Somewhere else to be

I've got nothing. My brain is a little full with the moving talk and my child who refuses to sleep these days. Instead, I give you links.

Dooce is giving away five Wii Fit things. All you have to do to enter is leave a comment. I didn't leave a comment so that you, my dear friends, will have a better chance of winning. As of this posting, there were only 8,625 comments. Good luck.

Queen of Spain is trying out video comments. They are way cool, and I don't think I like them. Right. That made no sense. They are way cool, but if I use them, you will all hear how I talk and see what I look like while I'm blogging. Not good. Besides, my glasses reflect the computer screen and make me look like a frizzy headed robot.

And Erika has this cool thing that I'm somehow subscribed to on Bloglines. I don't know how I got there, but I love it. She does this much better than I do, so just go check her out and be entertained. It's called FriendFeed, and although I clicked through and signed up and stuff, I've decided it's too much work and I'll just follow Erika. Lazy me.

Sunday snapshots

This post is in honor of KD (did you know her url has changed?), who says that this blog needs more pictures of Christopher. I certainly can't disagree with that. Here are a few of both kiddos and their daddy in the gazebo we put up this morning.


















Them's some happy chillens.

Reason enough for a new camera

Yesterday was not the day Christopher turned five months old. Today is. I just don't ever know what day it is anymore.

Today's post was going to be some sweet pictures of me and Christopher on the tree swing in our backyard. Kevin* had taken them this afternoon. We take pictures on every month birthday.

Here's what you get instead. Because the damn camera didn't have a memory card in it. You would think a camera as nice as the one Kevin has would tell you when it didn't have a memory card in it. But it doesn't.

Of course I am extremely upset by this, and Kevin thinks this is funny. My main function in life, after all, is to provide amusement for him.

He said we could just take some more tomorrow.

Tomorrow. Is not Christopher's five month birthday.

Mr. Smarty Pants then proceeded to point out that neither was yesterday, but I said it was on my blog. So why couldn't I just be confused again tomorrow, take some more pictures, and everything would be fine.

He's lucky he's cute.

*Meet Kevin. He's my husband. Since I've dropped the pseudonyms at Deep South Moms, I figured I might as well drop them here too. Oh, and me? I'm Marty. Nice to meet you.

Tiny sighs

Today just so happens to be the day that Bird turns five months old. It was also the first day of our second session of Music Together.

When we started the first session, Bird was seven weeks old.

Looking back, I think I might have been a little insane to be taking him to a music class when he was seven weeks old. He really did respond well to it though, and it gave me something that I was doing as his mother. As if feeding, changing, bathing, rocking, and everything else didn't count. I am the type that needs that extra something going on to feel like I'm not wasting precious time.

At seven weeks old, Christopher was already very alert and curious about what was going on around him. He could handle about 20 minutes of the stimulation of the class, and that was enough. As the weeks went by, he was able to stay for the whole class and enjoy it.

Bird was a two hander for most of the first session. Meaning, I had to have two hands on him at all times. Therefore, we didn't do a lot of the instrument play and drumming that the other families were doing. We did a lot of singing, swaying, and studying each other's faces. I would tap the beat of every song gently on his legs or arms, and he would just hang on for the ride.

Music has been the source of the most smiles in his life. Already, Christopher has favorite songs. "The Hello Song" is a guaranteed grin no matter what. He loves the song, "Wiggle," as well. Since he pretty much hates being in the car, the Music Together CD has been a lifesaver. That, and the fantabulous They Might Be Giants too.

Today, we started back up with the classes. After about 3 weeks off, Bird has changed a lot. He is almost sitting up on his own. He can hold his own shaker now. He can beat on the drum. He loves to be held up and bounce to the music.

He broke into the most beautiful smile when he saw his teacher, and he barely stopped smiling for the rest of the class.

It amazes me how much he has changed in such a short amount of time.

