Motherhood After Three Years

As is evidenced by my prodigious online presence here on the internet, I am obviously a very conscientious poster.  Or maybe not.  I'll readily admit that blogging regularly is not my forte.  I see that my last entry was from 2011, four months into my new career as a mother.

Well, yesterday, my daughter turned three.  People keep telling me it seems impossible, where has the time gone?  But I can tell you that I remember every single moment of it, and it has definitely been three years.  But maybe I'm being unfair to my daughter.  You see, in the three years since she was born, the following has happened:

1. I moved from St. Louis to Fort Worth with a two week old (I should note that I had amazing help from my mom and dad during this).
2. I started looking for jobs the minute I had moved, and I started a job as a paralegal less than a month later when she was six weeks and three days old.
3. I got hired in the position I am now, then as a law clerk, now as an attorney, doing exactly what I knew I wanted to do.
4. I studied for and took the bar exam.
5. I passed the bar exam.
6. My then-husband (note the "then") was out of work for almost six months after our move.
7. He lost that job six months later, although he was fortunate enough to find something else soon afterwards.
8. We started the process to build a house, and then had to stop because of the job loss.
9. We decided to try and build a house again, and it was completed in March 2013.
10. The great furlough of 2013 occurred, and I was unemployed and useless for almost three weeks of my life.  (Don't even get me started on this, because that is a separate "Things I Hate" post for another time.)

And all during this time, marital discord ran rampant.  So, it came as no surprise when my husband and I separated in February 2014, and our divorce will be finalized in July.

So, in three years, I went from a happily married mother to a single mother, and I feel every single moment of those three years.  I feel every heartache, heartbreak, tear, and sigh.  I feel every smile, laugh, and joyful squeal.  I feel it all, and it feels like a lot - like three years worth of roller coaster emotions.

But regardless of the roller coaster, when I look at the amazing little person that fills my day with kisses, smiles, and sunshine (also demands, boogers, and tears), I'd ride the roller coaster all over again.  People say that you'd walk through fire for your children, that you'd do anything, it's just that kind of love.  And I always wondered what that actually meant.  I mean, in theory, okay, it seems fine and dandy, because you are told you are supposed to love your child that way.  But what does that kind of love feel like?  How do you know you have it?  I never was sure, until maybe this last month.

As I sat alone, grieving for what is happening right now, for what has already happened, and feeling lonely, I thought about the fact that regardless of what happened between her father and I, I had my daughter.  Not only did I have her, but I knew that I would do it all over again to have her again.  Every single tear, angry word, heartache, and broken heart would be worth it.  After three years, I finally felt like I had a love that was worthy of my daughter.  And that was a little balm to my bruised heart, exactly what I needed.

I still have my moments when I wonder if I'm doing it right.  I still wonder if she's ever going to learn that panties are not for pooping in, potties are.  I always hope that she won't resent the fact that I didn't stay home with her, that I have a job that I love.  I pray that she'll always know that no matter what happened between us, her father and I love her more than anything in this world, and that we are now and always will be partners in raising her.  But at least I know now in my heart of hearts that I love her the way she deserves to be loved.

Motherhood after four months

Today, Ella turned four months old. (Side note: she had a well child checkup, and was 26.25" and 17 lbs. 6 oz, 97th percentile for both categories.) I tried to remember what life was like four months ago, and compared it to life today.

Four months ago: my schedule was my own. When I had a day off, I could do what I wanted/needed to do, and there was very little concern about unexpected interruptions. I was massively pregnant, yes, but that was okay.

Today: I had big plans for my day off - Ella's doctor appointment, appointment with State Farm, errands out at the mall, getting the rest of the outfits ready for the Christmas pictures, cleaning the dining and living rooms, getting the laundry caught up. What did I get done: the doctor's appointment, State Farm and half of my errands. Ella had a bad reaction to her shots and she needed to come home. The rest of the day was a wash.

So I got to thinking how much easier it was to get things done. But I also got to thinking that I wouldn't trade that ease of finishing my errands with the happiness that I have now.

This morning, I got to go in a wake up my baby girl. Her eyelids fluttered open and the first thing she did in the morning was squeal with delight and smile at me. She was happy to see me when she first woke up. What could be a better start to the day?

Four months ago, my day was made if I got a new pair of shoes or a fantastic deal at TJ Maxx. Today, my day is made when I get a little smirk and a giggle when a tickle Ella's tiny toes, or a smile first thing in the morning when I wake her up, or when she snuggles into my shoulder when I'm holding her, or when sometimes I'm just the only person who will do and make things better for her. Four months ago, my life was just so empty. I don't know what made me happy.

