Skipping the chit chat

I have a much different attitude about BlogHer this year. Last year, I considered myself a mere peon in the blogosphere. While I am still a mere peon, there are things I've realized over the past year that change my attitude about that peon status and how I will interact with people.

The fact is, most of us consider ourselves peons, and in numbers terminology, we are. I think that it's safe to say that most of the blogs I read get less than 500 hits a day. I know mine does. It gets around 100 per day. Of all the people reading blogs, that is a tiny tiny number. Of course, they are the 100 most intelligent, good looking people out there, but that's beside the point.

The next thing I've learned is that even bloggers who have hundreds or thousands of readers aren't any more confident in a real life situation than I am. Bloggers who I considered celebrities of sorts would have much preferred to be talked to like a friend last year.

The thing that has drawn me in about blogging is that you get to know people in depth. I've never been good at small talk. I would much prefer to sit down and have a real conversation with some one than to have to make chit chat. It doesn't matter if I've just met you, I want to talk with you. I want to feel like I know more about you at the end of a conversation. And that's what happens with blogging.

That very thing that I love about blogging makes meeting bloggers in real life a little daunting. Because chit chat is appropriate for a certain amount of time in real life. However, when you are meeting someone in person who's blog you've read, you know things about them that go far beyond chit chat. And if they haven't read your blog, then there's a disparity there.

I think though, that skipping a large part of the chit chat is just what I'll do this year. Last year, at one of the cocktail parties, I had a great conversation with Tanis. It was a situation where I read her blog and had laughed with her and cried with her - sobbed over my computer actually - reading about the death of her youngest son. When you have shared that with someone, it's hard to just stand there and talk about the weather. So we didn't. And it was comfortable.

It didn't happen that I made lots of new best friends that I talk to everyday and email all of the time. I still mainly keep up with people on their blogs and just see them in real life when I get the chance.

I think that is the part that I didn't quite understand before - real life is different than everyday life. Long distance relationships are hard to maintain. Blogging makes that easier though.

I'm excited about BlogHer. Both in SF and in Greensboro. Maybe even in DC. Because I know now that it's about meeting people, sharing ideas, and getting to share some of your own. And if you meet me there and want to skip the small talk and get to the skeletons, scars, and scrapes in my life?

Feel free. I'm looking forward to getting to know you.

Feeding baby Bird

Still loving the eating thing.

What I can't seem to find out is do I keep feeding him rice cereal after I start introducing vegetables? Do you keep adding to the diet or switch things off?

Just think of this as a reverse advice column. Instead of writing in for me to give you advice, I simply post my ignorance for all to see and solicit information from the masses.

Oh, and I finally remembered to put a bib on the little dude. Here he is sporting one from his Aunt Lorraine. He loves to eat his bibs almost as much as his cereal.

Shut up and file

Seriously. Just because I cannot for the life of me understand what you are trying to say to me in English doesn't mean that I don't know that you are ridiculing me to your fellow nail techs in Vietnamese.

And yet I tipped you anyway.

It wasn't even a fabulous pedicure. And the chair? Had a cue ball sized massage thing going on in my butt crack.

Next time? You had better offer me wine like the woman sitting next to me had. I don't care if it comes in a plastic cup or not.

I can certainly understand you when you say "white" or "red."

Calling all the locals

Did you know that BlogHer is coming to Greensboro in October?

Surely there are more than the two bloggers I know of in NC in order for BlogHer to deem Greensboro a logical stop.

Are you out there? Anyone?

Wanna go to Greensboro in October?

How not to sell your house

I am not a Realtor. I might like to be someday, but right now, I'm not. I'm just a girl looking for a new house because my husband wants to move.

Here are some of the highlights of my search and some of the things I've learned. All of these photos are lifted right off the realty website. Some people might say I'm a thief. Cheater, cheater, sneaker.

Anyhooooooo.

I don't want to see pictures of your stuff. Like these. Here are some pictures of people's beds. Not their bedrooms, just the beds. I'm not buying your stuff. I want to see the house.