I used to think that I wouldn't miss the infant part so much. That I would be so happy to be able to have conversations and do fun things with my child that I wouldn't miss him being a baby. Happy and relieved.

I'm doubting that now.

As I pulled him out of his car seat this morning, he was sleeping. Passed out from a delay on his nap and a very eventful music class.

He nestled his face into my shoulder to shield his eyes from the sun.

I put my hand on the back of his neck to support him and help keep him secure and sleeping as we walked up to the house.

He let out the tiniest little sigh that said to me, "What a good morning. I'm content."

And my heart let out the tiniest little sigh that said, "This is going to be over in an instant. Don't take a moment of holding this baby for granted."

It will be too. Before I know it, Christopher will be one of the little boys in the class who run to get their own shakers, who help put away the drums, and who dance their own dance throughout the class.

As long as he's not the one throwing the egg shakers across the room, I will be fine with that. Even if I miss the baby a little bit.

Awareness

Some of the many things Christopher has surely thought while nursing in the past week, all while never letting go of my nipple:

"HEY! What's that over there behind me?"

"HEY! Where is that sound coming from?"

"HEY! I think Dad just got home!"

"HEY! The dog just walked in!"

"HEY! Another dog just walked in!"

"HEY! I know the dogs are still in here, but I can't seeeeee them from here!"

"HEY! Did you know I could turn my head back and forth like this over and over again?"

"HEY! I can hold that boobie up all by myself now, Mama."

Bless his little heart. I am still glad we didn't give up. Nursing the distractable baby? Just a new challenge.

Because rock stars love boobies

There weren't many benches at the NAMM show. There were more babies than I expected. And there were 100 times as many tattoos as I expected.

At one point, Christopher needed to eat. He was tired and hungry, but Guy and Lovely were still looking around. No problem, I said. I would just go find a bench, sit down, nurse him, and let him nap in my lap for awhile.

Only there were no free benches.

I thought for sure that if I walked up with a crying baby, parked my stroller next to a bench and stood there for a minute, that someone would get up and offer me a seat.

Not a chance.

My victims were two old dudes who were enjoying their pre-lunch Bloody Mary's. They looked up at me as if my child was disturbing their hangovers with his crying. I turned my back a little more to them so I could aim the wailing more in their direction.

Five minutes this went on. I stood there shushing, bouncing, and rocking my baby, waiting for anyone, particularly the men closest to me, to get up and give me a seat.

It never happened.

So I sat on the ground against the wall, popped out my boobie and started to nurse him.

HOLY HELL! A TIT IS ON THE LOOSE!

Those men jumped up with their drinks faster than if I had poked them with a branding iron. One of them diverted his eyes and asked if I would like to have his seat.

Um, no. I had just gotten settled down on the ground and the baby was finally content and nursing. Had you asked five minutes ago? I would have said yes.

I'm exaggerating a little bit. I didn't exactly pop my boobie out. I have become very discreet at nursing in public. The only reason those men even noticed was because the crying had stopped. It wasn't like I was flashing a big ole milk dripping titty all over the place.

Because Lord knows, showing breasts at NAMM is a terribly distasteful idea.

Oh wait a minute, no it's not.

There were DOZENS of women who were walking around showing more boobage than I was while nursing. Boobs are the number one marketing tool of music merchandise. You know, because they have something to do with guitars?

The only thing, by the way, that boobs have to do with guitars is if you buy an Ovation. The back is rounded, and it rolls up over big boobs leaving you playing it like a levitating steel string guitar. I'm not sure how that would help their marketing though.

But please. PLEASE. Would someone please explain to me why it is alright to show boobs hanging out left and right and up and down when it is to sell guitars, but it is not okay to flash the tiniest bit of breast when feeding your child?

I was going to post pictures as examples and link to some of the companies who use breasts and guitars as phallic symbols as marketing. Then I reconsidered giving them the traffic.