My daughter has shown me what my life was missing, she's made it so full when I didn't even know it was empty. She has shown me love that I didn't know existed. The last four months have been the best of my life.

Remembering that day

Tuesday, September 11. This is a day that I will never forget. I've been watching 9/11 remembrance shows this evening, and it's made me do exactly what I don't want to - remember that day.

An event happens once in a generation that people will always remember. For my parents, it was JFK. I visited the Sixth Floor Museum in Dallas once, and I was struck by the magnitude of that event. It was emotional and difficult to make it through. For my grandparents, it was Pearl Harbor. Frank's grandmother lived in Hawaii when it happened and actually saw the Japanese bombers flying over. But neither of these things are to me what September 11th is.

In May of 2001, I went to New York City with my high school choir. I remember taking a night time cruise around the harbor and seeing the twin towers lit up, the Statue of Liberty, and the New York skyline.

I remember that day, and I know where I was when I heard.

It was a beautiful day. Everyone was excited - President Bush was in Florida, about 45 minutes from where I lived. He was slated to be in Tampa later on, and everyone was kind of hoping to catch a glimpse of his motorcade.

I was sitting in Mrs. Rowe's English class and everyone was whispering that something had happened in New York. Meaning well, my teacher told us that it was no big deal and that she wasn't going to turn the television on because it was an accident. We settled down, trying not to think about it. I went to lunch, and headed to the choir room where I normally ate. And that's when I found out. America had been attacked. My life changed forever.

I know I wasn't there in New York when it happened, but it was no less real to me. I think everyone in my generation lost something that day. I can't tell you what it is that we lost, but there was some sense of security lost forever.

We all know where we were, and we know who we were watching the coverage with. We remember seeing people jumping from the buildings, watching the footage of the second plane crashing in, and staring in horror as the towers fell.

I remember September 11, but I cannot dwell on it. Why? Because it was the day that I realized I didn't live in a safe haven, it was a day that made me realize bad things could happen here. Now that I have a daughter, I pray that she never has to live through an event like that. I hope she never has to sit transfixed in front of the television watching as an unimaginable horror unfolds in front of her.

Maybe I didn't lose someone in the attacks, but the collective American psyche did. So here's to remembering, but here's also to living and trying to move on.

Pointless ramblings of the totally uninformed

Immediate disclaimer: this post is not directed at my husband, who is probably the most understanding and sympathetic male when it has come to my pregnancy.

As everyone knows, I am pregnant. Today, I'm at 38 weeks and I'm preparing to serve my precious daughter an eviction notice. (Yes, I've read through the state and federal rules of civil procedure, and I have come up with an effective and legal means to deliver proper notice without fear of later having said notice found insufficient. Pitocin, anyone?) Here's why: I'm 40 pounds heavier, it's the start of summer, it's been in the 90s every day this week, and I only have window units to park myself in front of. I'm exhausted and bored and being outside too long (i.e., walking to and from my car to go into a restaurant or store) dehydrates me enough that I get dizzy and have a headache. I'm waddling and have a baby head bumping around in my pelvis, hitting pelvic nerves and making me randomly kick things. I am routinely head butted in the bladder and made to pee my pants. Contractions come and go, and my abdomen regularly feels like it has a massive charlie horse. I won't even get into the phone calls to the Women's Evaluation Unit and trips there to find out what the heck is going on with my baby.

Now, that being said, this is all worth it, and I wouldn't trade a minute of it for anything in the world. To say that Ella is my world would be an understatement - I literally live for her, every second of my life is dedicated to her, making sure she is healthy and growing and getting ready for the best possible entry into this world that she can make. What pisses me off: anyone that would say otherwise.

Being pregnant, you make personal sacrifices, and I'll tell you that they don't even feel like sacrifices, they feel like necessary courses of action. My child is more important than a few cold beers after a hard day or an amusement park ride or blue cheese on my salad. I am not in the least bit bitter or annoyed about the changes I had to make when we decided to have her.

In the beginning, pregnancy is joyful - you have just found out you're having this precious bundle of joy. Maybe you feel sick, but it's exciting and happy and what you wanted. In the middle, it's exciting because you start to see your body changing, you can feel your baby moving, and the sonograms start to look like a little person. Near the end, you start preparing knowing that the baby will here soon, and you want to make sure that your home is ready for her. But at the very end, you're playing a waiting game, and you feel like a ticking time bomb. At any moment, you think you could explode. Your energy is sapped, your concentration is waning, and all you can think about is, "When is this going to happen?"