If a listing says "contemporary," it's wrong. Contemporary means about 30 years old. It means 1980's construction with lots and lots of wood, very little windows, and apparently, painting everything down to the basketball goal a monochromatic brown.













Just how many fake animals do you see in this room?












See this tiled countertop? The owners did this themselves. And it's covering up something much worse underneath. Cheap fix. Bad fix.















Then there are the pictures that make you think, "If this is what was worth showing, I hate to see what wasn't worth showing." For example:



















And the are pictures that you just don't even know what they are:












But my favorite is this house. The one that comes with the old people. And their dog.










Who took that picture and thought it was a good idea?

There could be a whole other blog just for totally bad real estate listings. I see a new project in the making.

It's a full moon where I live today

All I have to say is that it's a good thing I was wearing my Snoopy panties today. The ones with "Snoopy" in bubble letters across my behind. The ones I could have tossed out after I turned 30.

It's a good thing. Because otherwise I might have been desperately embarrassed upon finding out I was walking through Kroger (I really have to stay out of that store) with my little gray skirt tucked into the back of them.

But I did have on my Snoopy panties. So that made it all good.

I was wondering why that old man seemed to have the exact same produce list as I did. And why he was so damn happy about it.

You must have the wrong number

Usually when our phone rings, I check the caller ID before answering it. If it is Wife #1, I don't answer. Not because she has demanded this of me, but because I don't have anything to say to her, and I know she's not calling to talk to me. Plus, getting screamed at isn't high on my list of things to do.

Today though, she and Kevin were going around about something or another when she started saying ugly things about me to him. When that happens, he simply hangs up the phone. Then she calls back. And calls back. And calls back.

To those of you who have tried talking to me on our home phone: That is the purpose of our incredibly crappy voip service. Because we used to have to track how many times she would call after being asked to stop. Well, that, and for recording her voice messages. They are real treats, let me tell you.

Usually I don't care what's going on with the phone and those two. Kevin will take as much as he wants and then cut it off. He's a big boy and can handle himself.

What I do care about is the phone ringing time and time again while our baby is trying to take a nap.

So I answered it. I told her politely that the baby was sleeping and that she needed to quit calling at this time.

I doubt that she heard it though. I doubt that she heard anything for the yelling she was doing, telling me that she would like to speak to her husband.

The last time I answered the phone and she screamed at me that she would like to speak to her husband, I was snarky and told her she had the wrong number. Because the only man in at this house was my husband.

Today, I simply hung up after telling her that the baby was asleep.

Snarky used to be amusing. People who are so easily riled are easy targets. I learned that growing up with a big brother who loved to tease and was really good at it. The less reaction I gave, the less fun he had. Wish I had learned that before he convinced me of the toilet monster's existence.

Now, it's just sad. Not in a pity sort of way, because I wouldn't waste good pity on such a subject.

Or perhaps she did hear me. Because she hasn't called back.

I'm thinking that it has little to do with my request though, and far more to do with the simple fact that I answered the phone. In my own home. Heaven forbid that I ever do that again.

For right now, I'm just enjoying the silence and the fact that Bird is still snoozing away undisturbed.

Today

Today, Earth is short a mother and a wife. A writer and an amazing woman.

Today, Heaven gained a very strong soul.

Rest in peace, Andrea.

I'm already a good cook

This is what we've been doing. The first 30 seconds says it all.



We think he likes it.

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.

Haiku Baby Blues

Baby blue eyes baby blue
I could drown in them
Jump willingly in too deep.

You could call me gullible

I trust people. Sometimes that is one of my good traits. Sometimes it is one of my downfalls.

Yesterday I had a face to face with the boy who was supposed to take care of my dogs last weekend. I explained to him how I didn't understand how he could have been in the house and not smelled anything. I explained to him how if the dogs were being fed then there should have been no food left in their containers - that was why I left instructions how to pick up more just in case he needed it.

I told him how the floors could be replaced, but that my heart was broken thinking about how hungry and neglected my dogs were last weekend. I told him how disappointed I was that he had let me down.

