Houston rush hour traffic. The irony didn't really strike me until my friend A. mentioned that it might be a little...I don't know...dangerous to try and subconsciously change your life while driving.

The cd is amazing, whether I'm listening to it in the car or before I go to sleep. The producers of the cd layered tracks of the therapist's (I'm going to call him that because the phrase, "disembodied voice telling me what to do" sounds disconcerting) voice over each other. So the whole thing is a patchwork of his voice. It sounds something like this:

"You are now letting your mind drift *peeeacefully* to the place where you are warm *safe*, comfortable *secure* to allow yourself time to make permanent *safe, natural* change for a healthier lifestyle"

My favorite part is when the therapist validates that you may actually NOT be getting relaxed and that, "It's OK." While one version of his voice says: "You may find one side of your body getting heavier and relaxing into a deep state of awareness and unconsciousness," the other version of the layered track pipes up with the occasional "or not". As in, "You are drifting further and further *or not* just as the snow falls over a flat plain you can relax and begin to embrace your deep desire to live a healthier *happier* more fulfilled life *or not*."

Seriously, I can't get that kind of validation from anywhere else. Not only am I a perfectly-formed creature with a fundamental human right to be physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually healthy *and happy*, he even tells me that it's ok to NOT be feeling like that. It's even ok to think that the whole hypnosis, relaxation thing is a bunch of crap.

I for one, think that everyone should be hypnotizing themselves *or not* everytime they leave the house *or not*.

12/28

2006-12-28T08:47:00.000-08:00

In between my three hour naps and pumpkin pie-filled afternoons, I had a lot of time to reflect about how I'm currently living my life.

All and all, I like myself. I'm kind to others, good to my son, treat animals with compassion, and enjoy most home improvement projects.

With the wonderful gift of a digital camera for my birthday and the knowledge that Christmas would be spent in a haze of flash bulbs and phrases like, "Get Zac to turn this way. I can't see what he's holding!" and, "Why is it that this kid always smiles after I've taken the picture?" I started thinking about my relationship to the camera. Much like every other person that has gained and lost weight, I shy away from group photos and rarely let someone capture a candid shot of me. When potential internet daters ask to see more pictures of me, they end up getting photo after photo of Zac smiling up at camera with my arm around him or the reassurance that, "I'm the person in the back. You can see my foot between those big columns."

I got dressed up for Christmas Eve and decided that Zac and I were going to pose for some pictures together. My Dad took this shot:

I love it because if you were to visit Zac and I on any given day, that's what you would see. You would see a little boy playing with his Mom's necklace and his Mom smiling at him.

What I don't love is the woman in the photo. By not looking at pictures of myself, I can somehow convince myself that the weight loss hasn't really stopped. That I haven't really regained 10 of the 15 pounds I lost. That somehow I don't mind being the weight that I am.

Here is the truth, though: I do mind. I feel tired and lethargic most days. I haven't had much success with "changing my eating patterns" or stopping when I feel full. I will just eat and eat until I feel sick.

I want to feel better about myself. I want to feel healthy, centered, and content. These past two days have shown me what it's like to take care of myself, again. I've flossed more this week than I have in the past year. It isn't Zac's absence that I want to celebrate, it's his presence. I want to be around to see this guy grow up and I need to find a way to balance his needs with mine:

12/27

2006-12-27T18:34:00.000-08:00

So...um...hi.

I didn't really mean to take that long of break from blogging. I'm not really sure what happened. One moment, it was Thursday and I was working from home in the morning (read: napping) and then running around like a madwoman trying to get my apartment ready for Mr. Tugboat and little J-man's arrival and the next moment it was Wednesday and I had to go back to work.

Christmas started on Thursday night when Mr. Tugboat and I exchanged Christmas presents (after I had returned the watch to Watch World, I bought him the coolest salt and pepper shakers known to man. It just so happens that they also resemble a larger version of these, (or perhaps this although I swear that thought never crossed my mind when I bought them).

So since I am pure of mind and heart, I saw no problem with giving him the salt and pepper shakers in front of his five year-old son. Honestly, I just thought they were great because they wobble, but they never fall down! He however, took one look at those things and burst out laughing, wondering if he should really let little J-man play with them (note: he loved them more than his Dad).

Segue into Friday, then Saturday, then Christmas Eve, which quickly moved to Christmas, the day after Christmas, and *blink* and suddenly I'm back at work. I actually tried to blog at work all day today, but Blogger (or my work server) wasn't having it. I tried to read other people's blogs, but it felt like I was the only chump that had to go back to work today. Everyone is still on vacation, except Aunt Jen and K, who worked straight through the holiday.

On the other hand, I'm sitting here tonight, complete kid-less and petless. My parents are watching Zac for the rest of the week and my cat Honey went along for the ride. I came home from work today and finally understood what it's like to feel an incredible lightness of being. I can do anything! Go anywhere! I could go to Mexico for the evening, as long as I'm back at work at 8am tomorrow morning.

I can see now why people don't want to give up this kid-less, footloose and fancy free lifestyle. The only damper on my temporary, dependentless existence is that I actually miss my little guy. It's nice not having to clean up messy diapers and vomit for couple of days, but it's even better to know that I wouldn't be the same if he wasn't in my life.

12/21

2006-12-21T07:51:00.000-08:00

I must be doing something right with this whole parenthood thing.

Last night I was sitting on the toilet pooping, wishing I could close the door, but knowing that if I did the toddler on the bed would go ballastic in 8 nanoseconds. So, he and I are "talking" to each other. I'm asking where his eye, nose, mouth, ears, and head is. He dutifully points at the various body parts and tries to say the word. When we get to his head, he starts smacking himself as hard as he can, laughing. This also makes me laugh, which I think is why he does it.

Growing bored with the "Where's your _____?" game, we move on to my second favorite game to play while incapacitated, the "Tell Mommy you love her" game. Actually, I'm just trying to get him to say, "I love you". Whenever I tell him to say, "I love you", he looks at me like I just ate a bug. I try to simplify the process by saying each word slowly and asking him to repeat after me.

Me: Zac, say, "I"

Zac: Points to his eye and yells, "Eye!"

Me: *laughing* Now say, "Love"

Zac: blank stare

Me: Zac, say, "Love"

Zac: blank stare

Me: Ok, say, "You. I love you!"

Zac: Starts frantically waving his arm shouting, "Bye, bye Momma. Bye, bye!"

____
Apparently he really can understand what I'm saying whenever I drop him off at daycare.

12/20

2006-12-20T08:45:00.000-08:00

I think the worst of Christmas is over for me. Yesterday my shoulder and right arm started cramping up from handwriting notes and addresses onto holiday cards for my friends and family. During lunch, I wrapped all of the FOB's family's gifts and addressed the packages to them. Right after work I sped to the downtown Houston postoffice where I spent 45 minutes in line, dreaming about how I would completely restructure the United States Postal Service if given even a small opportunity.

The first thing I would do would be to follow the trends of EVERY OTHER RETAILER in America around late December and increase the number of staff on the floor during peak times. There were only two cashiers weighing packages and distributing postage. The line was out the door by the time I made it over there. I think I literally started imagining killing someone when one of the cashiers decided to take a break promptly at 5:30pm. I'm sure it really was her breaktime and I'm sure that her union fought long and hard to get her that breaktime and I want her to have it. I just want someone else to come up front while she's gone. That's all I ask. Just more physical bodies looking bored and put-out when I tell them that I also need to buy a book of stamps with my boxes. And maybe some chairs to sit in while we wait. Like the DMV. They have plastic chairs and numbers. Maybe the number system would help the post office and eradicate my strong desire to beat someone over the head with a bubblewrapped envelope everytime I step foot in the building.

This is what Christmas does to me.

Once a year, I try and thank the FOB's family for their gifts to Zac. They send cards and small gifts or money at his birthday and major holidays. The FOB never sends anything and wouldn't even return my phone call when I called to verify HIS address. Nevertheless, I try to support his family's kindness and generosity to my son.

For the past two Christmases, though, it's been difficult for me to muster up enough holiday spirit to send them small gifts and photos of Zac. It almost feels like I'm sending them photos of Zac so they will keep sending us money. Zac isn't for sale and he's not part of the "Sponsor a Child" network (sorry Ms. Struthers). You don't get a picture and update of him for sending me an annualized total of $.80 a day!

See? Bah humbug and all that. As my therapist used to say: "You are being attacked by the 'should syndrome'". I know that I should send photos of Zac to the FOB's family because I want them to stay involved in Zac's life. They don't send money and gifts because they have to: they choose to. I should graciously thank them for that and encourage their generosity by sending a small token of my appreciation. I should keep them informed of Zac's development and not grit my teeth everytime I get a card that says, "I can't wait for you to bring my grandson up to see me again!"

It's unfortunate that moral and social expectations wrapped up in the word "should" don't always reflect how people truly feel. If I was being honest about the holiday season, I would acknowledge that any person, place, or thing that forces me to go to the post office during the month of December should understand why my left eye won't stop twitching until early February.

12/19-2

2006-12-19T09:26:00.000-08:00

P. reminded me that even though I have spent way too much time figuring what to put on gift lists, I hadn't actually posted them. You'll find two gift lists over there on the right hand side of the blog, under the aptly titled header, "Holiday Gift Lists".

I think most of the items off there are way too expensive off Amazon, but it should give people (if you are so inclined) an idea of what Zac and I need or just covet.

Since I'm incredibly slow (and to be honest, relatively annoying around the holiday season) no one should feel any pressure to actually purchase anything or worry about it arriving by the winter solistice. I might just leave it up and occasionally edit it as the seasons change.

Or not. Happy New Year!

12/19

2006-12-19T06:39:00.000-08:00

Another year older and not dead. That has to be a good thing. At least most days.

I've become one of those women that marks time by their child, even though I swore I would never do that. I was 23 when I got pregnant with Mr. Z, 24 when I gave birth, 25 at his first Christmas, and now 26 at his second. When I see all those numbers written out, I feel like he and I have been together for such a long time, yet I'm still unable to figure out why he likes dumping an entire bag of Cheerios out on his carseat.

I've been in one of those periods (hell, it could be a month or maybe year) where I need people to constantly remind me that parenting will get physically easier and emotionally harder. Cue in on the "physically easier" part because this Momma is tired. Zac was up two nights ago, teething furiously, from 2-4am. After not going to sleep until 9:30pm last night, he woke up at 3am for an unknown reason (perhaps because he was out of his beloved milk, which I finally started giving him again yesterday after the Pukapoolza Tour). I brought him in bed with me because I'm a tired idiot. He spent the rest of the early morning hours kicking me in the ribs and karate chopping my head. It was like sleeping next to a practicing self-defense coach.

It's the wrapping paper, scissors, tape, ribbon, photo frames, small glass ornaments and stockings hung by the chimney with care that make living with a toddler make me want to throw myself on the floor, kicking and screaming. He wants to be in EVERYTHING. CONSTANTLY. I now understand why women in previous generations would go into their bedrooms and work their mysterious gift-wrapping magic. It's not to keep it a secret. It's to keep the kids from unrolling that wrapping paper one more time, goddamnit!

The funny part is that I don't even like wrapping paper or bows. Put all of my gifts in recycled brown paper bags and I'll be happy. Better yet, just give me the bag. I'll put it over my head until January or so when all forms of tissue paper are out of the reach of my son.

12/16

2006-12-16T06:25:00.000-08:00

After reading Thordora's and Karrie's birthing stories, I went back to read the story I had posted on 7/10-2. It was a sanitized version. I couldn't even begin to comprehend how my life would change and how long it would take me to let that little boy in the darkest corners of my heart, where all of my fear and insecurities resided. In honor of Zac and my Mother, who gave birth to me almost 26 years ago, I'm editing and reposting my birthing story.
_______

I wondered what would happen at this point in my blog....would I rename the blog, "Not-So Pregnant In Texas"? or maybe "UnPregnant in Texas"? All those months of waiting with heart burn, crying and wondering what the perfect being inside me is over.

Zachary Russell. Zac. Peanut.

My labor was supposed to be chemically induced on Wednesday, July 7th at 7pm at 39 weeks pregnant. My Ob-Gyn was worried about how big Zac was measuring in all of my ultrasounds. Honestly, by the end of my pregnancy, I was so miserable that she could have told me that she wanted me to deliver standing on my head at 33 weeks and I would have agreed.

On my appointed day of delivery, lo' and behold, there were no beds available in the hospital. I was reminded of: (a) 1st century Jerusalem. "Sorry lady, there are no rooms in the inn, but we have a stable around back." (b) 20th century Soviet Union bloc countries and protectorates. "Oh. Batbold. You can't check in the hospital today because the govenor's cousin is sick and the hospital needs wood for the winter. If we don't take his cousin, the governor won't give us wood." or (c) 21st century Friendswood, Texas. "This area has just outgrown our labor and delivery capacities."

Finally, at 5am the next morning, agonizing over the delay and suffering a completely restless, sleepless night, I got the OK to come to the hospital at 7am. I checked in with my Mom, my labor coach, and was ushered to my birthing room where they immediately strapped me down with fetal monitors and inserted an I.V. A nurse with short, squat fingers (from here on out, all of the nurses were identified by the size of the fingers that they shoved up into my vagina) inserted cervicil in a tampon-shaped application to ripen my cervix. It was uneventful and honestly boring, just laying on my back or side, the fetal monitors pressing deeply into my swollen belly.

Twelve hours and one centimeter dilated later, they inserted another cervicil, this time without any lubrication. It was so painful that I blurted out, "I'm never having sex again!" in front of my Mom and Dad, who were both in the room at the time. My Mom and Dad went back to their house for the night, thinking that most of the action would happen the next morning when they started pitocin. I was worried about my Mom and the ankle she broke on Mother's Day. I knew that I wouldn't be able to stop worrying about her and seeing how uncomfortable my Dad looked everytime another stranger decided to explore the lining of my vagina. I wanted them to go, but I hated that they left. I fell into a dreamless sleep.

At 1am, Peanut got things rolling. I woke up and knew instantly that pain was different. These weren't the vague, menstrual-feeling cramps that I had barely noticed for the past 24 hours. I had started in active labor, contracting every 2-5 minutes. For about three minutes, I thought about not calling my parents, about laboring for the next five hours by myself. Then I swallowed what was left of any pride and called, begging them to come back.

From this point on, my Dad gets the short end of the stick. Occasionally, I was aware that we was in or out of the room, but really, anything outside of my uterus and my Mom has a hazy, blurred quality. Between 1-3 am I had the most painful back labor that I can possibly describe. With every contraction my Mom would jump up, rub my back, and look at the fetal monitors to tell me when the contraction was at its peak. All I could do was writhe on the bed, hooked up to my monitors, screaming. I got up and dragged my IV pole into the bathroom where I peed three times and vomited once, crying the whole time. If I could have stayed in the bathroom for the rest of the night, I would have. I was embarassed and ashamed at how I was handling the pain. Little did I know at the time how many other women have similar experiences. That part of my education as a mother wouldn't come until later, until I could retrospectively look back on Zac's birth with less pain and anger.