But back to me (naturally). I'm at the stage now where it's the very end, and the doctor has assured me more than once that my baby is probably coming early (unusual for a first baby), and yesterday she told me that she would be surprised if I made it to next week. Exciting news, right? Well it should be. Unfortunately, there are those that squash my excitement, and for no apparent reason. Further, these people tend to be totally uninformed about anything related to pregnancy or childbirth.

Now, if you don't have a clue what you are talking about, whether because you've never had a child before OR because you physically cannot have a child, can someone please explain why you feel you need to add your two cents in? To take that a step further, why do you feel the need to make comments alleging that my interests at this point relate more to my own comfort rather than the health and wellbeing of my child?

I have done everything I should have done, I have prepared my home the way I should have, never missed a doctor's appointment, took my vitamins even when they made me so nauseous that I threw up, rested when the doctor said, got active when the doctor said, and refrained from any activities potentially dangerous or hazardous to Ella's health. I started this before we decided to try and get pregnant. I have been a good mother to my child so far.

I may be uncomfortable physically and I may be bored out of my mind, but I want her to come when she's ready. I'm ready to be a mother, but not at the expense of the health of my child. And any suggestion to the contrary disgusts me, and people who say those kinds of things to expectant mothers should be ashamed of themselves. Her birth isn't about my convenience, it's about when the time is right for her.

More than anything, those comments hurt. Maybe these people don't think before they say it, but they should. Not only is it hurtful because it suggests that I don't care about my daughter the way I should, the hurtfulness is escalated by the sheer magnitude of what I'm feeling and experiencing right now. I'm a bundle of emotions and feelings: a little nervous, a little scared, really excited, and unabashedly in love with my little girl. Most expectant mothers probably feel this way. And the last thing we need is someone saying otherwise.

So, to those who are totally uninformed and clueless about what it's like to be 38 weeks pregnant and anxious to meet your baby, I say this: your ramblings and commentary are pointless because you don't have any kind of reality to base it in. Shut up, and keep it to yourself.

As for me? Well, I'll do exactly what my favorite coffee mug says: Keep calm and carry on.

Things I Hate: Gum Smacking Edition

Today, I'm going to write about something else that I passionately hate: gum smacking. This was inspired by some experiences at the recent graduation ceremonies that I've gotten to attend (p.s. - hooray from me, I'm a J.D.!!). So without further ado...

Thing I hate today: gum smacking.

Originally, I thought my hatred was of chewing gum, because in theory that is the root cause of what I hate. But it struck me, that's not it, because I enjoy chewing gum, sometimes it's great when you need to get a certain taste of out of your mouth. I, for one, enjoy the taste of Ice Cubes Cooling Lemon gum. It's refreshing and delicious, and not to gummy-tasting. So, I will not spend the rest of this post hating on chewing gum.

I hate gum smacking. I hate it for several reasons:

1. It's noisy. I hate the sound of anything involving chewing and noise. In high school, I very blatantly told a girl I always ate lunch with that she needed to stop her noisy chewing because it was annoying.
2. It's gross. You wouldn't generally chew with your mouth open with anything else inside it, like regular food, so why would you do it with a food derivative? (Because that's what it is, a food substitute.)
3. If you do this, you look like a cow. To be more exact, you look like a cow chewing cud, and that is not attractive. I'm not exactly sure when it become socially acceptable or desirable to take on bovine qualities, but in America it has. If I may make a point - a few years ago when Catherine Middleton's (i.e., the new Duchess of Cambridge, loved the royal wedding, BTW!) mother was caught on camera chewing gum with her mouth closed, the British paparazzi gave her such crap about bad manners, it was ridiculous. Here, people show up at fancy things all the time, smacking gum unabashedly, and it's no big deal.

So, to be frank, I don't understand why someone would want to make themselves look like a cow. I also don't understand why people can't wait like AN HOUR to pop in a piece of gum, instead of smacking like crazy at graduation ceremonies, weddings, special events in general.

Take my advice: don't do it. You look bad and you look like a cow. So again I ask: why do you want to look like a cow? Unless you are a real BBQ enthusiast (like my father), I don't think you should EVER want to take on bovine qualities.

Note: this hatred also extends to gum popping. I HATE gum popping, almost as much as I hate gum smacking. Just a side note.

My daughter is a jerk...or why my Saturday was infinitely more exciting than yours.

Thursday, I had a doctor's appointment with my OBGYN and found out some exciting news (pardon if this is TMI) - I lost my mucus plug and I'm already 1 cm dilated (not much, but still something). So needless to say, I spent Thursday night studying and bargaining with God and Ella, that she would please stay put until at LEAST 12:30, so I could finish my final. I preferred 10:30 that night so that I could go to Frank's graduation, but I wasn't going to be picky. Friday came, and I took that final and saw Frank graduate. At that point, I breathed a sigh of relief and had a little conversation with Ella: "Okay, sweetheart, you did what I asked, now I'm not so picky about when you decide to come. But if you could wait until next weekend, that would be even better."