It did feel pretty empowering though, watching all the guys walk by and get all flustered when they realized I was breastfeeding my child. I laughed out loud when one young guy actually asked the hootchie he was walking with if I was allowed to do that in there. Seeing as how I could tell you what kind of wax she had last gotten due to the length, or lack thereof, of her skirt, I don't think she was exactly the person to be asking your questions of appropriateness.

My breasts have always drawn unwanted attention from men. This time? At least the last laugh was on them. I finally don't care who looks at them or for how long. Besides, they are just breasts. What I really don't want you looking at is my belly or the bags under my eyes. So stare away if you like. I'll even tell you what size they are.

They serve a purpose now. A beautiful and miraculous purpose.

And it isn't selling guitars.

Baby don't care about no Slash

We're home. Nashville has come and gone for another year.

This year, the whole family got to go. Even Lovely was able to switch a weekend around and come with us to the Gibson Summer Jam and NAMM show. It was awesome to all get to go together.

The NAMM show is a trade show for music dealers. Guitars, drums, keyboards, amps, accessories, everything you can think of that you might find in a Sam Ass or Guitar Center type store is represented. What you don't see are high end orchestral and symphonic type instruments or pianos there. It's not that kind of show.

It is the kind of show, however, where you can see what Baldwin has done to a piano now. It is hideous, grotesque, and ridiculous. I'm sure it sold on the first day. Pardon the crappy cell phone picture:















Gibson's Custom Shop hosts a party every summer, and if NAMM is in Nashville that year, they make sure that the two coincide. Gibson is a decent host, even if the party gets bigger and bigger every year, leaving it less personal and more smoky all the time. I've been three times now, and in just those three times, the focus has shifted from one of wining and dining their guests as a thank you for being Gibson supporters in the hopes that they will leave having purchased a couple more guitars to having the event be a marketing tool for them to the general public. This year, the t-shirts that they used to wrap up in fancy bags full of picks, stickers, and other goodies and give to us for free, they were selling for $20 each.

SWAG is a thing of the past at the Gibson Summer Jam. Guy was not a happy camper.

The BBQ dinner at a downtown Nashville restaurant we had with the other 30 or so people attending the Gibson week a few years ago? Turned into speed tacos under a tent with 300 other people.

It's just a different event now. A less fun event.

The first year I got to go, Peter Frampton showed up and played for less than 100 of us in the parking lot of the Custom Shop.

The next year, Guy and I had just gotten married and we saw Cheap Trick with about 200 people in the parking lot.

This year, it was Johnny Winter and Slash performing, there must have been 500 people there, and I left with Christopher by 8:00 PM and didn't hear a note of them. Here's what Christopher thought of the whole affair:














Yes, he truly did need the headphones. It was loud, but worse than that was the extreme highs and lows that were mixed in. Too much for a little one's ears. Here's a gratuitous shot of him before he passed out on my lap.




















And just in case I thought I was being overprotective, here's a shot of him the next night when the music started, but I hadn't gotten his headphones on him yet.
















Bless his little heart. He was totally happy once he got his phones on.

And yes, I thought judgmental parent thoughts of those parents letting their babies and toddlers get even closer to the speakers without hearing protection. I have crossed that line now. Granted, I didn't say anything, but I judged them in my mind. And now here too.

So that's where we've been. I've got some other not so interesting stories that I'll bore you with as the week goes on.

That ought to drive my readership up through the roof.

Right now, today

Christopher has been baptized. Sunday, his Nana stood in front of the congregation with us and baptized her youngest grandson.

I honestly didn't think that we would get to see this day. I didn't think my mom would be here for this day.

My momma and I had good conversations last week. There is something about a daughter becoming a mother that makes the grandmother/mother and mother/daughter bond even stronger. I feel closer to my mother than I ever have before.

While we were talking last week, I realized that I've spent an awful lot of time and energy on being sad for my parents' health. Granted, they rarely get good news when they go to the doctor, but so far, neither of them have been told that they were going to die that same day.