My Mom and a nurse (a different one with blessed long fingers) coaxed me back into my hospital bed and the nurse checked my cervix. My cervix had dialated from 1cm to 5cm in less than two hours. The nurses looked at each other, shocked, and asked if I wanted an epidural. My answer of "Yes, please" was shouted before she even finished her question. All I knew is that I wanted the pain to stop. I was tired, hungry, and confused because I didn't remember volunteering for motherhood to begin with.

Then the man of my dreams who I can speak no ill of, my anesthesiologist, came in and inserted the epidural. Note to all: epidurals don't hurt at all compared to labor. I jumped when the needle went in, but don't remember feeling anything else. I passed out and woke up around 7am with my cervix dialated to 8cm. My body was preparing itself for the baby that no one could find. Peanut hadn't dropped into my pelvis yet. Every Debbie, Angie, and Cheryl that shoved their hands into me on an exploratory mission to find the baby came back bare-handed.

The Ob-Gyn broke my water around 9am. My Mom watched the green slime flow out of my body. There was meconium in the liquid, which means that Peanut had had a bowel movement in the womb and possibly swallowed some of the liquid. Vaginal birth was no longer an option.

I spent the next three hours with increasing awareness of the contractions. It felt like rocks grinding against rocks without the protective cushion of water in my uterus. Had I known more about pain medication, I could have told someone, anyone, that I was starting to feel Zac again inside me. I just thought that it was a part of labor that I needed to suffer through. At 12:30pm my Mom scrubbed up to go into the OR with me. Although they gave me some mild pain medication, I could still feel the contractions and I had feeling in my legs and feet.

They wheeled me in and strapped my arms and legs down to the operating table. I was scared and in increasing amounts of pain. The doctors in the room had to grab my feet. I kept trying to curl into a ball to round out my spine and contract. I started crying and threw up when the blue curtain went in front of my face. I couldn't find my Mom. I couldn't even hear her. I was alone and puking on myself. Immediately after the first incision, I started feeling the doctors inside me. The doctors kept saying, "It's just pressure, just pressure," but I know the difference between pressure and stabbing pain. I should have been at least left with the dignity of knowing when I was in pain. I wasn't even left with that when they downplayed everything that I wasn't supposed to be feeling. I cried and I screamed. I couldn't help it and later, thinking back on that moment, I would be embarassed by how my body acted in that operating room.

When they said that his head was out, I was in shock. My body had started shutting down. Immediately after they took his body out, I closed my eyes and started drifting further and further away from the activity. I remember hearing some of the jokes between my Mom and the doctors, laughing about how the Texans would be soon recruiting Zac soon for a fullback.

I never saw him around my blue curtain.

Zac was born blue with his umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. My Mom saw him, but as soon as the baby was out of my body, they flooded me with pain medication. When she turned around to talk to me, she found me snoring on the table, finally comfortable, but alone for the first time in 40 weeks. I never saw him in that room, strapped down to the operating table.

Two hours later, I woke up alone in the labor and delivery room and was told that Zac was taken to the NICU for oberservation. I couldn't go and see him because my incision prevented me from going in a wheelchair. He had respiratory problems and wouldn't be able to leave NICU for the next three days (see the article "Transient Tachypnea of the Newborn" thanks to Aunt Jen). A nurse came in and pushed, painfully hard, on my uterus. I remember thinking that even with all of the modern technology, immediately after major abdominal surgery a woman will still get her uterus jumped on, with excruicating pain.

When the nurses wheeled me into the postpartum wing of the hospital, I left a pool of blood on the floor from the mattress. I was still alone. I had never been more alone.

Twenty four hours later when I saw Zachary for the first time and cried at the sight of my child. I was so scared for both of us. I wasn't sure how we would be able to make it alone. We've made it, though. Day by day, he and I make it.

_______

12/15

2006-12-15T19:53:00.000-08:00

My spirits sunk lower and lower as I walked around the giant mall in Houston. There were so many people with enormous bags and pointy-toed shoes. I felt dowdy, unattractive, and above all, unfashionable. It made me wish that I hadn't gotten out of bed this morning.

As it gets closer and closer to my birthday, an imaginary lead weight starts dragging me down with each approaching day. It's not even turning another year older that necessarily does this to me, it's just that it has always been this way. Even years that were supposed to be momentous, my birthday has always been an anti-climatic let down.

Let's not even get into what it's like having a birthday that is eight days before Christmas. Everyone is filled with holiday cheer and I'm an afterthought at best, which is ok. Family members send me money and I end up walking around the mall with the large crowds of other shoppers, except that instead of embracing the season of giving, I'm shopping for myself.

I ended up in the lingerie department of Nordstrom's. There is a special place in my heart for Seattle's flagship, high-end department store. Large chunks of my adolescence were spent waiting for the Nordstrom's anniversary sale in July. Today, however, the over-helpful, yet uber-tasteful, saleswomen just didn't seem to be understanding the crux of my mid-December emotional problems.

They kept coming up to me, numbly fingering the 100% silk pajamas that I will never be able to afford and asking, "Is there a particular size that I can help you find?" I would just shake my head and push my stroller onto another rack. They stopped making the "single Mom needs a hug because she's feeling sorry for herself" size sometime during the Carter administration.

Another woman approached me looking at pushup bras, matching lacy boyshorts, and camisoles. She inquired as to what, exactly, I was looking for.

I couldn't answer that question. If I had though, my answer would have been something like, "I'm looking for a piece of lingerie that will make me feel sexy and attractive. You see? I just got dumped right before my birthday and I'm feeling so low, as I historically do right before my birthday, that I'm mistakenly thinking that some underwire and lace will make me feel better. I've realized my error during the last twenty seconds and I'm now just going to take my screaming child out of the store and order a pizza. Thank you and good bye. Oh - and Happy Holidays"

12/14

2006-12-14T07:55:00.000-08:00

Thank you all for your kind words to yesterday's post. It wasn't that I was necessarily thinking about stopping my blog, it's just that I'm struggling more and more with what to write about. I actually plan on moving this site out of blogger soon. I purchased a domain name and my amazingly talented friend (with impeccable taste in boots), Dee, has volunteered to help me (read: do it all for me because I'm a complete idiot when it comes to designing and coding a website) to get it up and running.

I can't even tell you how excited it makes me to have a domain name. It's mine! It's a dot.com! Ok, so it still involves the word "pregnant", but it's better than having a url that assumes I'm currently pregnant. Right now, everytime I give my blog address I have start immediately apologizing for my lack of foresight in picking a url. I have to lamely admit: "Sorry. I started this blog when I was pregnant. And then I gave birth....now I'm Not so Pregnant and still living in Texas...which gives me the horrible acronym of N-SPIT...and God Lord, stop harassing me! Why did I give you this stupid address anyways?"

It's a little bit crazy to think that this February will be my second anniversary of writing on this blog. I never imagined that I would find such a benefit to writing. I've made new friends here, kept in touch with old friends, shocked my Mother on a regular basis, posted embarassing pictures of my sister, Aunt Jen (and in my defense, I was also in those pictures and looked equally awful), and explored my identity as a woman, mother, and working adult.

So, I agree with Caroline and some of the anonymous commenters, I'll keep writing as long as I find it helpful. This site does give me a chance to vent my frustrations about trying to date as a single Mom, being puked on, Zac crying non-stop while I get ready for work, and my boss that never has time for me.

One story: Last night I was on my laptop waiting for a conference call to start at 7pm. Zac had been crying and whining most of the evening and the tv was on, but neither one of us were really paying attention to it. I notice that he had laid down on the rug and started watching the Wheel of Fortune. He never watches the Wheel of Fortune. For that matter, neither do I, but it was on and it gave me a moment to collect what was left of my thoughts before I had to do some work. He got very quiet and watched the television intently for 10-15 minutes. Suddenly, the smell of death comes wafting over to the couch and know that he has just dropped the biggest bomb in the history of constipated babies. Holy mother! Yes, of course, the toxic waste smelled awful, but more importantly, the moment reminded me that sometimes, just every now and then:

You need to lay down and take a dump. You'll feel better afterwards. I promise.

12/13

2006-12-13T12:32:00.000-08:00

It's not that I haven't wanted to update today, it's just that I've been busy. I had a conference this morning and a luncheon this afternoon. Then I spent sometime reading other people's blogs instead of updating my own. It happens.

I've also been thinking a lot about the direction of this blog. I started it when I was pregnant so my friends and family could follow my journey through pregnancy and labor/delivery. Since I was one of the first in my group of friends to have a child, I got a lot of the same questions over and over. Answering them (and giving people waaaaay more information than they wanted to ever know about my uterus and cervix) on a blog seemed to make sense.

The more I think about it, the more perfect blogging seems for a pregnant woman. It's a time when complete strangers will inquire about the functions and performance of your body in intimate, minute detail. People are suddenly interested in your sex life (as in: When did you get pregnant? Answer: Drunk after a wedding party in New York. October 2004. It was a good month for getting laid) and whether or not you plan on using your boobs to feed the bebe (answer: yup, until I needed formula assistance from WIC and they demanded my breast pump back).

Now that Zac is almost eighteen months old, I'm just not sure that he and I are that interesting to read about. Sure, as Mr. Tugboat would say, the drama of dating as a single parent and watching stupid men (his words) go up in flames on the Internet is intriguing for a while. What if I stop dating, though? Then what do I write about?

I'll give you a story for today: Zac was so cranky last night that I finally caved in and put on the movie "Cars" just so he would stop crying. It worked instantly. He sat in his favorite corner of the couch and stared at the screen, occasionally pointing and shouting, "Car. Go car!" When I would turn to him to ask him a question about the movie, in my best impersonation of a parent that believes in teachable moments, he would just look at me with his eyebrows scrunched together and say, "Car, car, car!" and turn back to the movie. I'm assuming that's toddler speak for, "Shut the hell up, Mom. I'm trying to watch the movies about cars." I turned on my laptop and went back to surfing the Internet, looking up every now and then to watch animated cars cheer on other animated cars racing around the animated track.
____________
This whole blogging thing makes me wish I had an advice column. At least then I would have an excuse to continue writing every day.

12/12

2006-12-12T07:32:00.000-08:00

I've complained about everything from a rash on my face, to Zac's illnesses, to my lack of money and willpower to lose weight on this blog. I don't set out to be negative every morning when I sit down to my computer to type these words, it seems to stem partly from my social isolation in this city and my frustrations with being a young parent of an even younger child.

Part of it is the nature of the beast - my blog would drive you absolutely fucking insane if every day I wrote about how great and wonderful my life is. I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't even read it, but by only venting my frustrations and anger I'm sacrificing some measure of truth about my life. Many days I simply exist and try my hardest to make it to the next day. Then there are days, hours, minutes when something clicks inside and I realized:

If love is a decision, then happiness must also be a choice. (December 7th entry on the link).

I choose today to be happy. I spent time with Mr. Tugboat last night and in between the barbed insults that I threw his way periodically, there was a moment when I looked at him and realized how happy he and I could have been as romantic partners. It was surprising to be presented with a singular moment of contentment, all giftwrapped and tied in a bow for mutual consumption. The hard work comes now from redefining that happiness and joy within the boundaries of friendship.

It made me wonder, though, how many other moments like that I pass up.

At my lowest point last week, I called the FOB. Actually, it took two phone calls of me screaming, "Call me as soon as you can!" for him to call me back. I was so tired of being puked on, worrying about where Zac was going to go during the day if I couldn't take time off from work and how I was going to afford to keep my grossly underutilized memberships to the gym and Weight Watchers. I was so tired of worrying about saving for retirement, for a down payment on a house, and paying off my massive student loan debt. I felt fat and unattractive my skin, carrying around the weight that I've gained back. I just wanted to give all of that stress to someone else and say: "Here is a broken heart. You can fix it. It just fell apart."

He can't fix it. No one can fix it for me. The stress that I carry around, that ages me prematurely, weighs me down and keeps me from being the most perfect version of myself. The decision to release at least some of this ballast has to come from me.

Today, I've decided to let it go.

12/11

2006-12-11T06:46:00.000-08:00

I went down to my parents' house on Thursday after work, just to spend some time with Z-man. My Mom had picked him up from my apartment on Wednesday when the sound of me vomitting had made Zac start to cry and then vomit as well. It was a vicious cycle: I couldn't take care of him because he smelled like puke, the smell of which made me puke, which made him puke and further smell like puke.

The comedy of horrors was made even worse when my Mom and Dad got the same stomach virus that Zac and I had. This weekend we all took turns puking, sleeping, taking care of Zac, wiping up someone else's bodily fluid, and then tending to our own misery. Zac managed a puke free day on Saturday, only to hurl twice last night onto my pillows and sheets. He kept pointing to his stomach and crying. He's back at daycare today with an emergency babysitter on-call if he starts to hurl on the other kids.

I feel numb and raw. On Sunday, I had the humiliating task of returning the Christmas presents that I had purchased for Mr. Tugboat and his son J. I cried at Watch World, which made the 17 year-old behind the counter question, inquisitively: "Are you ok? The watch didn't hurt you, did it? Is there anything wrong with the watch?" Yes, Miss Not-Out-of-Highschool, there is something wrong with the watch. What is wrong with the watch is that the person who was meant to wear it went out on a date with a woman the night after he broke up with me and he told me about it.

That's the problem with being friends with your ex, even if you only dated briefly like Mr. Tugboat and I. You always end up broaching the subject of dating someone else, someone that isn't the person that you are talking to on the other end of the phone or sitting across from you. It's hard to engage the "there-are-things-better-left-unsaid" policy with a person that you've talked about everything else with free-spirited abandon.

Oh - and my on-call babysitter for today? That would be the same Mr. Tugboat. He's back from his four days on the water and agreed to watch Pukapoolza for me today if he got sick. None of the adult members of my family have any sick time left for the month of December.

That's the positive side of being friends with your ex: they'll do things for you that you wouldn't ever dream of asking anyone else for and for that, I'm grateful. Really, I am grateful that he and I are working on our friendship. So much for being bitter.

12/07

2006-12-07T07:02:00.000-08:00

I'm a bit stymied about what to write about. I don't really want to write more about the stomach illness that is debilitating both Zac and I. I will say that I felt so bad last night that the sound of my puking caused Zac to start puking as well. There was something particularly awful about that.

I don't really want to write more about Mr. Tugboat, who e-mailed me to tell me that he "made the mistake" of reading my blog last night.

Zac is home with his PaPa today, watching "Dora the Explorer" (MNS - You were so right about that show! My Dad said that he is hooked and won't stop watching it. I'm so glad that I took your advice and bought Z-man a DVD. On a side note - am I the only American Mom out there that was concerned that her child wasn't interested in watching anything on the giant, talking box before now? Jeez, with all the research focused on the effects of television watching on infants and early toddlers, you would think that I would be thrilled with Zac's refusal to participate in one of my favorite past times. I wasn't. I worried about it because even when something is good, I worry. That's just how I am, especially as a Mom).