Saturday, Frank and I went to our infant care class where we learned to bathe, feed, diaper, and swaddle a baby. Afterwards, he asked if I'd like to go to lunch, and I told him Panda Express sounded good, so being the good husband that he is, he took me to the food court at the mall and got me my orange chicken. I was about to go get an ice cream cone from Ben and Jerry's (I know, I eat so well, don't share this with my doctor), but I decided I needed to go to the bathroom first.

I waddled my way back, did my business, and walked about to the stall to go wash my hands. Halfway there, and something happened. GOOSH. I stopped mid-stride, wondering if what I thought had actually just happened - had my water just broken? I ran back to the stall, and sure enough, there had been a sudden gush of fluid. I wasn't quite panicked, just surprised - that would be Ella's style, literally holding out until I had just finished what I absolutely had to. It would be too much to think that I could have a relaxed weekend, naturally she would want to make it all about her.

So, I waddled, very quickly this time, back out to where Frank was waiting for me. "I think my water broke!" He stood there silent for a second, clearly stunned, and then grabbed my hand and said, "Okay, let's get you to the hospital." We got to the hospital, found the women's evaluation unit, and settled in to wait for the attending physician to make it back to examine me.

Three hours later, after several examinations and some blood work, I found out that my water had not broken. What had happened: my precious sweet little baby girl stuck her head in my bladder, essentially dividing it in two. So I went to the bathroom, thought I was done, got up, and at that exact moment, Ella moved her head, resulting in a gush, but not of amniotic fluid. Essentially, I wet my pants (although not intentionally, and because of the little jerk).

I was feeling more than a little embarrassed, but was reassured by both Frank and the doctor and nurses that I did the right thing - it was much better to be safe than sorry. But here's what I learned:

• My water breaking will feel exactly the same, with only a minor difference.
• I'm already 50% effaced, so that means this baby is coming sooner than I thought.
• Where the maternity unit is, and where I need to go when the time actually comes, and not because I should have been wearing Depends.
• My husband is amazing - when I was freaking out a little and completely upset about having wet pants in the mall, he was holding my hand and keeping me calm. I wasn't sure how he would be in labor, but I learned a lot about him that afternoon, and it was all good.
• My daughter is a jerk. She literally made me wet my pants. Frank said that she probably decided to pull that stunt so she could get her picture taken (I had to get another sonogram done to check my fluid levels).

So, that was my exciting Saturday. Can you top that?

When life hands you lemons...

...be happy and put them in the fridge, because those things are expensive!

So, it's finals time, and I'm deliriously skipping through my last round of law school finals EVER (sorry if that was salt being rubbed in your wounds). This is the time of year where everyone gets stressed, and we're all probably a little homicidal (because everyone knows that running out of tabs at 6:30 in the morning is a NATIONAL EMERGENCY when you've got a test in less than 3 hours and you want to get your outline finished, so don't ask if they're really important!). There's sometimes a little depression - like can I possibly cram all of this knowledge from the last 4 months into my brain in time for a final? can I regurgitate it all back in a coherent form? will I find a job anytime soon?

Needless to say, sometimes I have to stop and back away and consider it all for a moment. I have to actively look for things to be happy to be happy about, because I know they are there, and sometimes I find them in surprising places - like when I'm being actively pissy and purposely finding the glass half empty (a change from my natural disposition - it's neither empty or half full, it's twice as big as it needs to be).

So, here's an unusual post: things I love and things that make me happy.

1. My husband. When I am ranting about things like the lack of sticky tabs at 6:30 in the morning or requesting to be tucked into bed at 7:30 because I'm just exhausted, he just smiles indulgently and does it without a question. He knows when to laugh and he knows when to be quiet and he knows when I just need a hug. I'm kind of demanding (shocking, right?), but he loves me anyway.
2. My daughter. Taking finals while pregnant has been an experience - she gets bored and starts stretching, sometimes there's a contraction that can take my breath away for a moment, and I need to pause for a moment before I go on. But I'll tell you this: I wouldn't change a minute of it. Every time I feel her squirm, I know she's growing and healthy, and has one hell of a little personality. And I wouldn't trade her little nudges during exams for anything. Maybe it's her way of making sure I know that she is supporting me.
   