At that point, I thought that he was going to cry. He looked straight at me, never glanced away, and said with very watery eyes, that he promised he had fed them and played with them. He promised that they got let out and got their medicines. He said he was really sorry about the floors. Very very sorry.

I believe him. Guy doesn't.

It doesn't mean I'm not still upset about the mess, and it doesn't mean that I don't still have some doubts. But I have always trusted him. It feels completely unnatural not to at this point.

Besides, I think that the only way to make him want to be honest with me is to believe what he says. If I don't, then why would he bother telling me the truth? I think you get back from people what you expect of them most of the time.

I hope from now on, he understands that I expect much more from him than he gave this time.

Not that he'll be watching my dogs again. . .

Bird's new wheels

Bird got a new toy this weekend. I ordered it for him three months ago, but it just now became available, which is alright because he would have been too little for it before now.

It's a convertible.

Guy drives a little hard top convertible that he loves. I have grown accustomed to it, but didn't like it at first. It's too small. I get claustrophobic in it. I do love looking at it from the outside when Guy pulls up in the driveway with the top down, waving at us on the stoop. He looks good in it.

Bird's convertible is not as fast as his daddy's, but he looks just as good in it. See for yourself:



He has taken a few steps in it, but mainly he just likes to play with the steering wheel and rearview mirror. He probably won't earn a speeding ticket for another month or two.

Here's the thing. That sticker that you can see on the side there? A close up for you:


Are you kidding? The walker is a stair hazard? Dadgum. That means that some parent somewhere let their child play with this at the top of some stairs and they fell. At first, I thought it was really funny that there needed to be a sticker like that. Then, the image of a child falling down the stairs in this thing came to me, and it wasn't at all funny anymore.

Are there really people that stupid out there? Apparently so. That isn't funny. It's just sad.

Bird won't be playing with the walker anywhere near stairs, and not because the sticker told me so. Just because I'm brilliant that way.

He will play with it in the living room and possibly the kitchen. And if you think he doesn't like it, you would be wrong. Just check out the grin on this kid:

Stupid rotten weekend end

Mastitis is mean.

Now that Bird and I are finally nursing like a team, we've switched our nighttime feedings to the side lying position. I was getting more sleep at night, he was enjoying sleeping right up next to me, and all seemed to be good.

Unfortunately, the side lying position leaves me with clogged ducts by the morning. Twice now, these clogged ducts have developed into mastitis before I can get them unclogged.

It hurts. I get a fever. It feels like the flu, and it feels like someone kicked me in the boob really hard. I don't like it.

That was the first half of the weekend. The second half of the weekend consisted of Guy getting a ticket in my Jeep because I totally forgot to renew the registration. It was due in January. I was a little preoccupied and never got around to it. It couldn't be me that got the ticket though, it had to be him. Fair.

Topping it all off? I got one of my high school students to come take care of the dogs while we were away a few nights. I was paying him to come over four times a day. He was to let them out, feed them, play with them, and clean up any messes that poor old Pupstar might have made. She's older and has a bladder issue. It's mostly controlled with medication, but she still has the occasional accident.

I don't know what he did, but it wasn't what we agreed on. We came home to a total disaster. The dining room floors are ruined because dog pee soaked into them. There were days of dog mess all over the floors. We could tell by how much food was left that he hadn't been feeding them. How we knew he had been there at all was because the door to the music studio was open when we had left it closed, thereby allowing the dogs to pee and poop in that room as well.

When I called him, he said that he had been here that morning and there was no mess.

I don't know what to do about that. He isn't being honest. I've taught him for almost 10 years, and I love him dearly, and now he isn't being honest with me. There were days of mess in the house. Days.

It's so very disappointing.

And Guy's floor? Ruined.

I will have to talk to the boy more about this. I haven't paid him yet, and I'm waiting for him to tell me how many times he came over until I do. I think I'm going to pay him based on his word even though I'm pretty sure he is going to lie to me again.