Susan's post, A moment spent moping, really hit home. It's not just the patients who are angry at cancer or spend their time wishing for the "what could have been's" of a different diagnosis. As the daughter of an ovarian cancer patient and a Parkinson's patient, I do the exact same thing.

What this means is that I have spent the past six years mourning the loss of my parents over and over and over again. Every time there is a new diagnosis, I mourn.

That seems like a complete waste of time now.

Each day that I still have them is a gift.

In all honesty, it doesn't always feel that way. Each day that I still have my mother is a gift, but some of the days with Daddy are down right hard. I have so much anger for what has been taken from him and from us. It is harder to apply the "each day is a gift" to a disease which erodes my father's mind and body in waves of dust and huge chunks of his life.

But Momma.

Her scans are not clean. Her ca125 is rising again. She will start chemo again, maybe this fall.

And I can type that without crying. Finally.

Momma is still here. She is still fighting. She is still winning. Right now.

Every minute I spend thinking ahead at what she will miss is a minute I've spent not enjoying her while she's here.

She was here to meet my child. She was here to hold my child. She was here to baptize my child. All things that I had mourned the loss of in 2002 when she was diagnosed with stage 3B ovarian cancer.

Sure. My momma is going to die much sooner than I would like for her to, and we all know it. The knowing makes it hard. But would there be a time in my life when I wouldn't be devastated to lose her? She could be 97 years old and I would still be heartbroken when she passed.

So today I vow to stop mourning my parents before they are gone. It's not fair to them, and it's not good for me.

That also means, Momma, that you have to stop labeling all your stuff all the time too. I may love your pewter goblets, but I don't want them anytime soon.

Blue

Do you ever have one of those days when you have a dozen things to write about swirling around in your head, but you are just too blue to get any of them out well?

I miss my mom who left this morning.

Nothing else seems worth saying.

15 years in a nutshell

I connected with an old friend via email this week. The first email was short and sweet; about five lines stating "married with baby." Just the basics.

After the green light email back, letting me know that the connection wasn't unwanted, I wrote a longer email with more details.

It took me awhile.

As I sat there composing my easy-breezy letter to this old friend, I started over analyzing things. I started wondering if I was telling the right snippets of information about my life since we last spoke.

How exactly do you summarize the last 15 years of your life?

Upon further reflection, I wish I had just sent a list. Something like this:

1. Graduated from college, moved to Raleigh, wasted a good bit of my 20's.
2. Got married for lack of a better idea, divorced seven years later.
3. Was not and will never be a rock star no matter how hard I tried. And no, you may not hear the CD.
4. Love dogs like a crazy woman.
5. Play piano, teach piano, write for piano. Sing when asked.
6. Tried to save all the children with a non-profit music school for low-income families.
7. Admitted I'm not really blonde. Am now a brunette. Mostly.
8. Got married again for the right reasons this time.
9. My parents are hanging in there, but have health problems. My brother has a wonderful wife and 5 kiddos.
10. Christopher was born on January 26, 2008, finally making me a mom. Most everything else I would have to say involves him. Four months out of 15 years are just about all I want to talk about.


The more I thought about it, the more I thought this would make an excellent meme. So I'm making one up. Drunk with power, I am.

Our new meme should have a name. I think I'll call it the 15 Years in a Nutshell meme. Because that's not a stupid name or anything.

If you are so inclined to play along with me, then here's the deal. Think back on the last 15 years of your life. What would you tell someone that you hadn't seen or talked to for 15 years? How would you sum up your life?

You get 10 bullet points. A list of 10 things to summarize you. At the end of your list, tag 5 more people and send on the love.

I'm tagging:

Bubblewench, because I think she has a fascinating history.

Susie, because I just started reading her blog and this would be a rather subtle way of being nosy and learning more about her. Well, it would have been if I hadn't just put it out there like that.

KD, because she is the meme queen.

Jill, because I've been picking up on some interesting tidbits in her life here and there.

Guy, because he needs something to write about besides the damn Alltel wizard, and because I'm actually curious as to what he would pick out for his list.