This is day 4 of an internal dialogue that goes something like, "If I'm sick and I have sick time still available, I should go home. Why the hell am I still here?" then, "Well, I should suck it up and try to do something at work and I can always close the door at lunch and sleep on the floor. I took a sick day last week and I'm started to be viewed as irresponsible."

Then again, it might make me a bad employee if puke in office kitchen while trying to heat up some oatmeal. Employers tend to frown on that.

12/06-2

2006-12-06T13:40:00.000-08:00

- Update on the boob -

(Never in my life could I imagine writing those words)

(I also couldn't imagine being a single Mom to a sick toddler, but since that is going so well, I'm just going to update on boob and not overanalyze too much, ok?)

I called Planned Parenthood about the boob on the advice of a very smart blogger who knows more about boobs and vaginas than I could ever dream of knowing. PP wanted me to come in - IMMEDIATELY - for a manual boob test (no calculators allowed) and then a referral for a boob ultrasound. Then I found out that PP doesn't take insurance (really? nothing?) so I had to call my regular OB-GYN.

Dr. Doesn't Take Any Shit, as you might remember her from my pregnancy with Peanut, also Doesn't Have Any Appointments until mid-February. I got transferred to her nurse, who you could just about hear scoff at the thought that I was referred to her by the same people that get fire bombed on occasion. Well, I told her about my symptoms and my test(s) to check for more Peanuts in the popcorn, so to speak, and she was unimpressed. She said that she would talk to the doctor and call me back.

She called.

Dr. Doesn't Take Any Shit doesn't want to see me. Her advice? Take some Advil and apply a hot compress. Call her again the pain worsens or persists for more than a month.

Awesome.

As for those tests (I've taken 3 now), well, I was told that they are accurate and that my breast pain, fatigue, and upset stomach must be caused by something else, like a stomach flu.

I've heard that's going around. I hope Zac doesn't get it.

12/6

2006-12-06T08:18:00.000-08:00

I put Zac to bed last night right before 8pm. He had vomitted once in the backseat of my Dad's car on the way home from dinner, but otherwise seemed just fine. The noxious gas from his diaper was powerful, yet no actual poop was coming out. I cleaned him up and put him to bed without further ado.

Around 11:45pm, I hear him coughing. Then I hear nothing and then, the tell-tale crying. I walk in and find him sitting up in his crib next to even more vomit. It was all over his stuffed rabit and the homemade blanket, all over his sheets and all over him. I picked him up, took off his pajamas, changed his diaper, and did what any self-respecting single Mom who had to get up early the next morning to go to a meeting would do: I let him sleep next to me and promised myself that I would clean his sheets tomorrow.

At 12:30am, (Oh - should I even finish this story? Can you see where this is all going? Hasn't my child been degraded enough by my broadcast of his illness and the subsequent bodily fluids? Answer: Nope) I feel a very warm splash of liquid and chunky parts hit my head. He had sat up from his pillow next to me, turned, and vomitted - ON ME. After the initial splash, I tried to encourage him to only puke on his pillow, but directing a child's puke is like trying to catch mist - you can't do it.

The funny thing (because afterall, if I didn't find humor in it, I would have to revoke my mothering qualifications, of which I have none, and it was my fault - sort of - for letting a sick child sleep in bed with me) was that he wasn't completely awake when he puked. When I stripped him naked and put his puky ass in the bathtub, he freaked the fuck out. Apparently, luke warm water is not a relaxing way to wake up after spewing the contents of your stomach on your primary caregiver.

Back into bed, for both of us. I had to put a towel down on the bed and use a pillow from the other room. At 6:15am, I encountered all of the vomit-splattered clothing and household objects with the fresh perspective of the morning. My stomach pitched and heaved in response. I've been feeling queesy all morning. I'm not sure if I have what Zac has or if being that close to vomit that isn't mine has made my stomach second guess actually digesting food.

The good news (and I have to find some with a week like this) is that Zac vomitting on me made Mr. Tugboat's actions slightly more bearable. He stood me up for an office party and then broke up with me over the phone, saying that we want different things from life and that's he's going to have a vasectomy. I realized that I would have been much angrier at him if he had puked on me and then told me that he really sees me as more of a friend. It wouldn't have been funny at all, just more tragic.

It also made me realize exactly how much I love my son, puke and all.

12/5

2006-12-05T06:27:00.000-08:00

"Mama said there'd be days like this....mama said that there'd be days....oh don't you worry cuz...."

I get a call yesterday evening from the hypochondriac daycare that is single-handedly trying to get me fired from my job. Zac had been throwing up. A lot. Ok, maybe it wasn't so unreasonable for them to be worried about that. I left work at 4pm with a comment from my boss that I need to start making up the hours that I've missed (even though I'm NOT over my alotted sick time, she just feels like I've been taking a lot of time off to take care of my son. I haven't.)

When I walk into the daycare I see a miserable looking kid with puffy eyes and snot coming out his nose. Yep, that's mine over there. He had thrown up maybe four times since waking up from his nap. Getting him home didn't help much. Everytime I left the room to get something, I would walk back in to find him crying on the floor next to a puddle of vomit.

That went on for about three hours.

I had to disinfect every surface in my house including the floor, the walls, and my couch cushions. The boy can vomit. and then poop. and then vomit while pooping.

I realized that we were out of milk and garbage bags (two crucial items in the single-man pooping / vomit bridgade) and had to go to the store. It was at that exact moment that I would have given my right arm for someone - ANYONE - to have been there to help me. To go the store and pick up what my child needed. Looked around, didn't see anyone, and thought I should get going before it got too late.

Fortunately, Zac and I made it through the store without puking. He waited until I was right inside my apartment, holding two gallons of milk and three gallons of bottled water before spewing. I thought about other frozen and perishable items I had left in the car, then I saw Zac trying to wipe vomit out of his eye with his sleeve that was also dirty and I knew I had to take care of him. I knocked on my neighbors' door and plaintively said, "I need help".

He quickly got all of my groceries out of my car and even went back twice for my mail and my work bag. I seriously might have just let the $90 of groceries go bad in the car had he not come and helped us. You might have found me, a couple of days later, lying next to a dried pile of puke with Zac crawling all over me. I just wanted to lay down and not get up.

Things calmed down once Zac went to bed. I was able to call my Grandma back in Seattle, fold some of the pile of laundry I had to wash, and cleaned the carpet the best I could. I made the mistake, though, during a conversation with Mr. Tugboat to mention how upset I was with our conversation from the night before. Let's just say, the night got even worse from that point on. The heartburn is back and I didn't get a lot of sleep.

On a bright note, I think I got all the vomit out my hair this morning in the shower.

12/4

2006-12-04T06:47:00.000-08:00

The scene:

Laying on my bed, applying a hot compress to my left breast, talking on the phone to Mr. Tugboat:

Me: I had a really good time at dinner with you and little J-man (his son). Thank you for meeting up with Zac and I. It was a little hectic with two kids and two adults, but I think we survived.

Mr. Tugboat: As soon as you got there, I could feel little J-man tense up. I don't think he wanted you there.

Me: Oh, I'm sorry about that. I wanted to spend time with him.

Mr. Tugboat: It's just so weird. He gets along with all women, including the ones that live at my house, the ones we see at the credit union, and he really loved the woman I went on a date with before you and I were in a relationship. He played so well with her.

*one, two punch* now curled up in the fetal position

Me: (feebly, in my opinion) I don't know what to tell you. Maybe he senses that there is something going on with us and he's scared that I'm going to take the place of his Mommy. Zac is also much younger than little J-man and they're both only children. Maybe he feels threatened by Zac and the attention he gets.

Mr. Tugboat: I don't know. Maybe. If Zac were five, it would be a different situation.

Me: Zac isn't five.

Mr. Tugboat: I just wish that little J-man was more comfortable around you. He's just so tense when you're around.

Me: (silent, with mounting heartburn and the knowledge that I will up for a couple of hours agonizing over this conversation)

*final punch to the right temple. Down for the count*
-----------------------------

I've been rejected by plenty of people in my lifetime, just not people that aren't tall enough to ride the big rollercoasters at Magic Mountain. Having a five year-old dislike me is one thing. Having his Dad, who I happen to like quite a bit, get very concerned about his five year-old not liking my son and I is totally another.

If anyone had asked me before I entered into a dating relationship that involved a five year-old, I would have told them, "Well, damn, you know that I'm not very good at being one of those great, wild and kooky adults around kids. Some people just get kids and I'm not one of those people. Did I mention that I'm fabulous with pre-teens and teenagers?"

I'm also just not handling things very well. The fatigue has kept up all weekend and my breast started hurting two days ago. When I massaged it, some very small fluid came out and, for those of you that don't want to go through my archives, I can tell you that I stopped breast feeding about ten months ago. I don't know what's going on with my body. Everything feels off.

11/30

2006-11-30T07:15:00.000-08:00

I woke up yesterday morning so tired that I could barely make it to the bathroom, where I did something that I have rarely done in my adult life: I peed and then went back to bed.

I wasn't particularly sick (as in I didn't feel like I was dying, just so very tired) although my sore throat and headache gave me a nice enough excuse to call in sick. I spent the entire day sleeping. Zac slept in until 9am and I took him to daycare at 10am or so and then climbed back into bed. Around 1pm, I walked downstairs, had some lunch, and then promptly fell back asleep on the couch until 5:30pm.

It's hard for me, with my Puritan work ethic and shame-based personality, to admit that I took the whole day for myself and did nothing other than sleep. It was even harder to justify my decision to Mr. Tugboat, who kept saying, "Are you sure your alright? You've just been sleeping?" He defines himself as a "worker bee": someone that always has a project, always going, and always gets up before 7am. I describe that as "hell on Earth". It's not that I'm lazy, just selective on how I exert myself, which wouldn't ever happen before 9am if I didn't have a small child.

All I can say is that my body must have needed, or really, really wanted, to sleep. I even went to the drugstore to get a certain test to see if I had a certain little thing inside me (I don't) because the last time I was this tired I was gestating.

My fatigue is occuring at a time when every day I marvel at Zac's emotional and physical development. The other day I realized that he has started coming home in the same shirt and pants that he left for daycare in. Either the daycare teacher started getting better with the her bib usage or Zac got more coordinated at eating - either way, I love it. I no longer have to wash four or five loads of strictly toddler clothing a week. He has started to go to bed without as much crying and wailing and he can give hugs and blow kisses. He's great. Really, just great.

I might be great if I wasn't considering hiding under my desk at work to take a nap. Wake me up when it's time to go home.

11/28-2

2006-11-28T12:00:00.000-08:00

I started today with the feeling that it would be a two-post kind of day (Hi April!) . I just got a call from the FOB. I've managed to not talk to him for two months, although the last time we spoke it involved me swallowing my pride to ask for $200 to help cover insurance co-pays and prescription medication costs. Much to the FOB's credit, he sent the money Western Union and I was able to use what was left to purchase a step stool for Zac to get up onto the couch and some extra sippy cups.

So, he called me today to say that it had been a long time since we had talked (duh!) and he was wondering how "the baby" was. Hmmm...well, the baby is no longer a baby. The baby is a full-fledged toddler with ideas, opinions, and desires of his own. He's starting to walk and - Oh, Happy Thanksgiving, asshole. Guess you could have called on the major holiday instead of waiting until I was at work to call.

I know, I know, I could have called him. I thought about it on Thanksgiving. I even debated it with Mr. Tugboat (who said that I under no circumstances should call him. If a father wants to talk to his son, he should call. Since that agreed with what I was feeling, I listened to him whole-heartedly). Zac isn't really saying enough words to make a phone conversation with him anything other than painful for all adult parties. It's fun to listen to him playing and "talking" to his toys in the background. That's about it.

Ugh, the worst part of the conversation was when I asked the FOB why he continues to call at all. I just don't see a point to it. If I told him that something was the matter, he couldn't do anything to fix it. If I said that Zac was a genius with a remarkable ability to fingerpaint masterpieces with his toes, what good what that information do him? I understand the curiousity factor. This child has half of his genetics and looks more like him than he does me (although his smile that lights up his face - that's all me, sucker). I can understand why someone would want to check in on their off-spring, it just shouldn't be half-assed. Either you are in a child's life or you aren't. To me, that's clear. Calling once a quarter should be reserved for stockbrokers and phone solicitors. Parents need to actually show that they care.

He said that he doesn't call more because I "always do this to him". The "this" being making him feel bad for NOT being involved in Zac's life. Honestly, at this point, I want him to leave us alone. When I was pregnant, I couldn't understand how a man could completely emotionally and financially abandon a child. It's done now. It's over. I had Zac and the State of Texas garnishes his wages. Other than $400/month in child support (which I am thankful for) and the very rare monetary gift to cover medical expenses, I don't want or need to talk to him.

Why would I?

Better question: What will Zac ever have to say to him? Dad, thanks for the money this month. Mom bought me a pair of shoes and cooked dinner six days this week. I really like food.

It will be Zac's choice to make whether or not he communicates with his biological father and I won't stop him from talking to the FOB. I just think that will be difficult for him to have a relationship with a non-entity.

11/28

2006-11-28T06:55:00.000-08:00

When I picked Zac up from daycare last night, all of the Shoe Nazis were exclaiming with joy. "He's learning how to walk!" they shouted. They turned to each other and nodded in approval and looked down at Zac, who beamed up at all of them with pride. Ah yes, my son, he's becoming a walker.

I'm not sure why I feel like this is such an accomplishment (or why it makes me insanely happy. It just does, let it be at that). It most certainly has something to do with waiting and anticipating for the day that he would let go of the couch cushion and come toddling over to me. I was starting to feel like I would have to carry him on-stage at his highschool graudation in 2023 to accept his diploma, apologizing the whole time by saying, "The doctors say he's physical fine. He just doesn't WANT to walk yet." At that point, I'd be 43 years-old with arms the size of tree trunks and a permanently hunched back.

There will be a time when the thoughts of him when he was "little" will feel far away. When he's 8 or 9, I'm sure that the memory of his first tentative days of walking will blur into all the other memories of the first day at school, picking out a Christmas tree, or the first time Zac tells me that he loves me. Walking will be old-hat by then. Just something that he does everyday without either one of us giving it much thought - like breathing, thinking, or loving.

11/27

2006-11-27T07:11:00.000-08:00

The Zac report:

1) He is feeling much better, thank you, and only coughs occasionally now instead of semi-periodically and I maintain that you can only really know the difference between those two terms after holding a coughing child in your arms.

2) He stole the show at Thanksgiving. All of my relatives doted on him and kept exclaiming, "He's such a happy baby!" (which he is. Until he's tired. Or teething. Or grumpy. Or wanting to take all the diapers out of the diaper bag and put them back one by one and his mean Mom won't let him because we need to go to daycare. Then, he's not so happy).