3. My parents. To say that they support me is an understatement. I don't think they always understand what it is I'm talking about or the latest thing I've gotten into, but they put on a good pretend face and go with it. Not to mention, they've literally let their house be taken over by baby stuff while we get ready to move back. Now that's devotion.
4. Archie. He's a ball of fluff with a prissy attitude, and probably the nicest cat in the world. Even though I don't appreciate always being kneaded at ungodly hours because he wants to show me how much he loves me, it's worth it when he snuggles up next to me in the mornings when I'm having a slow day and sleeping in. He's my little snuggle bunny.
5. Frank's snow cone machine. We just added this to our household inventory this weekend. Cherry snow cones whenever I want? Yes please!
6. My craft project bin. Even though there are 4 projects in various states of incompleteness, I love looking over and seeing the possibilities in that box. I know that there are a bunch of things in there that will one day be beautiful, and I get to be part of that process.
7. My friends. Misery loves company, and I love the miserable group that I'm surrounded with. There's nothing better than a great group of girls to turn to and hang out with. I wouldn't trade them for the world.

So, there's a few small reminders to myself of why life is good, even though things are a little hectic. It'll all calm down eventually (probably just in time for Ella to be born).

Happy Tuesday, everyone :)

Stupid Names

So, everyone knows that Frank and I picked out the name for our little one - Ella Marie. I think it's beautiful, and it seems to have gotten a lot of compliments from everyone (or perhaps they read they previous post and were too afraid to say anything that I might deem impolite). But I hope that she likes it. What if she hates it? I guess that's what legal name change procedures are for.

On this subject, I would also like to discuss something - people that tell you the name you've picked for your baby is stupid. Someone that I know asked if I'd thought about names when I first announced I was pregnant, and I said I had, and that I'd actually picked out two girl names and two boy names. This person asked what they were, and I told her. On the last boy name, she snorted and said, "Don't do that to the child! That name is horrible!" (For the record, it was Henry Francis, and he would go by Harry.)

...

Seriously? I don't walk up to you and tell you that your cat's name is stupid or that your name is stupid. Here's a hint: DO NOT DO THIS. Even if I was naming my child Starry Haze. My baby is my business.

If someone persists in giving their opinions to me about these things, next time they look fat in something or tell me something incredibly dumb, I'm going to say, "Do you realize how stupid that is? My God, what a pity you're doing/wearing that!"

Things I Hate: Yankee Manners Edition

The thing I hate today: Yankee manners (or as I like to term it - one of the biggest oxymorons in the world!). This post is inspired by someone that I used to know well, and some of you may figure out quickly exactly who I'm talking about (although I won't mention names).

Most people know that I am from Texas (and if you don't, you had better learn that quickly, it's probably my second most distinguishing feature, the first most distinguishing being my chin). I view myself as a Southern girl - bigger is better, attitude is everything, always be gracious, and begin an insult with "Bless his heart, but...". I've got a stock pile of phrases for almost any occasion and I say "ya'll" without finding it funny. My favorite movie: Steel Magnolias. But the most important part of my Southern-ness: my manners. You say "please" and "thank you" and "yes ma'am" and "no sir", anyone person that appears to be older than you or is in a position of authority is "Miss", "Mrs.", "Ms." or "Mr.". Men hold doors for ladies, younger people give up their seats for older people, and you always say "excuse me" and you do not cut in line.

This is a telling story from my childhood: I only said "yeah" to my mother once. ONCE, and I never did that again.

I have since been introduced to "Yankee manners" which are a peculiar thing, as well as Midwest manners. Now, Missouri isn't exactly the North, but it sure as hell isn't the South. Someone tried to argue this point to me, saying that Missouri was the South. No, my friend, you are not. I'll grant you this much: you are south of Canada. Now, I'm not picking on the entire state, and I have met some lovely people while living here. Like I said, this is focused largely on one individual, who prided themselves on being from the North and having good New England manners (ha!). I heard more about finishing school and fine breeding than I thought humanly possible. And oddly enough, all of that training to be gracious did not pay off one bit.

Examples of bad manners that were mistaken for good:

• I gave this person a small thank you gift for something they had done for me. Instead of saying thank you, this person said to me, "Well, now I feel like I have bad manners, I don't have anything for you." There was never a "thank you" involved, and they were right, they did in fact have bad manners.
• A fork was dropped on the floor, and this person informed me that well-bred people didn't pick up silverware that they had knocked there, they waited for the "help" to do that. During this same dining experience, I never heard a "please" or "thank you" muttered to the server.
• Explaining to me that being "gracious" and well bred was dependent on how much money you had in your trust account. Poor people (i.e., me) could apparently not be gracious. We didn't have the money to buy our proper manners, which come from prep schools.
• Telling me that I would do a favor for them because it was the right thing to do, and acting as if it was expected.