Y'all play nice, hear?

Surely he has something else to talk about

Alltel wizard.
Alltel wizard.
Alltel wizard.
Alltel wizard.
Alltel wizard.
Alltel wizard.
Alltel wizard.
Alltel wizard.
Alltel wizard.
Alltel wizard.

Apparently, this is how you get a massive increase in your blog hits. Guy has been blogging about the stupid Alltel wizard commercials for a couple of months, and now we find that he is one of the first return when you Google for them.

I've decided that I'll just start randomly mentioning the Alltel wizard, the fat guy in the yellow Sprint shirt, and that dumb van they drive around in. I won't actually blog about it, I'll just toss the phrases in at the end of the post.

Seriously. Guy's traffic is ridiculous over a bunch of smart ass Alltel posts.

The man ain't right.

Resigned

My parents are here. I couldn't wait for them to get here on Sunday. My poor momma started being pestered by me about 7:30 AM on Saturday. I started calling to see if they had left yet.

They were still in bed.

Sorry, Momma.

I haven't seen them since January. They arrived the day Christopher was born. I don't remember much of that visit. The whole first month of motherhood is sort of a blur to me now.

It is easy to forget from visit to visit how hard it is to see my daddy for the first day or two. It is easy for me to forget what Parkinson's has done to him.

It is hard not to be sad, and it is hard not to be angry.

Momma said today that I shouldn't feel guilty for not being there to help them or to spend some time with Daddy while it still counts. She reminded me that they chose to go to Tennessee. That's true. I wanted them to come here.

Still though, I feel like I don't have a right to complain. Like I should just be happy for the time I do get to have with them.

I am happy for the time I have with them. I'm so happy my momma is here - I want to let all the air out of her tires and hide her wallet so that she can't ever ever leave.

But Daddy makes me nervous. And I don't feel like a good daughter. I feel impatient and I feel angry that he isn't like he used to be. I want my son to know him how he used to be.

I had to tell Daddy today that I didn't want for him to carry Bird up or down the stairs. That it made me uncomfortable, and as his mother, I needed to make sure that he was safe. Daddy carrying him up and down the stairs isn't safe.

He didn't get mad. He didn't get his feelings hurt.

In a way, I think wanted him to. I didn't want him to be so resigned to Parkinson's that he understood my concerns and gave in so easily. It wasn't like him.

Then again, it was a relief not to have to fight him on it like we did over his car keys a few years ago.

He is resigned to this new way of life I suppose. I should be too.

But some days, I want him to fight harder. I want him to take on Parkinson's like he used to take on ambulance chasing lawyers. And I lecture him on his diet and urge him to exercise and pester him to get more tests and try new drugs.

He's tired I think.

I'm annoying I know.

And Parkinson's isn't a fair opponent. It plays dirty. It messes with his body and his mind. I'm just an outsider, not even with him on a daily basis, and yet I find it appropriate to be trying to force him into giving up refined sugar and caffeine. What the hell do I really know anyway?

He's just tired it seems.

I guess I would be too if I were him.

It's not fair to ask him to fight so hard in a battle where the winner is already determined with the diagnosis. But I wish he would. Fight harder that is.

Paper thin

My daddy is such a shell of who he used to be. He is so frail. So fragile.

His feelings have always been frail and fragile. He would be wounded if I chose to spend the night at a friend's house instead of staying home with him on a Friday night. Paper thin skin.

Now, his whole being is paper thin. His belt holds up his jeans only because it rests on his hip bones. Kissing his cheek feels like pressing my lips up to a piece of slate. Hugging him means hugging myself too after I have already wrapped your arms around him once.

He says things that are irrelevant. The once lightening quick trial lawyer thought processes have been detoured by disease. It is almost more heartbreaking when he catches himself and tells you to "disregard what I just said." I might rather him not realize it.