Basking in the glow of family members: Wonderful

3) He's learned how to signal what he wants with a combination of words and baby signs. More cereal? Points to the exact spot on his highchair where he wants it to go. Bottle? ba ba. Give me that toy, damnit! Opens and closes his hand repeatedly. If he's hungry? No. Thirsty? No. Try to take away any toy that he wants to play with? No no no no no no nooooooooo.

Language acquisition: Amazing.

4) Big news - Mr. Z took five steps between my Mom and my cousin the day after Thanksgiving!!! He's getting more confident every day and drops to his knees less and less when we hold his arms and walk with him.

Watching a 26 pound toddler learn how to walk: Priceless

11/26

2006-11-26T21:54:00.000-08:00

I'm not exactly sure what time it is....whether the clock has signaled the end of one day and the start of another. It's late and I can't quite sleep yet.

Seattle was good and there will be more stories to tell. Right now, I'm spinning a bit. My eyes are bleary and my heart is aching.

I just had a good cry. The kind where you call up a good friend that you know you can pour your heart out to and let everything fly. Oh, my, and did I cry. I thanked her as I was getting off the phone - thanked her for listening to me and for making me laugh. I told her, only half-jokingly, that she was my go-to person when I needed to cry. She said that there must be two or three other go-to people in my life because I hadn't called her for a while. Then I felt guilty for not calling more.

I realized that I don't get upset that often. I mean - really, really upset, that much. I just exist in a survival mode of diaper changes and alarm clocks, sweaty palms and library fines, soured milk and sippy cups.

Romance of course, changes all of that. I was ready for a romance to sweep me off my feet and, in the process, it swept aside all of my coping skills for surviving as Mom, single in a city where I know very few people and have a limited number of people I can call and request a date with a chai tea latte.

As I was bathing Zac tonight and he kept wiggling away from my grasp, howling, "Nooo, no, no, no, no" and clutching his cups protectively against his chest. He was afraid that if I got a hold of him, I would make him get out of the bathtub. He just wanted to sit and play with his cups in the warm water. To hell with his Mom's schedule or forces of chemistry that cause warm water to cool to the touch. To him, he was perfectly content in that moment.

I'm trying to reach that clarity. I am.

11/22

2006-11-22T07:04:00.000-08:00

Update: Zac is fine. His Mom needs her head looked at. I've turned into one of those neurotic, crazy women that brings her prodigy into doctor everytime he coughs wrong (and in my defense, he DOES have a nasty cough. I was just told that instead of being croup or an upper respiratory infection, it was just some drainage from his sinuses that he's coughing out.)

I was told that Zac's physical development is just fine. Basically, as the Good Doc told me, he just doesn't want to walk yet. He can pull himself up, bear weight on his legs, move around, and even climb on the couch. Walking though, not so much. He just doesn't want to. I'm supposed to continuing encouraging him as much as possible. I've created a couple little cheers for him in his walking endeavors:

GOOOOO ZAC!
Walk them back, walk them back, WAAAAY Back

Walking, walking
W-A-L-K-I-N-G that's what we do when we get Rowdy
Yes, yes, get rowdy
STAAAAAAAART WALKING!!

Everywhere we go (Echo: Everywhere we go)
People want to know (People want to know)
When you'll walk (When you'll walk)
I tell them:
Whenever he wants
Oh yes, whenever he f'ing wants *clap, clap*

11/21

2006-11-21T09:25:00.000-08:00

Ugh...the babe is sick and has to go to the doctor before we all get on a plane tomorrow headed West. My Mom, Dad, Zac, and I are all going to Seattle to celebrate Thanksgiving. It's the first time that my extended family on my Mom's side will have the chance to meet Zac, in all of his coughing, snot-nosed glory.

That scene is fun to imagine: Me, handing my pride and joy over to my Great Aunt and Uncle, Him, coughing and crying. Them, quickly handing him back to me, assured that I only procreate sickly children.

Good times, good times.

11/20

2006-11-20T07:07:00.000-08:00

I'm back. I didn't really go away, just took a little break from my obsessive internet posting/reading/stalking to live- blissfully unaware of all things outside of my happy circle.

Things are going really well with Mr. Tugboat (neurotic, "OMG, something bad is going to happen with this and I'm going to die a bitter, miserable woman, all alone" feelings aside. On the bright side, the frequency that I have those feelings of panic are greatly reducing in number. I might be actually - gasp - adjusting to being in a functional relationship.) I'm happy with him and I find myself wanting to spend time with him whenever he's on land. He works for four days on the boats and then has four days off. Those four days with him are usually a blur of juggling kids (mine and his), personal time, work obligations, and hyped-up personal grooming. Since when do I feel the need to shower twice a day? Or shave at least once? Or obsessively use body products? Fresh and new is a lot of work. Give me an old and comfortable relationship any day.

Fortunately, I get four days off from dating where I return to my normal state of disrepair and personal neglect. I fart frequently, grow out my leg hair, and refuse to pluck or wax any body part. Zac also gets me to himself for four days in a row, although he seems to like hanging out with Mr. Tugboat. He crawled into his lap the other night to play with a puzzle while I was on the other end of the couch.

For the first time since Mongolia, I'm letting my imagination and heart rule my mind. It's a giddy, heady feeling and I keep waiting for someone to come along and say: "Nope, you can't be happy. You've been doing a really good job of being Miserable in Texas. I want you to stay that way." I'm so good at telling myself that it won't last. That I don't need the complication in my already complicated life. That I'm going to get hurt, AGAIN, and wind up back on this blog complaining about my broken heart. What if I'm wrong though? What if I silence those voices, just for a moment, just a brief second, and let myself actually enjoy this? Whether or not Mr. Tugboat and I work out in the long run isn't the most important thing at this point. I'll still be thankful for the time I had.

That's a beautiful thing.

11/16

2006-11-16T07:38:00.000-08:00

Today when I dropped Zac off at daycare, there were only 6 kids in his classroom. Which left me wondering: "Where in the hell did the other 8 kids go?" Clearly, I need to talk to the staff.

As for Montessori schools, Aunt Jen and I went to one when we were little. For me, it was a daycare/preschool. It was more of an elementary school experience for her until the school started going ultra-religious. We started praying every couple of hours in class and my Mom says that I came home with a story once about "laying our hands" on a student that had done something wrong. Apparently, a bunch of 3-4 year-olds were praying for the soul our wayward classmate. I'm guessing that I was picking my nose and lifting my dress up during that activity.

When we went into public school, I was 4 and went into 1st grade. My sister was 7 and went into 4th grade. I had to repeat a year because my motor skill development was behind (sound familiar? oh, the irony!). I couldn't cut straight or draw in a straight line and my feet didn't touch the floor when I was sitting at my desk. That last reason was clearly some 'short-kid discrimination' that I've never fully gotten over...Anyways, my first grade teacher found out how old I was and freaked out. I was put in her classroom for the first part of the day and was sent to a kindergarten classroom for the second half.

All I remember from kindergarten was getting to wear one of my Dad's old long sleeve shirts to paint in. The teacher had to roll up the sleeves 6-7 times on each arm and the shirt went all the way down to my ankles. I felt so safe in my Dad's shirt. Kindergarten was full of painting, cooking, coloring, and playing with kids that I ended up going all the way through high school with. At the beginning of the next school year, I had to repeat 1st grade over, even though I could already read and write. On the bright side, I am an excellent scissor-wielder and my juvenile delinquency didn't seem to have any adverse affects on my social or academic development.

I don't remember much from Montessori school. By the time I was in second grade, I was pretty much equal to my peers. I could still reader faster than the other kids, but I learned how to hide it better. In 5th grade, I tested into a G.A.T.E. classroom, which is the epitome of academic tracking. G.A.T.E. stands for Gifted And Talented Education. The aim of the program was to challenge and prepare' us for junior high school while still attending our regular elementary school. Not surprising, all of the G.A.T.E. students immediately went into 7th grade honors classes and then into high school Advanced Placement classes. All of the kids in the AP classes went onto four-year college, even though most of the other kids in my graduating class didn't.

So, if it seems like I take education of young kids seriously, that's why. I was tracked and escorted all the way through my public school education. It wasn't until I got to college that I realized that it didn't matter if you went to public or private school, if you were in an AP or IB program, or if your high school was a magnet school for math and science. It didn't matter how much money your parents had in their bank account. Those things weren't good indicators of academic success. What really matter the most was how hard someone studied and how much time they devoted to school work, rather than -say- acquiring a taste for beer (something that I master by the end of my first year).

I'd be lying, though, if I didn't acknowledge that studying was a hell of lot easier for me because I had been "preparing" for college since the 5th grade.

11/15

2006-11-15T11:16:00.000-08:00

If I had a quarter for everytime I started a question with the phrase, "Am I a bad Mom if...", I might have about $2.50. That's only because I usually keep those thoughts to myself rather than inflicting them on helpless strangers and acquaintances. My good friends know better than to let me complete any thought that starts out with that question because then they feel obliged to shout out, "No. You're a GREAT Mom!!" whether I really am or not.

Yesterday I realized that I was looking forward to Zac going to preschool and elementary school so he would get a chance to learn more during the day. About midway through that realization, I started getting a little worked up. I don't have to accept Zac's current daycare situation. "There must be something better out there," I rationalized.

His large chain daycare center watches 132 children, although the sign on the door from the fire department states that the max occupancy for the building is 102. Zac's "classroom" is in the middle of a large room divided with mobile walls and knee-high bookcases. It's a little like a toddler coral in a big kid rodeo. Fortunately, all of the kids in his class are shorter than the bookcases, so they probably don't even notice the other world of activity occuring 3 feet above the ground. There also most likely too busy sitting on each other and dodging large push toys to really pay attention to much else. There are 14 kids and 1 teacher coralled in a space (I swear I'm not making this up) approximately 10' x 15'. Each kid gets about one square foot of space, which is the legal state limit for both space and student to teacher ratio. 1 teacher is responsible for the emotional, physical, and developmental well-being of every child in her class.

I couldn't even keep the butts clean of 14 children, let alone manage their development. I'm just not happy with his daycare situation. He doesn't come home with many bruises and he's obviously being well-fed there, as his large Budda belly indicates. Every morning, he greets his teacher with a big smile and sometimes even throws his arms out to her so she can take him from my arms. He's clearly a favorite among the large, chain daycare staff and gets more attention than most of the other kids. For the "privilege" of going to work five days a week, 9 hours a day, I pay over $7,000 annually for someone else to watch my kid in a space smaller than most full-size SUVs.

Am I a bad Mom for wanting more?

I started researching other daycare options in Houston. Good Lord! I had no idea that Montessori schools were only for the rich and that any facility that puts an emphasis on education feels empowered to charge twice the amount of a daycare. There are tuitions at state universities in this country that cost less than these places. $900 - $1100 per month? Sure, I have an extra eleven grand or so floating around my checking account. Please, feel free to pillage all my money and ensure that I'll never be able to afford a downpayment on a house. That would be great. Oh, I'll make it easy for you and just give you my entire checkbook. That will save me the inconvenience of manually signing over my paycheck to you each month.

At least when you're in college you can get government-subsidized loans. Can I get a loan for daycare? Zac can do some puzzles and doesn't bite, can that qualify him for a merit-based scholarship?

11/14

2006-11-14T07:24:00.000-08:00

The-Child-That-Does-Not-Sleep finally went to sleep last night. He cried so hard before he passed out that for the first hour of slumber he had those giant hitches in his breath, where his lower lip gets sucked into mouth like a tire flap on an eighteen wheeler, from being asleep and still contemplating crying. Zac and I both slept through the night. When I woke up this morning, I realized how rare that was for me. I blame Zac for a lot of my fatigue, but really, I have my own sleeping issues. Months of getting up 2-3 times a night have trained my bladder that it really wants to be emptied at 2am or my subconscious that wants to be reassured that everything really is all safe and sound in the apartment.

It also helps that the weather is thinking about breaking. Today's high is 8o-ish degrees, which is still way, way too hot for mid-November. At night, my apartment gets down to 68-70 degrees. It feels like a cool glass of lemonade after the summer of sweat sleeping at 82 degrees.

My electricity bill is also dropping rapidly with the temperature. I'm no longer worried about leaving my cat in the apartment without cracking open a window and I don't wake up in a tangled mess of wet sheets and pillows. It's not all birds and sunshine over here, but at least I'm not cursing the morning for coming so damn early.

It's amazing what a good night's sleep can do for your perspective.

11/13

2006-11-13T07:51:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure how many times my alarm went off this morning or how many times I had to get up out of bed to go to Zac last night. It was a lot, that's all I really know.

It started around 11:30pm last night when I heard the first sounds of a baby stirring. Well, screaming at the top of his lungs and throwing himself against the bars of his crib is a more fitting description. I went to him, asked Mr. Tugboat to move his leg over, and brought Zac into bed with the large tattoed man. Zac just laid there in my arms looking up at the Mr., then smiling at me, and looking up at him. I put him back to bed where he slept for about another hour. Then he woke up again. I went to him. Apologized to Mr. Tugboat. Tried to go back to sleep.

Can you see the pattern developing?

I'm not sure if the Mr. will ever agree to spend the night again with The-Child-That-Does-Not-Sleep. He had to wake up this morning at 5am to drive back down south to Port of Houston to board his tugboat by 8am. When my alarm went off, I thought I was going to have to peel him off the ceiling. I have - how can I put this? - an alarm that would wake the dead. Mr. Tugboat said that when the alarm went off that he started looking around for the fire extinguisher instead of the snooze button.

I think he left around 6am or so, but I can't guarantee that. I was so tired from the crying, the cuddling, the Orajel and infant Tylenol, and the alarms. So many alarms. I finally dragged my butt out of bed around 7:30am this morning and impressed myself by making it into the office at 8:05am. Oh, yes, I love living close to where I work.

So, Mr. Tugboat has seen the blog now. I kept referencing it in various ways, which made me appreciate, even more, people that choose NOT to tell their intimate partners or close friends about the existence of an online journal where you tell strangers about your personal life. How exactly do you do that again? He said that he's only been able to read the entries and comments about him and he would like to thank everyone that told me I should stop freaking out and overanalyzing the situation.

So, yeah, I like him. I like spending time with him and his son and seeing what a great Dad he is. I think he's great in general. Really, he could be too good. He could be an alien from outerspace or a convicted felon in five states, but that's just me overthinking the situation.

11/09-2

2006-11-09T20:24:00.000-08:00

My day actually did end up getting better. Forced productivity at work probably had something to do with it, although I also credit Aunt Jen for writing about running into the FOB...