I expected so much more from him. I've always gotten so much more from him. It could just be a stupid teenager mistake.

But Guy's floors. And my poor dogs who missed I don't know how many meals, missed their medication, and were relegated to pee and poop where they knew they shouldn't. They tried. It was all up next to the back wall of the house - as close to the backyard as they could get without being able to be there.

So disappointing.

In a way, I'm really glad this weekend is over. Another post is due about the wonderful parts of the weekend. There were many wonderful parts. But tonight is just for the whining.

I should be shushed

See this? This is a happy, laughing baby. This is my happy laughing baby. This is what I get to hang out with for most of the day.

There is another side to him though. Something new has transpired.

Bird hates to go to sleep.

I know when he is getting sleepy. He makes it very obvious. When the signs occur, we move to his nursery, I swaddle him, and we either walk or rock until he is out. Sometimes we nurse to sleep.

Since Friday though? As soon as he realizes that I'm about to swaddle and walk him? He breaks out into panicked wailing. It escalates to a wail-gasp-wail-gasp frenzy faster than I can shush and walk.

I rub his little head. I kiss his cheek. I shush him in his ear. I hold him tightly so he can't flail. I rock him. I walk him. I sway with him.

He screams.

Tonight? I yelled at him. I yelled "stop" and I yelled his name. I would like to say that I had to yell to be heard over him. That would be true, except that deep down, I know I yelled out of frustration. It did get his attention, but is that really how I want to start getting the attention of my child? By yelling at him?

I'm not a yeller. I hate yelling. I grew up with lots of yelling. I don't want to live in a yelling house. And yet, I yelled at my baby.

He's just a baby. He can't help it. The problem is, I can't help it either because I don't know what is wrong. He's dry, he has been fed, he is clean and has been played with. He is tired. Tired and unwilling to go to sleep.

The frantic wailing? Is going to send me over the edge I'm afraid.

It hasn't felt like this since he was 10 days old and was crying nonstop for hours. I just sat in the rocking chair with him and cried right along. It was all I could do then.

I thought I had grown past that. Instead I found myself sitting in that rocking chair again tonight, rocking and crying right along with the wailing Bird. Hating myself for having raised my voice at him already in his young life.

I feel like a monster. Yelling at a baby.

Mother of the year, I am.

My family. I love saying that.

I love them so much that just looking at this picture makes me burst into tears while simultaneously feeling like the corners of my mouth are going to split wide open up to my ears from smiling so much.

It should be noted that about an hour after this picture was taken, Bird had the biggest diaper blow out to date all over his daddy's good shirt and pants. Of course.

Because most people hate George Crumb

One more gig is history.

My calendar is dotted with gigs in the past and in the future. Good gigs. Gigs with the North Carolina Symphony. Gigs in front of 10,000 people. Gigs that get filmed for television. Gigs that take me to little places in the state that I wouldn't see otherwise.

There is a build up to each one. The anticipation and preparation that come with making sure everything is ready for that call time are a huge rush for me. Some people get nervous, I get excited.

I love the focus that I feel from sound check onto the stage. It is when I feel most capable.

Last night, I had another gig where we were backed up by an orchestra. We used the two arrangements I did in 2004 and I also scored two new ones. It is an opportunity that most "pop" musicians don't get, and I'm grateful for it.

It's interesting, how the orchestra musicians treat "the band." Even though I have a lot of the same training that they do and have a Bachelor of Music in composition, they look down their fretboards at me. It bothered me at first.

Only at first.

Now, I feel a little bit sorry for them that they can't enjoy what they are doing unless it is "serious" enough. A pops concert is below them, and they resent having to do it.

But the audience loves it.

That is one thing I've learned from playing with The Dude. I've learned that being a musician isn't just about the study, the practice, and the perfection of it all. It's about connecting with other people.

I liked being liked.

Mixed in with my training, there were years of dragging myself through the rock circuit only to be met with mild appreciation left me tired and a little bitter. I gave it my all, even when performing in a stupid sports bar in front of a 100 foot TV screen showing a hockey game.