Distances and spacial relations are confused. He goes upstairs to bed because he always had before they moved into a ranch. He sometimes still lives in Mississippi or California. It stings my soul when he forgets that I'm too far away to drop by and see him.

His nerves are frayed. Knowing that he must be somewhere at a certain time causes stomach wrenching anxiety. He needs more time. He needs more flexibility. What if he freezes and cannot move for 30 minutes? What if he has an accident after he has gotten dressed? What if he disappoints us by not being ready?

What if he disappoints us by not being who he used to be?

I know this man. He used to be my father. It is a role that I can only help him fill now. I have to concoct situations in which he can still be the father. Ask for advice that I don't really need. Let him help me even though I can do it faster on my own. Make it be that our roles don't feel reversed all of the time.

Even though so much of him is gone, I still know this man. There is so much of him still left in his eyes. In his smile. In his laugh.

He is still, and always will be, my Daddy.

The house with many trees

Guy and I found a house that we both love.

Just for fun, I had him click through the pictures tonight so that I could tell him which rooms could have a Christmas tree in them and which rooms couldn't.

We got up to four trees before he became totally annoyed at me and ended my fun.

I have to have some fun with this. The process completely stresses me out.

I've lived in Raleigh for 10 years now. It feels like home. My roots have dug in deep here.

But this house? Two trees, and that's pushing it. So I'm willing to think about it.

Wondertime Winners

Using a list randomizer at random.org, I have come up with two winners in the Wondertime magazine giveaway.

They are WkSocMom and Liz.

Congratulations, ladies!

If you will email me with your addresses, I'll start your subscriptions this week.

Thanks to everyone who entered and to those who also linked to it as well. This was fun. Maybe we'll do more!

Home Sweet Lord Almighty What Happened to Our Home?

Our neighborhood has gone wonky.

As I returned home from my daily venture to Target to pick up the one thing I forgot to get the day before, I noticed that the house on the right with the window treatments that come in full, queen, and king sizes, had planted flowers by their mailbox. Lovely red flowers. Lovely red carnation flowers. Lovely red carnation plastic flowers in perfect groups of five to a plastic green stem.

Right across the street from that house is a rental house. Vacant and neglected, the front door was littered with yellow notices from the City of Raleigh. Mow your lawn or we'll do it for you and charge you out the nose.

It seems that more and more houses in our neighborhood are becoming rental property. The only problem with that is the renters. We aren't getting families, we are getting groups of single people. Young, loud single people who have lots of cars and like to park them on the street and in their lawns.

Last night, I was having a hard time getting Bird to go to sleep. Three times, I got him to sleep only to have him awoken by the renters across the street and two doors down. The boys in the rental ranch with the satellite dish in the front yard were installing sub woofers in the trunk of their Pontiac Sunfire convertible. They were doing a great job. The boom boom boom could be heard throughout the whole street.

I came storming downstairs after the third time they woke up Bird, hunting for the phone number to our police precinct. Instead of helping me find the number, Guy went across the street, explained to them that we were trying to put our baby to sleep, and asked them to keep it down. It worked. Until tonight. Now they are shooting off fireworks.

George lives next door to these lovely folks. Not for long though. He and his wife didn't call the cops or go over and ask them to keep it down. They put a For Sale sign in their front yard to combat the satellite dish. They've given up and are moving out of the neighborhood.

It's so bizarre. We are in a great location. George's house sold in less than 24 hours for his asking price. We live in "Midtown," and it is some of the hottest property going in Raleigh right now.

Yet our house is the one next door to three nonfunctioning cars. It is on the street of rental hell. It is right around the corner from the plastic flowerbed and the lawn that had small colonies of gnomes residing in it before it was finally mowed last week.

Not to mention the insane drive that Guy has to make everyday to work.

I love our house. I love its location. We have put countless hours into renovating this house ourselves. I don't want to move.

Or, I didn't want to move.

I swear Guy is staging this. Has to be.