11/09

2006-11-09T06:47:00.000-08:00

When people ask me about single parenting, I usually tell them my 90% theory. 90% of the time, I love parenting by myself. 90% of the days, I look into Zac's face, see him reach out for me, and melt into a pile of single parent mush on the floor. 90% of the time, I'll sneak into his room at night - just to make sure that he hasn't kicked off the thin blanket that I use to cover his feet in his crib and that he's not laying on one of the books I let him "read" before he falls asleep. I love my son and the connection I have with him as his primary caregiver.

Then there are the 10% days.

Last night, Zac cried non-stop from 5pm - 7pm. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with him or why he was crying. So many times lately, that's the case. I hold him - he cries. I put him down- he cries. I hide on the stairs where he can't see me - he cries. Then I cry.

I used to never cry (and I blame my therapist for my renewed connection to something called 'human emotions'. Bastard. It's hard to really buy into the whole 90% theory while trying to clean the catbox, do the dishes, make dinner, and pacify a screaming child.)

I'm starting to feel like I can't do it anymore. People tell me, "It will get so much better as he gets older," or, "This too shall pass," and I can rationally understand that, it's just that my heart tells me that I've been alone, as a parent, for the past 27 months. I'm tired. I keep searching to find what I need, but I'm not sure how to keep putting one foot in front of each other. On nights like last night, I feel like Zac and I are in the exact same place: we know that we need something, we just can't figure out what it is.

The contract employer is really pushing me hard to reach these tight deadlines, but I can't even think about opening my laptop until Zac is in bed asleep around 8pm. Last night he didn't go to sleep until 8:45pm and I passed out around 9:30pm. I'm just so tired all the time and even though I know that it isn't true, it feels like everything that I do for Zac is wrong. If I could get inside his head and decode those screams, to figure out why he's not eating dinner anymore or doesn't want to play with any of his toys, I would.

When he woke up this morning at 6am, he screamed all the way through my shower, getting dressed, and walking out the door. He was still screaming when I dropped him off at daycare.

This is life at 10%.

11/08

2006-11-08T06:59:00.000-08:00

I had heard about things like "polling lines" before, I had just never actually encountered them. I pulled into the Baptist church parking lot to cast my vote and saw the line of people snaking out the door. (As an aside, let me say that nothing reiterates the philosophy of 'Separation of Church and State' better than a smiling portrait of Jesus looking benevolently down on you as you try to figure out the new electronic voting machines. These things make make MP3 players look easy to operate. It's nice to know that the state that won the Constitutional right to hang stone tablets (!) of the Ten Commandments in criminal courthouses hasn't given up on the idea of making sinners (those that vote Democratic) repent.)

Back to the story, though. So, I parked, got out of my car, and wandered over to the line, trying my best to avoid all of the volunteers encouraging everyone to, "VOTE KINKY!" I asked some of the people in line how long they had been waiting. My heart sank when I heard answers like, "2 1/2 hours" or, "I don't know. I sat down and rested in some of the pews for a while, then I got up, now I'm here. I don't know how long I've been here." A woman 32 weeks pregnant joked that her kid started out as a zygote when she started waiting to vote. It was that bad.

I had to weasel my way into the church to talk to the Head Voting Clerk. HVC was clearly having a bad day. His polling station only had 10 new voting machines for the entire zip code. Each zip code, or voting district in this circumstance, only had one polling location. There are 28,661 people in my voting district. If I had to estimate, I would say that approximately 85% of those were waiting to use those 10 machines. The HVC was sweating profusely and trying to quell the dissension among the angry voters. He wasn't too happy when I finally got a chance to talk to him and told him that I needed to fill out a Change of Address form.

I registered to vote in Texas when I lived at my parents' house. I never changed it because I'm lazy and I wasn't really sure if I was going to stay in my apartment very long. I thought I could just go to any district and vote. HA! Little did I know. The HVC informed me that I could fill out a nice little green form and then vote next year.

Good thing I researched the Texas voting procedures before I went church. I told him that I'd be happy to fill out the nice little green form and then he could give me my provisional ballot. "Ahh...yes," he murmed, "You CAN fill out a provisional ballot on voting day. No one ever does that." With a raised eyebrow and a cyncial expression, I thought, "Well, that's probably because you don't tell them about it because it makes your job harder. Now leave me in peace do to my patriotic duty before I consider trying to hack into your voting database and unanimously elect Chris Bell."

Provisional ballots are the craziest idea in voting since the Electoral College. Basically, because I changed my official place of residence without sufficient notice to the Secretary of State, I got a, "We'll count your vote if we feel like it" ballot, better known as a Provisional Ballot. The notice I received as I walked out the door assured me (in English and Vietnamese, but not Spanish) that, "A determination whether your ballot will be counted will be made by the early voting ballot board after the election. The notice will be mailed to you no later than the 10th day after the local canvass which is scheduled between 8 and 11 days after the election."

So I should find out whether or not my vote was counted between the 18th and the 21st day after I voted, or when the cow jumps over the moon and the next dawning of the Age of Aqarius draw near, whichever comes first.

This state rocks. The ironic thing is that I'll actually get to find out whether or not my vote was counted whereas everyone else that waited in line for the chance to spin the little wheels on the new voting machines will just have to wonder.

11/07

2006-11-07T07:09:00.000-08:00

Election Day - the day were we all get to go out and participate in the legislative process of the government. Here in Texas, it might as well be called, "The Day We Scare the Crap Out of Every Living, Breathing American, Amen and Praise Jesus".

I've never lived somewhere that used such excessive scare tactics to persuade voters. The hot-button issue, of course, being immigration. I would have liked to have been in the room when the Republicans came up with the idea of building a fence between the border of Mexico and the United States. I imagine the conversation probably went something like:
__________
White Guy A: "Even though the Southern economy would completely collapse without under-paid immigrant labor, we need to find a way to signal that we, as God-fearing Republicans, are TOUGH on illegal immigration."

White Guy B: "I showed my neighbor I was serious about kicking his dog's ass next time he crapped in my yard by building a fence. Then I got Charlton Heston to come over and personal autograph my 'Right to Bear Arms' poster in my driveway just to show that I MEAN BUSINESS"

White Guy A: "So what you're telling me is, you built a fence and then started patroling the fence with personal fire arms and small munitions? That's genius, but, wait, don't these guys already do that for us?

White Guy B: "Well, there are nearly as cool as the National Guard. Nothing says WE MEAN BUSINESS like getting armed service men and women involved to patrol our fence. Let's not forget, the Berlin Wall kept those dirty commies out for twenty eight years. I bet we could do better than that."

White Guy A: "*shuddering* Well, I'm not proposing building a wall. Just a fence. You can see through a fence, but you know what would be really great, is if we built not only one fence, but three fences! in a row!! Then maybe booby-trapped the area in between the fences and had some snipers on stand-by in the hills, just to take potshots at the folks trying to enter our country."

White Guy B: "Amen and Praise Jesus. The truth has been spoken and it is righteous. Now, I need to be gettin' goin'. I'm fixin' to buy some meth and have hire a male prostitute before dinner. "
_________

That's just one of the issues that politicians in the Lone Star state like to get everyone riled up about. Let's not forget trying to scare people into believing that their PROPERTY TAXES WILL GO UP! or YOUR CHILDREN WILL BE EATING TAINTED MEAT AND E-COLI LADEN SPINACH IN THE SCHOOL CAFETERIA! if you don't vote.

Also, am I the only person that thinks it's weird that an organization dedicated to providing "non-partisan information for voters...so that votes can be based on issues rather than on personalities and popularity," only has issue stances for the incumbent, gubernatorial candidate, Rick Perry? That's weird, right?

Well, I'm not scared to rock the boat, even if the worst thing they can call him is a "gay-loving, anti-corruption, Washington liberal". Amen and Praise Jesus. Go out and vote.

11/5

2006-11-05T19:23:00.000-08:00

I've calmed down about Mr. Tugboat. Yes, there was and is a lot of chemistry between he and I, but it was more about my own insecurities than him. I thought maybe it was going to be the fairy tale romance, the kind that seems to exist for other people, but hasn't crossed my path yet.

I went over to his place on Saturday with Zac. For the time being, he rents a room at a bed and breakfast, while he's saving up to put a down payment on a condo. It's hard having a screaming toddler in one room with no where to put him down for the nap that he so desperately needed. Tugboat said that seeing Zac and I together made him miss his son and made him realize that he's ready to move into something with more than one room.

I ended up driving Zac back to my Mom and Dad's house just so the other tenants in Mr. Tugboat's house wouldn't think that I was torturing my poor son. Tuggie came in and met my parents, which I'm sure was quite a surprise for them. Not only hadn't I told them the name of the guy I was dating, I hadn't mentioned his age or that his sexy salt-n-pepper hair makes him look older than his 32 years. My Dad didn't go that gray until 40+ so I could seem them mentally trying to calculate his age. I think he made a good impression with the rents by immediately talking about cars with my Dad and complimenting the house with my Mom.

I wanted the awkward situation to end so I grabbed some clothes and we headed out to dinner at a Mexican restaurant. Over chips and queso, I asked him if he was talking to anyone else on-line. He said he was talking to 4 other women, but he only dates one at a time.

That's me.

It's strange being on the other side of the table when those words are spoken. I've dated more than one person at once, or dated someone while being interested in another, moving quickly from person to person. I'm just not in that place right now. I would like to take the time to invest in a relationship, to give it time and space to grow, to see if it's right rather than trying to juggle the feelings of multiple people.

At the restaurant, I was quiet, trying to not show my disappointment. He read through it. He grabbed my hand and told me not to be sad. He saw that I was trying to smile, but that it wasn't as genuine as it was before he said those words. We left the restaurant and even though my mood was dampened, it helped to know that he was checking the fringes of the relationship for something better. At least then I know that if the relationship fails, it won't necessarily be because of me.

11/4

2006-11-04T06:50:00.000-08:00

Time(s) that Zac woke me up this morning: 12:30am, 3am (when he fell off the bed), and 6:30am (when he decided to wake up for the day)

Number of things that I've been hit with this morning: 2

Hours that I wished Zac would lay down for a nap: 3

Amount that the vet. charged me for an annual exam and procedure for Honey: $395

Number of times that I've freaked out about money in the past two days: 5
_______

I feel like it might be a long weekend.

11/2

2006-11-02T07:09:00.000-08:00

So...a couple people have been asking about my (lack of) love life recently. I stopped writing about it right around the time that the crazy-ex started harassing me and R.(Blakken) and I stopped dating. That was about six weeks ago and the gala was back in early October, or roughly three-and-a-half weeks ago. I decided then to take a step back from dating.

Sure, I went on a couple of dates. I went on a date with a guy that talked about his Porsche so much that he even sent me a picture of the vehicle before our date (that should have been the first clue that the wasn't the one for me - and, no, I'm not joking, this is the actual picture)

but he was from South Africa and had the cutest accent so it was dinner, a ride in the said Porsche, and then back to my parents' house. That's it.

I also met a man that works at Tiffany's while getting his second master's degree. I had to go into the store to pick up some gifts for the gala so I asked if B. was working that day. It was my first time actually in the showroom, although I had checked out their stuff on-line while shopping for these gifts. B. was working and he took a break to show me around, introducing to me to e.v.e.r.y.o.n.e that worked there and showed me the really expensive jewelry that they don't usually let people touch. Ah...I touched it. It was good.

The kicker is that I'm allergic to metal, well, to nickel to be more specific. Certainly, as my face can testify, I'm also allergic to the chemicals in hair dye and sensitive to mosquito and fire ant bites. Needless to say, showing me a gallery full of gleaming metal and stones isn't really the way to my heart. I can appreciate their beauty, but can't really see myself incorporating it into my life. B. later asked me out to his company dinner.

Then I met, Mr. Tugboat. Mr. Tugboat works as a Merchant Marine, which actually isn't a part of the armed forces, although their union in regulated by the Coast Guard. As I understand it, he drives tugboats - and he really likes it. He used to drive the really big boats when he worked for deep sea companies, but it kept him away from his son too long (and we all know that I don't want to date another Deep Sea Diver/Driver again). He has a five year-old son that he shares custody of with this ex.

He and I went out on Friday night to, "A quiet place where we can talk," aka: Chili's, on his suggestion. We didn't want the evening to end, so dinner led to a movie, which lead to hanging out and seeing where he lived. I laughed and had a great time. Really, it was the best first date I've gone out on in such a long time. I had forgotten how much fun dating someone and getting to know them could be.

We left the next day to go and drive his tugboat for four days in the Houston/Galveston Channel and came back into town yesterday. We ordered pizza, played with Zac, and watched tv (well, I tried to watch tv, he was trying hard to distract me). It was great. Just so much fun that I have a stupid grin on my face this morning.

So much so, that I feel like I'm going to fuck it up. I can't really be into someone this much and he can't really like me as much as he seems to. I'm so scared of actually liking someone that I have to keep telling myself to be cautious, to wait until he earns my trust, to take one day at a time, which is what my Mom keeps telling me to do.

I'm trying. That's all I can say. I'm trying.

11/01

2006-11-01T07:48:00.000-08:00

I was told in no uncertain terms that I was supposed to take pictures of the Halloween festivities. So, I took pictures:

This is a partial shot pile of kids at the Halloween party last night at the Sarcastic Journalist's house. Ellie was clawing frantically to get away from the group, using those cute pink boots to their full advantage: As SJ says in today's post, at her house there were: seven kids under 4 years old, four frantic Moms trying to keep the kids from stepping/crawling over each other, one laid back Dad that wanted to talk about Zombies and drink pumpkin beer, and one single, kidless guy that vowed to use condoms for the rest of his life. Nothing says 'use more birth control' like a big ol' pile of kids.

My munchkin went as a duck, seen here in the rare moment that he let me keep his hood on:

Really, he was dang cute. Even if the stupid kids at Jack-in-the-Box on the way to the Whitelands kept calling him a chicken. Clearly, he is a baby duck - NOT A CHICKEN!

Today, I'm all sore, achy, and itchy. It was 80 degrees and very humid last night when we went out trick-or-treating in SJ's hood. Very few of the houses (even those with Halloween decorations!) were passing out candy. Zacster was in his stroller and I was in my work clothes, sweating from standing in the sticky night air. I was stupid and stopped at a fast food restaurant for lunch yesterday on my way back from meeting with my contract employers. Yep, I'm now working full-time at one place and writing for another place. Sleep is overrated.

Unfortunately, it took us an hour and a half to drive 30 miles up to the Whitelands last night. Zac had a meltdown in the backseat: he was hungry and tired. I had to stop and get him so food so I pulled into yet another fast food place. I wanted to get to the party so instead of feeding him dinner at the restaurant, I gave him his burger and some fries in his carseat. He went nuts. It looks like there was a bread massacre in my back seat.