The even better examples would too quickly give away too much information about this person. But suffice it to say that a "thank you" never left their mouth, even after I had gone out of my way to help or do something that I considered unpleasant.

Midwest manners are something of an improvement, although not much. "Brazen" and "crass" are the words that most often come to mind. But I digress. For those of you who were not lucky enough to be raised by a good Southern mother (bless your hearts!), then let me provide a little guide for being polite.

1. "Please" and "thank you" are really golden phrases. Say them genuinely and appreciatively. People will notice and appreciate your appreciation.
2. "Excuse me" is also a golden phrase. Don't shove yourself in front of someone or behind someone or even just walk in front of them without providing some kind of apology. And DON'T push someone out of the way. We're all in line and we all want to get to the front. Unless you are in labor or your wife is in labor, there is no excuse to push someone out of the way.
3. Don't park in expectant mother/new mother parking unless you are either an expectant mother or new mother. If you do this, you are a turd. If you do this, I will pray that one day when you need to park in a handicap spot, there will be some young hot shot sitting in the only handicap spot, obviously not needing that space. Trust me, it will happen, and when it does, I will laugh at you.
4. If someone opens a door for you or holds it open after they have walked out, say thank you. There is nothing more irritating than someone not taking five seconds to say those two little words. I have been known to follow someone into a store and say "You're welcome" to their faces when they have failed to be polite, so hopefully they get the hint that they are rude.
5. There is a time and a place to be outrageous. I've been known to be outrageous. It's okay. But bad language is also not acceptable in some situations - like when you are out with a bunch of superiors. It's not funny and you're probably embarrassing the people who are out with you. If you're unsure if something is appropriate, then don't say it. That should be your initial indicator that what you're going to say is NOT okay. This includes reference to semi-private things, disgusting stories, all bad words, family drama, totally private things, and generally things that you would not feel comfortable sharing (or doing) in front of your grandmother.

I'll stop here, because I could go on forever. And I also don't want to offend the few readers that I have. I still love everyone that has inspired this post, even if their manners are a little bad. After all, none of us are perfect, right? (Well, some do come closure to perfection than others, and I maintain those people were born within the confines of the Texas state lines.)

But to get to the point: I hate Yankee manners. They don't exist. I've never seen the allure of the east coast - why would I want to hang out with a bunch of people who stake their reputation on the prep school they went to? If you suffer from a case of Yankee manners (or a mild affliction of Midwestern manners), let me make this suggestion to you: get yourself a pair of good jeans and some cowboy boots, pull your prep school stick out of your butt, and get yourself to Texas. Spend a day in Dallas and find out how friendliness and cosmopolitaness can adequately mix. Then go to Chuy's and eat some Tex Mex. You'll thank me later, and so will everyone who comes into contact with your good manners!

My Moment of Panic on Encroaching Motherhood

The other night I woke up as usual to make one of my many nocturnal bathroom trips (thank you, Ella, for pressing on my bladder! Mommy loves you!), and I climbed back into bed. While trying to fall asleep again, I started thinking about Ella and wondering how I could possibly love her as much as I feel like I'm supposed to. I mean, how do you just unconditionally love a person? It was scaring me, and I thought, "I just don't know how I'll do it. How could I when I'm already doubting my ability to do this now?"

At the same time, another part of my brain was registering that my sciatica was acting up again, and so I needed to shift on my body pillow some. Unfortunately, my cat, Archie, had taken up right in the middle of where I needed to shift. I considered shoving him out of the way for a moment, and then quickly decided against that. He was just too cute curled up there. I decided that I didn't mind being a little uncomfortable, after all, how much difference could a few inches really make?

And then it hit me. I could love Ella unconditionally, and I could love her just as much as I should. If I was this crazy about Archie, and I preferred his comfort to my own, of course I'd be able to do that with her. So I finally fell asleep, my moment of panic passing.

Things I Hate: Pacifier Edition

Okay, I've written the positive post. Now on to something that I feel truly passionate about: things that I hate. This is going to be a multi-part series, so don't worry, I won't tell you everything I hate in one post.

So, without further ado, part 1 of this illustrious series called "Things I Hate".

Thing that I hate today: pacifiers.

I really hate pacifiers. You can ask my husband: if I see a baby with a pacifier, I'm likely to lean over and say, "Well that just looks stupid." Now, before my friends with children get on to me, please know that I understand that they are supposed to help babies be soothed and calmed, and for some children they do work. But I never EVER used one. My mom said that she tried a few times and I would either spit it out or throw it on the floor. In fact, I was more fussy when she was trying to force it on me than I was without it. In fact, she said I gave her a look that said, "This is a fake nipple, not a real one, I won't be fooled."