Because in our little neighborhood, our established Midtown neighborhood, while we were planting hostas in our front yard in the evening, a 40-50 year old woman was walking down the street smoking a freaking joint.

As the sick sweet smell of pot wafted into our yard, I turned and looked at Guy and just shook my head. He knew he had won. By the luck of some random scank and her strolling high, he had won.

We'll be moving west on 40. Wish us luck.

BlogHer '08

Don't forget to drop a comment on the "Wondertime" post. The more comments there are, the more subscriptions I will give away. Even the comments that aren't necessarily entries count, so come on by before midnight tonight!

********

Plane ticket? Check.

Hotel reservation? Check.

BabyHawk ordered? Check.

BlogHer registration completed? Check.

Little Bird is going to BlogHer. And so am I. And so is my momma.

San Fransisco is a long way from Raleigh. A long, long, long way. I had decided that it was too much for me to try and attend BlogHer again this year.

But then breastfeeding got easier. Bird and I started clicking better. He learned how to enjoy riding in different types of slings and wraps. I started getting more confident.

And then then, I realized that Susan would be there this year. Not just attending, but speaking too.

Last year, Susan didn't go to BlogHer. Instead, she started chemotherapy. The rest of that is her story, and if you don't know it, you should go and read it.

And then then then, Kristen gave me some good advice about being a momma to a 6 month old at BlogHer and posted about what the must have accessory is this year.

Since it is the one time in my life I will have the must have item anywhere or anytime, I signed on up.

I signed up and even got my momma to come too. She will get to visit with some of her friends in Sacramento before meeting me and Little Bird in San Fransisco for the conference. She doesn't want to do the whole event, even though she is a blogger. And I suppose, technically, a mommyblogger. She is, after all, my mommy.

So who will I be seeing there?

Family friends

A week from Sunday, Guy and I will have our son baptized.

My mother, who is a Presbyterian minister, will stand up in front of our church and baptize her newest grandson. I prayed a long time that she would be able to do this.

I don't have a lot of family really. The relatives that we went to visit in Georgia over Easter don't travel. I invited the cousin who is my age to come up and see us, and he proclaimed that he doesn't go north of the South Carolina border.

My daddy's brother is not too far away, but we aren't close, and I don't think he would come.

My brother and his family require two minivans and a vacation notice from God himself to get to go anywhere. Apparently, if he leaves town, the church where he works will most certainly fall completely apart. The committee structure will crumble, members will flee to the nearest Pentecostal gathering, and the church building will fall into a sinkhole that leads straight to hell.

Seriously. They won't let him ever leave. Their real pastor is a lazy pansyass, but that's a whole other story.

Guy's dad lives here. Papa, we call him. He is around just enough. Surprisingly, sometimes he isn't around as often as we would like. But, he's got his own life going on, and we are happy about that.

Guy's mom is no longer alive. He has an aunt with whom he is close, but she lives in Florida. I haven't even met her in person yet, only talked on the phone with her.

That's it. The extent of our extended family.

And that isn't enough to celebrate with us. Not in my book.

So I decided that our extended family would extend just a little farther for Bird's baptism. Not too far, just six friends who mean the world to me.

There are friends who are more like family than most of your extended family.

Those people who have answered the phone at 7:00 in the morning and listened to your hysterical cries of how your dog just got run over by a car and would you please meet me at the vet? And they did.

Those people who have told it to you straight when you needed to get your head out of your own ass and be a better friend. And hopefully I did.

Those people who stood up for you at your wedding. Or weddings.

Those people who have given you opportunities to become more than you thought possible. Who believed in your abilities and told you to go for it. And when you did? They were the first ones congratulating you on the other side.

Those people who have continued to love you through all the changes that have occurred.

These are the people who will be with us on Father's Day to baptize our son.

These are the people who will join us for a good ole traditional Southern luncheon afterwards complete with chicken salad, homemade biscuits, and Mrs. Gerber's sweet tea.

I don't make that tea for just anyone, you know.