I guess I should have heeded the warning:

10/31

2006-10-31T06:47:00.000-08:00

I thought about writing an entire post about what it was like to watch Zac, sitting in front of the television last night, diaperless, pooping out an incredibly firm, greenish-colored pile of turds. With dawning horror, I watched as he lifted up a buttcheek, reached out to grab some shit off the top of the pile and was mere seconds away from putting it in his mouth before I stopped him, shrieking, "Zac, Zac, Zac, Noooooooo. Don't do that!......It's ok. It's ok. Stop crying. Momma didn't mean to yell at you, you just can't eat your own poop - or anyone else's poop. Just never eat poop, ok?"

It was Precious Moments figurine waiting to happen.

I wanted to blog about this, but then I read an - I'll call it an article for lack of better word - yesterday that made me reevaluate my decision to participate in "mommyblogging". The author of the work asserts that:

"Earlier I suggested that the typical mommyblogger may be too attached to the money to quit now, but that’s only partially true. In reality, I think it’s the attention mommybloggers crave and they’re so firmly addicted to it that they’ll sacrifice their child’s privacy and well being if it will help them reach Internet Prom Queen status a little quicker. Let me just stress that point a little because it seems a lot of you are missing it; your children have a right to privacy. They have a right to have stories of their own to tell, if and when they decide to tell them. "

It's a sad state of affairs that I don' t generate any revenue from this site. There are no ads here, which isn't a judgement on any other blogger of web designer that utilizes blog ads. It just hasn't really been something that I've considered important, although I reserve the right to totally and completely change my mind at my own whim - and to potentially fund a trip to the Bahamas.

The larger issue here is whether or not children are guaranteed an inalienable right to privacy. They can't assert their own rights, but rights are meant to protect the very individuals that specifically can't assert their own will. We don't assign our children the right to even have a will of their own until they reach certain developmental milestones - like say college graduation. Certainly, no lawsuits have ever been filed by the tween set demanding monetary compensation for emotional damages wrought at the tender age of 3 when Mommy told the grocery checkout cashier that you like to poop in the bathtub.

Writers have been writing about their children for hundreds of years: the embarassing, the touching, the funny moments that only parents remember because their children are too young to create their own memories. Blogging is a whole other animal, though. "Mommyblogging" explodes the size differential between an embarassing story told to a casual acquaintance and a story published on the internet. Almost every day I document something that Zac did or said (or tried to point and grunt at). Have I doomed Zac to a horrendous pubescent period full of bullying and cruel taunts of "Shiteater!"? The author of the article seems to think so. She argues that mommybloggers are irresponsible in our writing because none of us, in her mind, have considered the Big Picture involving the consequences of our actions on our children.

I hope for the sake of humanity, the "Big Picture," as she says, doesn't start and end at junior high school. She writes that, "The enemas, the boogers, all the cute little stories that you realize are just a part of growing up will turn into weapons in which to humiliate and objectify your children." It's interesting that she assumes a child will be humiliated by his peers when they find out he had his rectal temperature taken or once used an Oreo to cover his entire face in cookie crumbles. Hell yes, Zac and I will need to have a talk about my confessional blog about Motherhood before someone stumbles on it (like his English teacher or the freakishly large 13 year-old with a chip on his shoulder), but what junior high school student will really care about Zac's ringworm and the allergice reaction on my face that caused a burning ring of fire? Not any that I can think of.

All I can say is that in my version of the Big Picture, my blog will be a small portion of my son's history. As he gets older, he will have his own stories to tell as he moves further and further toward establishing his own identity and personality. When he's an adult, I hope that he can look back on this writing and see me as a falliable, caring woman that struggled with depression and weight loss, made mistakes as a human, a woman, and a Mom, and loved him, every day, as much as I possibly could.

For now, the shit stories will continue.

10/30-2

2006-10-30T08:23:00.000-08:00

I always knew that I was special:

According to the website: How Many of There are Me there is no one else in America with my first and last name. There are 0 people with my first name (thanks Mom and Dad!) and 224,976 people that I share a last name with. I wish I knew about this website in college when a lot of drunk women kept asking me if a famous movie star was my Dad (he's not). Nor do I have any 1980's rockstars, guitar makers, or ceramic potters in the immediately family. So stop asking.

There is one other person that has the last name as me, that includes an extra "n" in her name. There are 16 people that were fortunate enough to spell my first name with an "i" instead of the non-vowel known as "y" that populates my first name.

Personally, though, I love the y in my name. I guess now I have definitive proof that that different is sometimes better.

10/30

2006-10-30T06:45:00.000-08:00

I was tagged by Caroline in the City, who asked for me to write about five truths in my life. The only problem with this assignment is that I have very few absolute "truths". The things that I think are constants tend to shift with time and my perspective on them. So, I'll write what is true at this moment and be content with that.

1) Zac was in a foul mood this morning because I couldn't play with him and get ready for work simultaneously. If I could have one superpower, it would be the ability to blow dry my hair/brush my teeth/ make oatmeal/ put together a bottle or do any other assortment of tasks while magically giving Zac what he needs to stop tantrums in their tracks at 7:15am. For those of you that suggest that I just walk away and let him find something to entertain himself, well, I've been trying. He's patient enough to throw a pretty decent tantrum. By the time I dropped him off at daycare, I was in a foul mood: angry at him, at myself for being angry with him, and frustrated in general.

2) I'm considered selfish by my family members. That knowledge affects my decisions and actions on a daily basis.

3) Diet Coke tastes better out of a bottle than it does out of a can. American Diet Coke even tastes better than the sickly sweet French version, "Coca Lite".

4) I left Peace Corps, on my own terms, after they threatened to investigate a potential medical fraud claim. I saw a therapist in college my senior year and didn't disclose that in my "Health Screening Questionnaire". I went three times to go and talk to a graduate student who really didn't help much, so I didn't really consider it "therapy" as much as "a waste of time". After keeping me in a hospital for seven days, I was told that my depression was a known condition that I had willingly try to hide from the U.S. Government. They said that if I left, they would not pursue the investigation and I could apply for a Workers' Compensation claim that would cover my medical expenses and treatment for depression. I left on November 9, 2003. I still dream in Mongolian and in my dreams I can see the village where I lived for over a year.

5) This time of year is always hard for me because of #4. I dated a man in Mongolia, another Peace Corps Volunteer. He called me this weekend and we laughed. He's coming to Dallas soon and I would like to drive up to see him. I haven't seen him since I left Peace Corps. He's married now and I have a child. We are still the same people, though. I guess not all that much really changes.

I now tag the IPJ (who would see that food CAN BE art if he checked out my new Flickr photos), My New Shoes (because I think she's great as well), Aunt Jen, Pamyllia, and Blakken

10/28

2006-10-28T20:51:00.000-07:00

Things that I've learned over the past week:

1) Never, ever, under any circumstances beyond self-flaggelation, take a laxative after spending the evening drinking beer. You will wake up every two hours with the worst pain you have ever felt outside of child birth and spend the rest of the next day pooping.

2) It's not that I thought that I couldn't cry anymore (after all, I sobbed when I ripped the passenger side mirror off my car in my parking garage), it's just that I thought I was more numb than I actually am. I've been on Z*oloft for three years now (since I returned from Mongolia). I cried almost everyday when I was pregnant. Immediately following Zac's birth, I cried at least three times a day until the horrendous hormonal change and intense fear tapered off, then the tears only came once or twice a month. Lately, I haven't cried at all, even when I've wanted to (don't ask - sometimes I just want to get it out, ya know?).

3) Within ten minutes of sitting across from my new therapist, I was sobbing in his office.

4) Literally sobbing and apologizing, then crying some more because I'm apologizing for having emotions in front of a stranger, which is ridiculous. If anything, I think that I should start releasing more of my emotions in front of strangers. At least they can't fight back.

5) If I was being "sensitive to myself", I would say that, "Therapy allows me the emotional space to cry," which makes me want to vomit alittle. Now I know why I don't say things like that. I prefer to say, "Therapists make me cry," because it puts the blame on them.

6) Leaving my apartment for four days to go and stay with my parents, without planning ahead or even thinking that I would be gone that long, makes my apartment stink up with a combination of banana peels, rotten diapers and soured milk. I opened the door and understood where the phrase, "the smell of death," came from. I can replicate that smell with four days of neglect.

7) Zac turns a frightening shade of green when he has an upset stomach and his temperature reaches 104 degrees. It also turns out that an oral thermometer can go up my kid's bumhole when an after-hours nurse forces me to put it there. My Mom just kept saying, "I'm going to have to buy another thermometer."

10/27

2006-10-27T13:11:00.000-07:00

Much more to say about the day (and about my annoying tendency to rhyme unintentionally). Nevertheless, I'm rushing out the door. I just wanted to you all to go over and say hello to R.

R. is the one that took me to the gala and managed to leave with my cell phone. He's the tall, cute guy over there on my Flickr page. He just started a blog and I want to encourage him on this endeavor (because he says that I forced him to)

I don't think that there are enough male bloggers in the world. Plus the guy is a single parent to four teenaged kids, so you know that he's going to have some interesting stories! There are only so many ways that I can sound interesting while begging Zac to walk. Really, there are times when I even bore myself.

So, what are you waiting for? Go over and show him some love because we all know that I haven't been able to recently.

10/26

2006-10-26T10:55:00.000-07:00

Do you remember this photo?That's me...in the hotel room before my baby shower, hugely pregnant at seven months. I look big enough to kick the ass (well, ok, at least sit on and injure) anyone that crossed my path. Walking around Lowe*s to get supplies for Zac's nursery was an event that caused me to reconsider A) whether I should go out in public or not and B) whether I should use an electric wheelchair in stores larger than some industrialized nations. '

Looking at this picture makes me remember why I was so miserable my last trimester.

It's shocking to think that I want another child.

Fortunately, I get to experience pregnancy and child birth vicariously with one of these women that attended my baby shower:

She's expecting and I'm glad that I'm not that big anymore.

10/25

2006-10-25T19:54:00.000-07:00

So, it wasn't that I meant to write about how much I like reading blogs in the morning and then not write on my blog in the morning...it's just that....well, I didn't feel good. I woke up with a migraine and an intensely seriously need to vacate my bowels.

Let me back up. Remember when I said that Zac had ringworm - ON HIS BUTT?! Well, last Saturday, I started getting a ring-of-fire rash on my cheek. It itched and I scratched it. Until it itched some more and started oozing. Then I freaked out because, "OMG - I have ringworm ON MY FACE!" As Dee told me via e-mail, "I know your son's butt is cute and all, but you need to stop rubbing your face on your child's ass." Yuck. That's all I have to say to that. Well, that and: yuckyuckyuckyuckyuck.

So I went to the doctor to show her the said flesh-eating rash. Good news, it's not ringworm. Bad news - it is an allergic reaction to hair dye, which has been exascerbated by stress. My doc was actually all very concerned about my stress level. I've been having cramps in my lower abdomen area, which in all pratical purposes is my uterus. It feels like my uterus is cramping into a hard ball and then uncramping. Again and again.

The kind doc, that looked like she was maybe two years older than me, had me lay down and then proceeded to press on my various parts of my belly. Did it hurt under the ribcages? Nope, didn't hurt there. By my belly button? Nope, not there either. Right above my pubic bone? DING - DING - DING. That's the sweet spot that made me cry out in a discomforting, "Ugggggh...stop pushing there!"

I was given a cup and told to go pee in it.

That felt very, very familiar.

Good news - I'm not pregnant and I don't have a urinary tract infection.

Bad news - the source of my cramps might be digestive and she prescribed me laxatives that would make a large elephant crap himself for days. I spent the morning pooping and holding my head. Then pooping some more. If that doesn't make the pain away, I'm supposed to get an ex-ray (edited to note: apparently even my x-rays get their hearts broken and they become ex-rays. They, much like me, probably aren't having much sex either) and a very large bucket...

10/24-2

2006-10-24T09:30:00.000-07:00

A joke from a Mom's Calendar on my desk at work:

"What a Northern Mom says:

If you can't say something nice about someone then don't say anything at all!"

"What a Southern Mom says:

Her hair is such a ratted mess, bless her heart"
________________________

You may have had to experience life in the South to fully appreciate this humor, but let me tell you, I laughed at loud. The joke reminded me of the time when I bought new strappy sandals for wearing to work. I showed them to my boss' boss, a fashionista in her own, Texas-way, who said so sweetly with a drawl, "Why NSP...those are very cute new shoes that you have there. Now all you need to do is get those toenails done and you will be fit for show"

Literally, the words, "fit for show" were thrown in my direction in response to my UNPAINTED toenails.

I love Texas.

10/24

2006-10-24T07:07:00.000-07:00

Every morning, I come into work, put my bag down, put my lunch and snacks in the refrigerator (yes, I am a six year-old who needs snacks throughout the day to stay reasonably sane), and turn on my computer. From there, I heat up my oatmeal and log-on. I go to my blog first (to see if I have any new comments. Did I mention that I'm obsessive about comments?) then I click on the links on my blogroll to catch up with the lives of other bloggers that I've come to know and depend on.

Without fail, I always check the bloggers that I know update every night. The Sarcastic Journalist, Officially a Mom, and Woulda Coulda Shoulda are perfect examples of that. They complete my morning with their regularity because the Good Lord knows that nothing else is regular about me or my blogging. After reading them for awhile and checking the blogs of my college friends: Wildflower, My New Shoes, Voluable Brat, Horn Dog, and Stone's Throw (and a couple of secret blogs thrown in for spice) to see if they've updated, I start to compose my own blog entry.

Some days, I've been thinking about something to say since the afternoon or night before. Just storing up, thinking about what I'm going to blog about.

Mornings like this, though, I've got nothing.

Sometimes I write only because I want to provide the same satisfaction that I get when I read other people's blog (even if they are only talking about writing on their blog). Later on in the day, when my isolation at work starts to get under my skin and I'm looking around for someone, anyone to talk to, I'll toy with the idea of posting again. Those posts would all sound something like, "HHHHEEEELLLLLPPP! I'm going insane! I want to throw my stupid computer across the room and curl up in a ball under my desk!" (At this point, you should be thankful that I resist mid-afternoon blogging).

So, that's all I've got this morning. Just wanted you all to know that I am thinking about you as you sit down in front of your computers with your coffee, Exotic Chai Tea, Diet Coke, water, or English muffin. Hope you are having a great day!

10/23

2006-10-23T06:48:00.000-07:00

Right after I had Zac, I had this period of mourning for the person (I thought I had) left behind when I held my infant in my arms. I thought that I would never drink beer with abandon again. Never watch a stripper grind against a pole while Def Leppard's song, "Pour Some Sugar on Me" was blaring through the club's loud speakers again. Never spend way too much money on herbal supplements and think about 'colon cleansing' again. I thought that I needed to give up a part (if not all) of myself to be the mother that Zac needed me to be.

I've learned that isn't the case.

I still drink. The strippers and Def Leppard are absent, although that's really for the best most days. The bottle of phylum husks currently on my kitchen counter indicates that I've not completely weaned myself away from spending money on the regulatory functions of my digestive system. Sometimes I even like to pretend that I have the same energy as the 24 year-old woman I was before I learned about Peanut.