But playing with The Dude is different. People buy tickets and come because they like his music. Then they get to the concert and they listen. Without a beer, a cigarette, and a conversation on the side. They applaud. They even want to talk to you and get autographs afterwards.

It's very satisfying, honestly.

I could hold my own with the orchestra. I have a deep love for modern music that works its way into my "pop" arrangements (yes, Mr. Trumpet player, I was perfectly aware that you were holding a minor second against the horns for an entire measure. I like minor seconds.). I could play it as snobby as the concert mistress did last night.

But where is the fun in that?

What is wrong with putting your effort into creating music that a broad base of people actually enjoy?

Nothing at all.

Had to change the title of this one

This summer, we will head to the beach with Whymommy and her family. For a celebration. Not a goodbye. I cannot put into words how thankful I am for that.

Susan has always been my "see it from a different perspective" friend. The friend who makes me think outside of my box.

In high school, my box was very very tiny, so that wasn't a hard thing. One foot in either direction had me reeling outside of my box. She was very patient with my tiny little private school mind.

Over the years, we have talked, traveled, cried (but not much because we are oh so strong women who really need to get more comfortable with a tissue), laughed, and learned together. She lasted in the learning part far past I did. I bored easily with school, and she tackled it with a vengeance.

She was on the same trip to Mexico which generated the most embarrassing story of my entire life. And she still loves me. I don't know why.

She read my angst filled, totally rhyming poetry in high school. And she still loves me.

She listened to my angst filled, I'll never be Debbie Gibson or Amy Grant, songs in high school. Even sang the harmony. And she still loves me.

She stood up for me at my first wedding even when she knew it was a mistake. Even when her grandmother had just passed away. Even when the dress I made her wear was distinctively pink. And flowy.

She told me the truth about those first weeks of motherhood. She called to check on me, not just the baby. She coaxed me through the darkest days with wisdom and compassion. And she still loves me.

Blogging is funny sometimes. I sat down to write an entirely different post. A post about getting Bird prepared to go to the beach with little hats and swim trunks. And yet, when I let my fingers go, freely typing without thinking (which gets me into trouble more times than not), this is what appeared.

After almost a year of holding my breath and praying for a miracle, here we are planning to meet up at the beach. To celebrate.

It's clear to me that she is worth celebrating. It's clear that I'm lucky to have her as my friend.

It needs to be said that I am so thankful for her treatment and results.

So very very thankful.

Night night Little Bird

I sleep to the hisses and hums of a baby monitor now. It seems too soon to have my son in the next room, his own room, in a big crib all by himself. I miss him.

Truth be told, he sleeps better. He sleeps longer. And Guy and I have some time together after he goes down for the night. It is working for us.

There are still some nights when he wakes up an hour later and I bring him back into our bed. He fell asleep between us last night with his arm thrown up onto my chest. His face was still nestled into my breast and he slipped back into his little baby dreamland by giving up a shaky, nasally sigh.

Tomorrow night, Guy will be away for work again. Instead of nervous, this time I am a little excited that Bird and I will have a slumber party. We can climb into bed as early as we like and snuggle up.

I thought we would be co-sleepers for much longer. In a way, we still are. Bird stays with us after he nurses the first time in the night.

But putting him to bed now means that I lay him in his crib, stroke his little head, turn on his magic bear, and then leave the room, closing the door behind me.

It is so hard to leave him. Even just in the next room.

I'm in big trouble. I can see this already.

Mr. Richard's unwavering curiosity

It's not even 10:00 AM and I've already had my Mother's Day card, present, and breakfast. Gone are the days when a celebratory breakfast didn't even dream of starting until after CBS Sunday Morning.

Bird was a very sweet boy and got me a card and a trip to the Aveda Spa. Smart little guy.

We tried to go to the Farmer's Market for breakfast, but they weren't open yet. That's how early we were out and about this morning. Making the most of Bird's awake time.

Instead, we ate at the iHop near the college campus here in town. Usually it is slammed on a Sunday morning, but we learned that it's still pretty empty at 7:00.