This is what pacifiers are to me: stupid little supple plastic fake nipples that fool your baby into thinking she is nursing. They smell weird and there is no possible way they can be hygienic (not that I'm a germ freak, but really, how could you possibly hope for them to be clean enough to not be totally gross?).

Now that we're having a baby, this is a point of contention with Frank and I. I want to ban them, he thinks they're necessary. What will probably end up happening: a confused child who wants a pacifier when Daddy's around and doesn't want a pacifier when Mommy's around. I don't want to have a toddler with a pacifier addiction and have to break that habit.

What do I hate more than pacifiers themselves? The term "binky". If that term is ever used in my presence to describe those horrible little fake nipples, I want to scream.

Maybe it's because I've worked in children's retail for so many years. It was always some stupid looking toddler with a snotty nose and a pacifier half-hanging out of his mouth that would be a terror and scream and pull things off of the tables. All I know, is that when I see a kid like that, I want to turn and run the other way, because I know that nothing good is going to come from that encounter.

Happiness is...

So, apparently the last time I wrote a blog entry was in September and I was going through something really sad. Now, in February, several months later, there's something to replace that sadness. Ready?! My little girl is due in June! Ella Marie Farese is going to be lovely and spoiled (and it'll be my fault, I just bought her a Muffy VanderBear today, but in my defense, it was on sale).

Since I've been expecting her, I've made two resolutions: [1] finished unfinished projects (most of these are craft projects, and I'm working on them, slowly but surely); [2] dwell on the good things in my life, because otherwise the life is going to be sucked out of me.

Happy Friday!

In other news...

Essica told me to be happy and post the following: she is going to see Shrek the Musical, and we have a new friend at the desk: a cut out of Simon's Cat.

That is all.

Sadness is...

It's fall, and that makes me happy. Why? Because it promises cooler weather, beautiful leaves, and (my favorite!) apple picking! I went apple picking two weeks ago with Frank, Sara, and Tim, and it was so much fun. $57 and 27 lbs. of apples later, we left, and Sara and I made a fantastic apple pie.

Life has been hectic: we're moving, I'm taking 20 hours of classes, we've got people coming in from out of town literally all fall, and babies... What, you ask? Well never you mind - there will be more on that when the time comes. For now, it's a thought passing between Frank and I.

To be honest, I've been kind of down lately. I just keep seeing everything that needs to get done, all of the major changes happening, and I get tired. Not to mention, I got some really traumatic/sad/depressing news a few weeks ago.

Over the summer, I had thought I was possibly pregnant. Turns out, I wasn't, or so I thought. After a few months, several doctor visits, and a lot of blood work, I found out that I had a miscarriage. At first I felt like I shouldn't be sad, because I really hadn't known until after the fact. But I was, and I cried a lot, felt down, thinking my body was broken. You know, I was talking to someone about this, wondering why I felt this way, and it struck me: a girl's entire identity is almost built around her ability to make babies. Think about it: from the time we're 11 or 12, we get out period, and we know that means we can have babies. When we're teenagers, we're lectured about responsibility and how being stupid can lead to having a baby. We see commercials EVERYWHERE, all about birth control or periods. In short, our lives are almost made to revolve around our reproductive health and the many different ways we can prevent pregnancy. I struggled with this for a long time, and I didn't tell anyone. I finally told Frank and my mom, and I've opened up to a few of my friends, and I feel so much better.

But I can't banish this thought from my mind. What if I am broken? What if I can't have a baby? What if...? My mom and Frank have both told me to stop thinking that way, and I'm trying. And I don't understand why I was so sad for losing a baby that I wasn't even sure existed at the time.

It's getting better though, it's getting a little better all the time.

In the mean time, I'll think happy thoughts, and listen to happy music. After all, I always know that the sun will come out tomorrow, and maybe it'll bring a little ray of hope with it. And if it doesn't, I'll just wait until patiently until the day that it does.

Outlines and finals and papers, oh my!

Before I start getting into the bad stuff, a piece of good news: I finished my bioethics final! One class down, four to go. Hopefully by Saturday afternoon I will be done with three classes, and I can really concentrate on the remaining two. AND I got the copy of the journal where my little "Of Note" news summaries were published. Pretty exciting and I get a publication credit on my resume. Yay!! Now, on to more "upsetting" things...