When I enter this delusional state, it starts to seem like a good idea to go for a road trip on Saturday, even when I spent all Friday night hunched over wondering if I need to poop or if my uterus is going to explode in a blaze of glory all over my couch (I still haven't figured out where the cramping is coming from). Even my headache and utter fatigue didn't deter me from waking up so very, very early on Saturday morning with Zac, who now thinks that sleeping beyond 7:15am is some kind of mortal sin, and packing for the journey.

I went up to Austin to for-the-love-of-God get away from Houston and meet John Farmer, who told me that I should use his full name in this post, and Carolyn. John Farmer and I walked around the state capital, which is filled with portraits of many, many old white men and large groups of children learning about the state seal. Then we went to the Austin Museum of Art and a restaurant across the street for an early dinner. I was so tired from the three hour drive up to Austin that I seriously considered asking John Farmer to find something else to do for two hours while I slunk back into my car for a nap. I didn't do that though and I was barely able to control the cramping emanating from my lower half and the yawns coming out of my mouth as we made our way to 6th street for a beer.

I called Carolyn and she joined John Farmer and I at a bar called the Dizzy Rooster that boosts a sign above the cash register proclaiming, "Dance on the bar at YOUR OWN RISK!" Normally, that would be my kind of place. After a week of intense stress, though, (from the crazy ex-wife) insomnia (from my own insanity), and a hotter-than-expected day in Austin, I was done. I wanted to go home to my bed in Houston and curl up with a stuffed animal I named Sick Dog. I wanted to be anywhere, but in that bar, trying to talk over the loud music.

Carolyn took me to her house and, for all of the Leonard Cohen fans out there, fed me "tea and oranges that came all the way from China" and exuded a grace and tranquility with her actions, her home, and her life that caused me almost instantly fall into a deep sleep in her guest bedroom. Let it not be said that I'm the best houseguest ever.

I don't mourn the person I left behind when I became "Momma" to a child that wakes up in the middle of the night just to hang out with me. I mourn sleep more. Self-identity be damned, I want a pillow and blankie please.

10/19

2006-10-19T07:32:00.000-07:00

Letters:
________
Dear Zac,

You are 15 1/2 months old now. You are funny, creative, inquisitive, and so amazingly good and throwing a ball that we only give you foam ones to play with because we are afraid for our lives if we give you anything heavier. Please start walking soon. Mommy's getting tired and you are getting so big. Walking is fun! Everyone I know loves to walk - even that kid at Weight Watchers last night that stole your bottle of milk and made you cry. He loves to walk. I think you would like it too. At least then you could chase after milk theives faster.

Love,
Mommy
_________

Dear FR,

I've been thinking a lot about what you commented yesterday regarding "intuition" being used as an excuse to justify racism. As I commented back, I thought about that when I was writing the post and wasn't sure how to address it then. Thank you for calling me out on it and making me reevaluate my words.

The only concrete thing that kept coming to my mind when I mulled over what you had written was that only 20% of violent incidents are commited by strangers. 80% of victims report that they had some kind of relationship with their attacker as: neighbors, coworkers, former bosses, lovers, partners, friends, contract workers, child care providers, doctors, lawyers, priests, pastors, rabbis, clerics, or some combination of all of these. That's a huge statistic. Of course, it's the 20% of cases that get the most media attention. "Senseless," "unthinkable," "abhorrent" acts of violence will keep Americans glued to their tv screens and constantly refreshing their MSN browser. It's the large amount of personal, intimate violence that we can easily dismiss by saying, "There is nothing like that going on in MY family," with the certainty that only people in denial can really muster.

In those cases, I do think it's important to listen to your intuition. If someone that you have to interact with (on a date, when you drop off your kid to daycare, at the dentist's office, when a former coworker gets fired) creeps you out, then it is most likely something more than "nothing". It is valid in those circumstances to listen to what you are feeling.

However, people do need to evaluate their own internalized racism and the legacy of oppression for any kind of difference when thinking about fear out in the public realm. It is racist for a white woman to be afraid to walk next to a black man simply because of his race. Just as it is racist to not board a plane because "suspicious looking Arabs" were planing to board. Wasn't it Jesse Jackson (God help us all!) that said if someone came up behind him at an ATM, he always hoped that it wasn't a young, black man? That shit is totally crazy. The media blows all of these cases up to such huge proportions, that it leads to the (incorrect) assumption that violence is only committed by non-whites living under the 130% of the poverty limit.

So, that's all I've got for now. It's not much. I miss you and your blog. Please keep writing (maybe sharing it) and commenting on here. Please also tell Sebastian to write on his blog. I miss his work as well.

Much love back,
NSP
_________
Dear self,

Next time you want to convince yourself that you look good in a tank top, please remember the pictures from the gala and try to save yourself the embarassment.

_________
Dear blog readers,

I've made my pictures on Flickr' private and taken them down in other forums. I tried to invite everyone that I could to become a "contact" as a friend or family member, but I'm sure I missed some people. I'll be uploaded some new pictures of Zac later on tonight that I want to share. If you want to be added, please e-mail me at notsopregnantintexas@yahoo.com and tell me a little bit about yourself.

Thanks for reading and giving me an outlet for sharing my thoughts.

With fondness,
NSP

10/18

2006-10-18T08:39:00.000-07:00

Who needs reflection and contemplation when jumping to fast conclusions and rash action is waaaaaay more fun? I mean, really. I'm not saying that I'm not upset by having a crazy ex-wife invade my privacy and feeling of safety for myself and Zac, I'm just saying that I feel more centered about it now. I see the changes that I made as part of a larger life decision to live more cautiously and not open myself and my family up to the possibility of violence, as much as I had been.

I was given a book by the Director of Victim Services at my organization called, "The Gift of Fear," by Gavin de Becker. The basic premise is that we all hold the most powerful tool to recognize, react, and respond to danger: our intuition. His book tries to give his readers the confidence to listen to their intuition, gut feelings, premonitions, or whatever else you want to call it. de Becker reasons that it's all the same thing. It's your subconciousness that tells your consciousness, "Listen to me and we have a chance of getting out of this situation. Ignore me and we might be ok, it might turn out to be just fine, but I'm sending out warning flags that maybe it won't be."

There is a story early on in the book that shook me. A woman named Kelly was coming home from the grocery store when her bag split, causing her groceries to roll down the stairs of her apartment building. A man picked up her fallen cans and told her that he would help carry the groceries the rest of the way. Kelly couldn't understand at the time, but something told her that it wasn't right for the man to be in the stairway of her apartment. He seemed like a nice, middle-class, friendly guy, though. He asked to take the bag of groceries so she could open the door to ther apartment. She was now actively worried, but thought that the man was just trying to be a good samaritan, and he chided her about letting her "pride and vanity" rule her life, by not accepting his offer for help.

He raped her for three hours inside her apartment.

After he was finished, he got up, got dressed, closed her bedroom window, and told her that he was going to leave if she laid still. He left the room and she could hear him moving around the kitchen. She knew that she was going to die if she stayed in her bedroom. She ran out her front door and into a neighbor's apartment. She couldn't explain how she knew that he was going to kill her. She said, "It was just a feeling".

De Becker argues that it was more than that. Why would the rapist need to close the window after the attack if he was really going to let her live? Why would he be looking for something in the kitchen if he was planning on leaving? He says that Kelly recognized that there was a disconnect between his words and his actions. Leaving the situation immediately saved her life because she listened.

It's hard for me to look back on my dating (mis)adventures and not see how I fit into this pattern. I've let manipulators tell me that I should trust them, when they haven't earned the trust. I've gone out with men that I didn't feel good about because I couldn't think of a good enough reason why I should tell them no. I've even continued a date that I wanted to end because I believed someone when they told me that they wouldn't say or do a behavior that offended me (or made me worry, or gave me a bad feeling, or made me want to jump out of a speeding car at 60 mph).

There are so many times, not even recently, but throughout my life, that I've said yes when I wanted to say no. My reasons are ridiculous. They're something along the lines of: "I don't want to be called/thought of as a bitch. I am being paranoid. Nothing is wrong. I need to open up and learn to trust people more. I'll just do it this once and then tell him no next time. She's a friend and she needs me, I should do this for her, even though it makes me uncomfortable. If you tell her no now, she'll never invite you again to hang out with her."

All the things I tell myself to minimize (if not diminish and demolish) my internal warning system. Identifying as a woman does affect me as well. I can't let fear rule my life and my decisions, but I need to get my head out my ass. The leading cause of death for women at their place of work is homicide. Each year, more women are admitted to the emergency room for attacks by someone they know than rapes, muggings, and car accidents - combined.

So, it's not just about the crazy ex-wife, it's about me learning how to listen to what I'm saying.

10/17

2006-10-17T08:33:00.000-07:00

I'm going to take a couple of days to step back and re-evaluate parts of my life that I'm sharing on the internet and the ramifications from that.

I had two phone calls and an e-mail from someone that could potential hurt Zac or I and I can't let that happen. Protecting my family is of utmost importance. A case worker at HPD has been notified. That's the good thing about working where I work with the people that I work with.

I'll be back on in a couple of days. Your thoughts and support would be appreciated.

10/15

2006-10-15T18:54:00.000-07:00

The gala was....well....not what I had expected. I guess I was secretly hoping for the wonderful, magical evening where you meet a lot of interesting, funny, engaging people on a sweet buzz of white wine and champagne. I wanted to be beautiful - transformed into some kind of socialite that devotes herself to looking good and volunteering for "causes".

In reality, it was a work event that I attended with an ex-boyfriend in a dress that kept showing my not-so-discrete unmentionables. Magical it was not. At one point in the evening, I sat down on one of the few chairs next to R. (I had very cute shoes that My New Shoes helped me pick out during her trip to Houston. The irony didn't escape either of us). My boss came up behind me in a whirl of organza and designer shoes and hissed, "DON'T SIT TOO LONG! Those chairs ARE NOT for staff members." So I got up. I told R. to get up and we ate more food.

Yup, I will say that there was some great, great food at the event. I tried everything - twice. R. drank a bit of wine, but not too much. I think he had a bit of fun, but not too much. Even when I was introducing him to people, and I put my hand on his back or turned to him, he managed to stay exactly six inches apart from me. It was like there was an invisible barrier around me that he refused to penetrate. It frustrated the hell out of me. I just wanted to pull him close, shake him up a bit and demand: "Act normal towards me! At least pretend that you like to be around me in front of all of my work colleagues!! Some of these people knew that we were dating!"

It's not his fault. It's mine. I asked him for a favor because I didn't want to go alone. If I had known what a "work event" the gala would be I wouldn't have been so concerned about needing a date. He and I are still working on being friends and we talked after the event. I drove to his house because he accidentally left with my cell phone in his suit pocket. I made a fool out of myself. I didn't want to be alone. We talked and joked about the bad hair and stupid outfits that we saw and the food that we ate.

I haven't heard from him since that night. I would still like to be friends with him.

10/11

2006-10-11T20:01:00.000-07:00

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month and shelters, crisis hot-lines, and womens' centers around the country are speaking out on behalf of victim-survivors that are swallowed by silence and shame. Tomorrow my organization is hosting a fundraiser (the said 'gala' that I've mentioned before) to raise money for legal representation of victims for family law litigation and batterers intervention and prevention counseling groups.

The Texas Council on Family Violence just posted the stories of the women, children, and abusers that were killed in 2005 as a result of domestic violence on their webpage. Please go and check it out. Each victim deserves to have their name remembered and their silence broken.

The speaker at the event is Debra Sanchez, who watched her daughter, Leza Marie Maddalone, 31, shot to death in a bank parking lot by her estranged ex-boyfriend, Bruce Glen Milner. TCFV reports that, "According to the Brazoria County police officers, Leza's two children witnessed the shooting." Mrs. Sanchez now has custody of her two grandchildren. Lawyers at my organization helped prosecute and convict Milner for Leza's murder.

But there are many, many other stories.

Like the murder of Irene Torres Belding, 42. Irene and her two children were shot and killed in their home by Irene's husband, John Francis Belding, 42, in an apparent murder-suicide. According to police, Belding shot his family in a bedroom and then killed himself. He left a suicide note saying he was sorry. The couple's children were six and seven.

Martha Lopez, 24, was killed when her husband, Elias Martinez, 29, slit her throat while she slept. According to police, Martiez first claimed that his wife had committed suicide, but later confessed to killing Martha. Police believed Martinez killed Martha because she was going to leave him and file for divorce. The couple's 2 year-old son was in the room and may have witnessed his mother's death.

'Family Violence' is no longer nameless.

10/10

2006-10-10T08:32:00.000-07:00

I'm having one of those mornings (days, weeks, months) where I'm not exactly sure where I lost my mind, but I'm pretty sure that I'll find it around here somewhere. Zac is driving me absolutely, completely ape-shit crazy.

CRRRRAAAAAAZZZZZYYYYY

Granted, the boy has more medical problems right now that I have external appendages. I know that that's part of his problem, but is it all of it? I took him to the doctor on Wednesday when the green slime coming out of his right ear reached mammoth proportions. Really, when something starts running down your neck, it's time to get it looked at. The doc had told us before that ear drainage was normal when you have tubes, but again, it was green, it looked like boogers, and it was threatening his collar bone. She prescribed amoxicillan (our favorite antibiotic of choice around these parts) and Ciprodex ear drops. (That's 2 medications - try to see if you can keep count!)

Then on Friday, he went to an Ear-Nose-and-Throat Doc that acted like discussing anything outside of the ENT region of the body was a waste of his time. This includes: possible side effects to medication, whether or not my child was scared, and whether or not I was going to kick his ass. They suctioned his ear out by first making him wait 45 minutes in a tiled room with many sharp objects that his Momma and Gram wouldn't let him touch and then wrapped him in a sheet and had two nurses hold him down. There was sheer terror in his eyes and I almost started crying for him. The vacuum-cleaner apparatus they used to suction out the mucus made a noise so loud that I thought the ENT Doc was planning on mining for brain tissue while he was there. With a wave of his magic pen, we left with another prescription for an antibiotic that did something other than, "piss in the wind", in his opinion.

Then Saturday rolls around and Zac's eye puffs up so much that I'm not really sure he could see out of it. Remember all that housecleaning I said I did BEFORE MNS' visit? Remember that I said I swept all the leaves off my patio. Well, Mr. I'm-Going-Through-Extreme-Separation-Anxiety, wanted to see and hear me the entire time while he was eating his dinner. The mosquitos came and bit his face and eye after feasting on my legs.

I called the nurse, she whispered something about West Nile and before I knew it, we had scheduled another appointment for Saturday afternoon. At that appointment, they found ringworm on his butt (funny story: MNS touched the rash saying, "Ewww...what's that?" Note to self: Never touch itchy rashes on someone else's kid) and ordered around of clotrimazole for his hinny and a prescription ointment for his eye.