Our waiter was a ridiculously friendly man whose nametag read "Mr. Richard." He cooed over Christopher, commented on our sling, and asked how much he weighed at birth.

In fact, he had many questions about his birth and other things. Throughout our breakfast, he asked:

"Was it a difficult birth?"

"Did it take you a long time?"

"How much did you dilate on your own?"

"Why didn't you dilate all the way on your own?"

"Did you get some of the spinal drugs?"

"What did they do to make you dilate?"

"I thought women were supposed to do that on their own. What makes them dilate?"

"Is this your first baby?"

"Are you two going to have another one?"

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"Oh. Is he a lot older than you?"

"How old are you?"

At one point, I started to get pretty irritated that I was being barraged with all of these really personal questions. Mr. Richard would not let up on us one bit.

As I started to bitch about it, I couldn't help but laugh. Guy raised his eyebrow at me and asked what was so funny.

I said, "I'm bitching about a stranger being all up in my business."

"Yeah, so?"

"Dude. I blog. I put my business out there for strangers everyday. Why should it bother me that Mr. Richard has some weird sort of curiosity? Like I care?"

I blog.

So go ahead. Ask me anything, Mr. Richard.

Daily melting

Today, Christopher and I lay on a blanket in the front yard and looked at the clouds while Guy put up our new mailbox. I propped up on my elbow and looked down at my son. He looked up at me and laughed.

He laughed and laughed and laughed.

His daddy makes him laugh every night. After his bath, Christopher lies on the bed and his daddy snarfs on his belly, making him squeal in delight and laugh his little head off.

He hadn't laughed with me though.

He talks to me. He smiles at me. He coos at me and reaches out for me. But he hadn't laughed yet.

Today, I looked down at my son on the quilt that so many friends put together for me and my heart melted into complete and total unconditional love for this little boy. Melted all over again, just like it does at some point everyday.

Shout out

Just a little shout out to Wife #1's little sister who is reading this blog from her state government office in Greensboro.

Hope I'm not boring you.

Who exhumed Kathie Lee and put her back on TV?

Heather doesn't need another person defending her. I'm sure she can stand her own ground just fine. Plus, there are plenty of us out there who love her, and I'm sure she is used to the occasional rude person.

So I won't defend her. She does it quite well with this beautiful post.

However.

Kathie Lee Gifford is a complete git.

Her "interview" of Heather on the Today show this morning was the worst excuse of journalism I've ever seen. Even for a morning news show.

Starting out by bragging about how little she know about computers and how she doesn't even know what a blog is? That is just plain rude when you are interviewing a blogger. She should have done her homework and found out what a blog is. She should have pretended to have some knowledge on the subject.

Instead? She stumbled around a few questions, barely let Heather answer them, and then interjected her unfounded reservations about how Heather blogs about her daughter and posts her pictures.

It might have had some semblance of relevance if Kathie Lee had done that homework and read Heather's response to that accusation. She wouldn't have tried that line of attack, for sure.

It also might have had some semblance of relevance if Kathie Lee hadn't spent years on television sitting next to Regis boring the world with stories about her children.

Instead? She hadn't read it, and when Heather tried to respond on air by pointing out that Kathie Lee takes her children out into public where strangers see them everyday, Kathie Lee interrupted her to gloat about how she did not, in fact, live in New York City.

Then she tried to segue that into outdoor furniture.

She was a trainwreck.

And she looks like something that CSI had to put back together before placing her in front of the TV cameras again.

So even though this isn't something that she will ever see, I'm posting my support for her right here. Thanks, Heather, for sharing your family and your thoughts on motherhood with us.

And the pictures of Chuck. Because I love those.

I'm friends with her ex

Bird and I went downtown yesterday. We went to close a safety deposit box, to vote early, and to go up to the floor where my old office is and visit people. He was a big hit, of course, and I got to eat lunch with a friend who I see far too infrequently.