Wondertime

I have a new favorite magazine. I like it so much that I sent it to two of my friends after I got my first copy in the mail.

Maybe you already know about it. It's called Wondertime. The tag line is "celebrate your child's love of learning."

I'll save the review of the magazine for Props and Pans (where it's been sitting in my drafts folder for entirely too long. Sorry, Emily!), but for now, I would like to give something back to y'all. The people that read these words.

The people who have helped me through some tough times. The people who overlooked my lack of grace and my sometimes plain stupidity.

So here it is. My first giveaway.

I would like to give away a subscription of Wondertime to one of you fabulous readers.

And because I know that a give away tends to lure in more comments than usual, I'll up the anty.

If we can get 25 different commenters, then I'll give away 2 subscriptions.

If there are 40 different commenters, then I'll give away 3 subscriptions.

So leave me a comment and then spread the word. You have until midnight Friday night to leave a comment and I'll announce winners sometime over the weekend.

I want you to want me

This weekend, we packed up Bird's cradle and put it into storage. He doesn't use it anymore. He hasn't used it in weeks.

I still got a little weepy at seeing it go.

It surprised me, the twang I felt at seeing the first big symbol of babydom being outgrown. I didn't think I would mind.

You see, I haven't been one of those mothers who relishes in the babyness of it all. While I enjoy the baby, I love snuggling with the baby, and I think the baby is awesome, I'm totally looking forward to when Bird and I can have a conversation.

I'm really excited about when we can walk through the Museum of Life and Science, holding hands and talking about what we see.

Don't get me wrong. He is completely adorable, laying here kickypantings and grabbing at his daddy's leg hair. I do love watching him figure things out. I think it's incredible how he changes from day to day and week to week.

But I didn't think I would be sad to see the baby go.

I am. Just a little.

Until I realize that this weekend he discovered his feet. And last week, he put together that if he jutted out his bottom lip and started to cry that we would stop what we were doing and coo at him. This made him laugh.

He is becoming more and more fun.

It's just that I wasn't quite ready for him not need me right with him every moment of every day. Of course, I'm trading him not needing me for him understanding that he wants me.

In the grand scheme of things, I guess that is a pretty good trade off.

I spy me

I have a website for my music studio. It is rinky, but serves it's purpose. There is a sitemeter on it, just like there is on my blog. I like to know who is stopping by and how they found me.

The thing about my studio website is that you find it by Googling my name. Enter my name, and it's the first item up for bid.

Scanning through the sitemeter information this morning, I found that there are people in cities I didn't know I knew people in Googling me. My maiden name is not that common, and if you Google it, the only hits are actually me, so I'm thinking they aren't looking for someone else.

Then I see cities where people who used to be my friends live.

And I wonder what they are doing, still looking for me. Still thinking about me. Having cut me out of their lives, why search? What exactly is it you are looking for?

Do you wonder if I'm happy? Do you wonder if I remarried? Do you wonder if I finally got to become a mother?

Or is it the opposite? Do you wonder if I'm miserable? Do you wonder if I'm alone? Do you wonder if without you in my life I just can't stand to go on living?

Strange.

I Google old friends who I lost contact with occasionally. There is one person from high school I would really like to reconnect with (Matthew Everett, I'm talking to you), and there are people who fit into a certain era of life who I think about every now and then.

But I don't hunt down people on the other side of burned bridges. Curious or not, I chose to be on the other side of the ravine when that pathway was torched. It safer here for me.

Pretty soon, Deep South Moms will launch. It's the newest and of course most fabulous, addition to the Silicon Valley Moms Blogs group. You can find me there. You can find the real me with real names there. You, and all those random people from my past who entertain themselves by Googling me. You, all those random people, and Wife #1 and her family.

I have such a vast and varied fan club.

Seriously though. Anonymity is overrated. I've already learned lessons about not writing anything here that I wouldn't actually say out loud.

You can find the real me, the real Guy, and the real Bird, over at Deep South Moms. If you dare.