Did anyone manage to catch all of those medications (even the hidden ones that I've forgotten the names of)?

FIVE

He's on FIVE medications right now.

He didn't sleep last night.

I want to cry on an almost hourly basis.

He cries everytime I put him down because I can't get ready to go to work and hold him at the same time. He cries everytime I can't play peekaboo with him because I have to make dinner, or take out the trash, or do laundry, or, or, or, or, or...He cries when instead of picking him up when he has his arms outstretched for me, I walk over him to answer the phone. He cries when I can't fix whatever is wrong with him because I.JUST.CAN'T.FIX.IT.

10/06

2006-10-06T18:59:00.000-07:00

Some people do spring cleaning. Right on the cusp of spring, people around the world suddenly feel the need to sweep out their closets for the first time, get rid of the debris around their fence, and welcome the change of the season with wide arms. The feeling can be euphoriant; freer, lighter - emerging with a clearer sense of purpose.

Spring in Houston has the opposite effect on the population of southeast Texas. You can feel the heat and humidity creeping into the air and with a sinking feeling, you begin to prepare for hibernation under the air conditioner. Let me just say that the Houston Livestock and Rodeo Show in April is the world's largest INDOOR rodeo. Even traditional outdoor activies are moved inside for eight months out of the year.

Record high temperatures aside this past week, October is the silver lining out on the horizon for Houston weather. I swept the patio free of dirt and swept all of the leaves out of the storage area, cleaned all of the first floor windows (inside and out), and managed to get all of the laundry off the rug in the living room. This morning it was 68 degrees out, with a slight breeze. Of course, the high temperature of the day made it up to 91 degrees, but MNS didn't seem to mind too much.

Did I mention that MNS came to visit Zac and I??? I didn't? I've been too consumed with stupid assholes saying stupid things to me? Well, that is my mistake.

MNS's visit spurred the cleaning frenzy. She's my first out-of-state, non-family visitor (hi Aunt Jen!!!) and I was more excited than I wanted to admit. So, I cleaned.

Of course, the beautiful weather outside meant that MNS and I were able to take Zac to a park close to my parents' house where Zac squinted and hammed up for the camera, as witnessed below:

Heeheehee, I'm so cute, especially when eating an apple

But, then again, I also got in front of the camera to get some lovin' (although I think he just wanted the apple):

And there was swinging. Much, much swinging to be had at the park (by now, I feel that if you haven't noticed the amazing tie-dyed onesie that Mr. Zac is sporting under the jean overralls, then I should bring it to your attention):

I'm such a big boy. I know.

And we all basked in the attention of Aunt L., who made this weekend special and wonderful:

Baby feet! I'm holding baby feet and you all can't have any!!!!

10/04-2

2006-10-04T20:17:00.000-07:00

I wanted to say thank you to everyone that consistently gives me love and support, both on and off this blog. It means a lot and it helps me say, almost on a daily basis, "No. I don't deserve that. I deserve more," which isn't easy for a people-pleaser like myself.

Ever since I can remember, I've wanted to make people happy. If members of my family were fighting, I wanted them to talk it out - I would be the go-between if I wasn't the direct cause or source of the anger. I'll avoid head-on confrontation with most people and absolutely run from anything that I deem 'threatening' or even vaguely annoying (like going to the dentist).

I think I even followed the career path that I have so I could make people happy, which makes me happy, or at least content most days. Being in non-profits is like saying to someone, "I know that what I have is a little more than I can reasonably be thankful for. Here - have some of mine, some of me, I'll give it to you because I think you deserve more than you currently have." And you do that day after day because making people happier, healthier, safer, richer, and less discriminated against is what the non-profit world is about.

It's hard for me to turn that off when it comes to romantic relationships. Someone said to me recently, "I deserve for you to come closer to me. I deserve to touch your stomach (the stomach that held the baby. The stomach that will never be the same. The stomach that I don't let ANYONE touch because it's too personal and sensitive)." I answered, "No, you don't deserve that." Then he said, "I, then, at least deserve a kiss," and I said, "No, you don't deserve that either."

While he left he threw back a parting insult in my general direction: "You don't need to ask me to go. I'd rather go on my own accord than deal with an asshole like you. Now I know why all the other guys ran too."

All because I have my own definition of what someone "deserves" to do with my body. According to my definition, you deserve to respect, cherish, and be patient with my body and the person attached to it because in return, I will love you wholly and unconditionally.

Until then, get the fuck off me, and you can thank everyone that reads this blog for the confidence to say that.

10/04

2006-10-04T11:13:00.000-07:00

Well, the polls have closed for this morning and 99% of all men that I've dated in the past year think that I'm confusing. I know this because - well - the bastards told me so!

Let's review the reasons that I'm a bad potential mate, shall we? All of the excuses are listed in italics under the reasons.

1) I don't know what I want/ I'm high-maintenance

- I claim to want to date casually, yet then I start to "get serious"
- I claim to want to date seriously, then I go out on dates with more than one person
- I always need to be told that I'm pretty, smart, funny, and enjoyable to be around (show me the person - I'll leave gender aside for the moment - I mean the person that doesn't like to hear that!)

2) I have forgotten what it's like to be in a "real relationship"

- Single motherhood has made me bitter towards men (this is a personal favorite of mine because they seem to forget that I'm raising a little man. I have more daily contact with a baby jo-jo than I know what to do with! Bitter towards men? Hell, you can't be bitter while wiping poop from the underside of a pair of balls. You just can't. I dare you to try.)

- I have a martyr complex and think that I should do everything by myself (ok, that one is true)

- I have too much baggage from being left by the FOB (I always feel that I should mention that I left the FOB and not the other way around. He just abadoned any and all thought of being a father)

3) I'm too young/ I've never been married

- You can't know how much it sucks to be married until you've done it once (or twice in some circumstances) (This is for some reason considered a negative trait of mine. I don't get it).

- I've never lived with someone (true again)

So, just in case you are all wondering what is going on, I had a talk with R. last night. The romance had started to fade from our dating relationship and I felt less than desirable and adored. He and I had agreed to go slow, see where things went, hang out, get to know each other - all of those things that people tell each other when they don't want to be alone, but they don't want to commit to each other.

I saw where it went and I liked spending time with him. I actually wanted to spend MORE time with him, providing that he could start doing the little things for me that he used to do. I shouldn't have to ask someone I'm dating if they find me attractive or if they like spending time with me. I don't care how non-communicative (which R. isn't) a person is, I'm a firm believer that for a relationship to work, you need to TELL or SHOW the person on a regular basis that they rock your casbah.

Maybe I am high-maintenance.

10/03

2006-10-03T07:44:00.000-07:00

Number games:

When I graduated high school, I weighed 160lbs. I remember that distinctly because S. Zugschwerdt (real last name, although probably not spelled right. T. can you help me out here?) weighed 130lbs and I remember thinking how nice it would be to weigh that.

In college, I went up to 165-170 by eating four enormous meals a day, working out every morning, six days a week, and most afternoons, 3-4 days a week. Rock solid was how I looked by April every year.

In England, I rode my bicycle around Oxford, which is deceptively large for such a small country. I consumed warm beer and not much else, dropping my weight down to 155 or so. That summer I lived in Houston, rode my bike to work in 100+ degree heat, waiting tables at Red Lobster, and going 8-10 hours without eating.

Senior year of college, I made up for the weight loss and bounced back to 185.

I stayed at 180 for my first year of Peace Corps in Mongolia. I hated weighing that much and remembering wondering if J. would notice the stretch marks forming and spreading on my butt.

Then I hit a deep depression that involved a lot of running (for 30-45 minutes every day, I could only dream to be that lucky again to be seriously depressed and actually WANT to run) and not enough food. I constantly worried about not having enough food or water for myself and my cat, Buddy, who was killed during my trip to America in late summer. In the hospital in D.C., I stepped on the scale in the dining room (don't ask me why there was a scale there, it seemed weird for me to considering what floor I was on) and I weighed 155 and fit into a size 10.

In New Hampshire, I drank large amounts of freshly brewed light beer, fried foods, and pizza and went up to 182, which is what I weighed on the Planned Parenthood scale the day that I got the prescription for the birth control pill (which (ha!) ultimately failed).

Then I got pregnant and I don't talk about those weights or how big I actually got. I saw the number on the scale once and then never again. I'm embarassed and ashamed when I think back to then. I had Zac in July of 2005 and lost 40lbs my first week post-partum. Aunt Jen put it nicely when she said that I looked "squishy", like if she were to poke me with a pin, water would squirt out of the hole.

When I started Weight Watchers in April 2006, I weighed 197. I didn't fit into most of my size 16 clothes and I couldn't imagine being anything other than a lactating woman that still couldn't bend over. I threw away all my "skinny" clothes, including most of what I wore in New Hampshire (although clearly I wasn't that skinny then. I just didn't have the flap of extra skin around my belly button and the enormous breasts). Everything I owned was a size 16-18.

This morning, I stepped on the scale and it read 180, exactly. It was a little mind boggling because I don't feel like I've been doing that much differently lately, just trying not to binge. I was tempted to abuse my body after my conversations with J. the past couple of days but I've done well staying focusing and not eating hard foods (dental problems, not eating ones).
______

Throughout most of my teenaged and adult life, my life has been dictated by these numbers. I can't believe that I'm actually going to post them because I work so hard to hide what I actually weigh and coyly avoid discussing metrics of size and shape. This is Weight Watchers has given me - it's given me the confidence to say: I've lost 17 pounds and I feel better about myself at this weight. I have a long way to go, but I'm getting there.

10/02

2006-10-02T12:48:00.000-07:00

Uggh,

DeepSeaDiver J. wants to be friends. I just had a minor emotional outburst in his direction over IM. Now I feel like crap and a bad friend. He got off IM faster than I can finish going pee. It was fast, that's all I'll say.

Then I got an e-mail from my friendly free dating site, telling me that I have new matches for October. New matches? Well, sign me up and click the link, I always say! What did I see, but DeepSeaDiver J. staring back at me. He changed his handle and put up new pictures, although he said that he had given up internet dating after me. Turns out, he is back on the cybermarket, in more ways than one. I e-mailed his account there, and he quickly read and deleted the message (it's great when sites tell you the progress of an e-mail being read, discarded, ignored, or replied. If only people had small tickertapes running across their foreheads that registered the same emotions during a conversation. Dating would be so much easier).

Erasing all traces of me and my company.

10/01

2006-10-01T19:14:00.000-07:00

There is something refreshing and renewing about the start of a new month. I've felt this way, particularly, since I've started doing my monthly budgeting and keeping track of my receipts. More specifically, though, I feel like it's one giant, "do-over" pass. Like, "Well, I fucked up that month. Let's see if this one goes any better." Learn from my mistakes, pick up the pieces, and move on.

Well, many of you know that I stopped writing about my romantic life ever since a couple of noteable individuals started reading my blog (one had the address and the other looked it up on his own). As much as I've tried to keep my first name out of this site, it still creeps in and Google can find it. So be it, right? There isn't much that I can do about it, except for start up a whole new site and that takes more time and energy than I can seem to muster right about now.

Last month was quite a doozy in the relationship department. DeepSeaDiver J. stopped seeing each other about two months ago. He was treating me like a mistress to his ex-wife. He didn't want to tell her that he was dating anyone, so he tried hiding any traces of me. I could only come over after she had picked up the kids (which was dependent upon how late she felt like staying at work), J. always introduced me as a 'friend' to his kids and would lock the door of the room that I was in if he thought there was any way that she might just "pop over", which she frequently did.

I wasn't standing for that. I cared for him, but I also care about my self-respect. He once got out of his car before pulling into a local restaurant, just to make sure that the Honda minivan in the parking lot didn't belong to his ex. That's how strongly he felt about avoiding any confrontation with her about his relationship with me.

He went back off-shore and we decided to stay friends. Friends that care about each other. The kind of friendship that can never really work. I met R. right around that time. He was good, kind, always available for me, attractive, and intelligent. He works as a computer programmer and is a single Dad to four pre-teen and teenaged kids. He has raised them by himself, 100%, for the past six years. R. knew about J., yet J. didn't know about R. (because he didn't need to, because we had no commitment to each other, because it was none of his business).

A little while ago, J. came into town for one night. He drove over from Louisiana to see his kids, to see me, to talk. It was a Sunday, but it was only one night, so I drove Zac and I over to his house (it should have been my first sign that he wasn't willing to come to my apartment). I told him that I had been dating R. and wondering where things were going to go with him. It was obvious that we still had feelings for each other. We talked and I stayed. Then he left and I never heard from him.

He said that he didn't make his mind up until after I had left for work the next morning, but in my heart, I knew that he used me. He was upset that I had found someone else to be with, so he used my body for what he could and then went back onto his boat off the Gulf of Mexico (and he no longer reads this blog).

I've never been a port girl before and I never will be again. I feel disgusting and cheap. Hurt and used. He actually thanked me for "my company".

I spent the weekend at R.'s house, still trying to recover from the three permanent fillings that were drilled into my mouth on Friday. I've never taken so much pain medication in my life as I have over these past two weeks. Everything hurts. That's what I leave behind from September and welcome October with a deep, cleansing breath.

9/28

2006-09-28T08:12:00.000-07:00

Bullet-style because I'm all fired up today:

Came into work today to find a borderline abusive e-mail from my boss. The irony that we work for an organization that tries to end violence in personal relationships doesn't seem to strike her. I was told to "use more common sense". I'm still angry that someone in a professional setting (my boss no less) would write that to me.

I ran out of gas yesterday at the big-chain daycare center. I left work with only 1/4 of a tank, went the grocery store for the items that I forgot when I went to the grocery store the night before, and then pulled in to get Zac. The daycare center doesn't have a parking lot, it has a glorified drive-thru where you park, get out, go retrieve the fruit of your loins, then get back in the car. Apparently, the Shoe Nazis reason that parents might be encouraged to talk more to the child's caregivers if they had a safe place to put their vehicle. My car was parked on a steep slant, away from my gas tank. I didn't have enough gas to turn my engine over.

So I walked three blocks to the closest gas station, after unsuccessfully trying to jump my car, thinking that it was a battery problem.

I walked in 90 degree, late-September heat with Zac in a stroller, sweating, getting bit by mesquitos

in high heels

to purchase a gas can and walk three blocks back to give my car two gallons of gas. Then started said car and drove home.

I lost four pounds this week, according to the scale at Weight Watchers. That is the biggest loss in a single week since I started this journey.

Turns out that drinking water (so much damned water) in a day really can help you lose weight. Just like all those water-fanatics keep preaching. The Nalgene bottle is in hand, now back off and no one will get hurt.

I'm getting the permanent fillings in my three, highly battered teeth tomorrow. They are still tender and my jaw is sore from the needles and staying open for business for three hours. I'm hoping to have a better weekend, though.

And at least forget that although I'm getting paid better at this job, I still don't have any respect.

And I still feel like I can't do ANYTHING RIGHT!