My friend and her husband have been talking about selling their house and moving closer into the city. They have been talking about this for years, actually. I asked her how the house hunt was going and she had a story to tell me.

They had been to an open house in the neighborhood of a couple who my ex and I went to church with. Turns out, Ann was at the open house with her two boys and recognized my friend. At first, they couldn't place where they knew each other from, but finally figured out that it was through parties at my old house when I was married previously.

My friend mentioned to Ann that I had just had a little boy.

At this point, it would be interesting to note that when I was married to my ex, I spent more time with Ann and her husband than my ex. I was the one that Ann called franticly one night needing to meet and cry out her pregnancy hormones over her husband to someone. I was the one who taught Sunday School with Ann. I was the one they could count on to be there for them. My ex, as always, was the comic relief.

So, my friend mentioned to Ann that I had just had a little boy. She replies to this fact that she didn't know that, but that they were friends with my ex. That was sort of a conversation ender.

Ann was the one I called when the first adoption possibility fell through. It was her kitchen table that I sat at and wept. She was the one I turned to when I first split with my ex.

I knew that she and her husband had chosen him over me a long time ago. After I met her and told her the news, I didn't hear from her again for awhile. My phone calls weren't returned, and I honestly was too busy and too stressed out to think about why.

When we finally got together several months later, I learned the answer. She and her husband had become my ex's new caretakers. Over dinner, she told me that I didn't need to worry about him. They had helped him get his life together and he had a solid plan to move forward.

I sat across from her with food, unchewed, clogging my mouth. Which is better than the alternative spewing that could have easily occurred.

After I chewed and swallowed, I put my fork down, placed my napkin on the table, and I said,

"Congratulations. You have accomplished something with him that I tried for 10 years to do. Why don't you get back to me in a year and let me know how far he's progressed on your little plan."

Then I asked for the check. While we waited, I told her that I was with someone and really happy. She wanted to know if I still wanted to have kids. I told her that I most certainly did. Then she said that she really wanted to see me pregnant because she just knew I would hate it like she did.

Time and time again, I look back on the choices I made for friends before I met Guy.

All I can say is that my self-esteem must have sucked complete donkey balls.

I mean really? Who says those kinds of things to someone who has been to the line for you? Someone who called you a friend?

There were casualties of friendships after my divorce. I'm not sorry about it, because they were friendships that obviously needed to end anyway. The ones that thrived on the part of me who never thought I deserved to be loved.

But some days, sometimes, it just stings when I hear that someone like Ann couldn't even be happy for me and my child. I thought that we had been friends. I trusted her enough to share the down and dirty part of adoption with her, and now that I finally am a mother?

She's friends with my ex.

Congratulations, Ann. It doesn't take a lot of effort to be friends with someone who so easily makes you feel better about yourself. That's the comic part.

You like him out of part pity, part relief that he isn't your husband. I know this, and I forgive you because it's sad that you need that in your life. I hope that one day you are happy enough to not need that crutch anymore.

In the meantime, I guess I can be glad that she has made me even more thankful for the couple of friends who stood by me and the new friends I have made.

Or I could quit trying to find a damn silver lining for everything and just allow myself to be sad about it for a little while. That's probably not a bad idea.

Maybe they are for your Barbies

I'm linking to a post that is a month old, but what can I say? I'm behind on a lot of my blog reading.

Doesn't matter though. This is the funniest thing I've read in awhile. Made me actually snort out loud.

It also reminded me very much of myself some days. There was this one time that Guy and I were in Target in the outdoors section. On the top shelf, there was a row of tiny tents and tiny sleeping bags.

I made the mistake of saying something out loud that I had thought in my head for a long time. I said, "What are those tiny tents for anyway? I mean, who really needs a tent that tiny?"

Guy just looked at me in horror as he realized that he had fallen for a true ditz.

All it took was the expression on his face and the words, "Um, honey, nobody uses those tents, they are for display," and I got whiplash being yanked back into the world of people who aren't idiots.

Me and Unkempt Mommy can just go hang out in our land of tiny tents where there are no bowling pins allowed.