I met with my PhD advisor this morning to go over some things before she leaves (boo!!) for a fantastic new opportunity. And in the process, I received some rather unfortunate news: I have to find a way to squeeze in 3 more hours somewhere next fall. My options:

1. Try to take a class this summer while in Dallas at SMU and get it transferred to SLU Law and then I can drop a law class in the fall and take the PhD cluster course she's recommending.
2. Request permission to take an additional 3 hours in the fall, for a grand total of 20 hours in the fall.
3. Request permission to take an additional 3 hours next summer, for a total of 8 hours during the summer, drop one of my law classes in the fall, and take the cluster class.

At this moment in time, none of those options look to be even slightly preferable. Life is going to be interesting this next school year FOR SURE. On the plus side, I did get clearance to move back to Texas after I finish up coursework and my comps. So, something good did come from all of this.

I forgot my wakey wakey pills this morning, and I am dead beat tired. Hopefully this religious methods paper writing goes better, because currently I'm going back and forth between totally agreeing with Catholic Church and thinking that it's a totally backward organization run by a bunch of pig headed old white men. (Mother, if you read this, I promise I'm not planning on converting.)

I will say this though - I have become totally fascinated with the Jewish theology and culture. Their way of thinking and perceiving religion and healing is both fascinating and open minded. Where some religious traditions are really completely set against change (or at least approach it with painful conservatism) ::ahem::Catholics::ahem::, this is a culture and a religion open to change and open to the views of the practicing faithful. Novel concept really, and a model that I think holds great value.

Enough complaining. I'm going to go get some work done now. Maybe :)

I just saw a guy walk by hiking up his pants and buttoning them. Why are that young man's pants unbuttoned? Hanky panky in the library...

When the going gets tough...

The actual ending to that is "...the tough get going." But I have to tell you that I don't really feel like that's an appropriate sentiment. More like this: "When the going gets tough, the women take over." Well, my friends, the going has gotten tough, and this woman finally took over. I hope it all turns out for the best.

Everyone should go watch "Steel Magnolias". That is a poignant gender commentary and explains exactly how I'm feeling at this moment.

Gimme those hush puppies!

Are there some restaurants that just remind you of certain people? Like, whenever I see a Sweet Tomatoes or Souper! Salad!, I always think of Frank or my mom. Healthy, salads, fresh food, soup. But then I think of my dad... Long John Silver's, Lion's Choice, Wendy's, Ozzie's Sports Bar & Grill, the Gast Haus, the Edelweiss (that restaurant is a post in itself, I'll save this one for Father's Day).

When I was little, my dad used to take my on "dates" to Long John Silver's, the fried fish and hush puppy emporium. As I got older, my mom started refusing to go, but I would always tag along. Because I love hush puppies so much, my dad always gives me his hush puppies and a piece of shrimp. So now, inevitably, when I'm visiting my parents and my dad is off for the day, we usually end up going to LJS or Captain D's (just like LJS, but maybe without so much class, they also don't offer a variety of "grilled" items like LJS does).

Today I went to Captain D's, a little fried fish fast food restaurant. Walking in, I got this little feeling of comfort, because this is something I associate with one of my most special memories with my dad. Several years ago, when I was engaged and looking for my wedding dress, he took me on another one of our "dates" to go see the dress I had picked out and pay for it (although he still claims I didn't mention that the use of some plastic would be involved during the trip). We went to the shop, I tried the dress on, and he teared up, telling me how beautiful I was in the dress. We even took a couple of pictures together, and I still have them, and they are so very special to me. Afterwards, he offered to take me to lunch. And where did we go? Captain D's, of course.

When I went by myself today, it wasn't quite the same. There wasn't anyone to joke around with about the quality of the fried fish and they didn't have the bell by the front door for you to ring when you leave if you felt like you had a good experience (and let me assure you that my dad always whole-heartedly rings that bell every time he leaves). So, I was a little let down by the whole thing. But then, the manager came walking around asking everyone how their food was. This was a guy in his 20s who obviously takes his job as the manager of Captain D's very seriously. When he asked me, though, how everything was, I just smiled and said "Thank you" because it made me feel a little happier that someone was asking how I liked Captain D's. Just like my dad does when we go together.

I'm heading back to Fort Worth in a couple of weeks, and I know I'll make a trip to Captain D's or LJS with my favorite fried fish fanatic for a date.

Success, failure, and rock bottom (in the words of JK Rowling)

I saw this on a mental_floss article and I really liked it. Whether or not you agree with what J.K. Rowling did to support herself while writing Harry Potter (she lived on welfare in order to focus on her writing), this is a pretty great quote about success and failure. A lot of people forget these things, or never really stop to think about them. Maybe that's why so many of us are unhappy? Anyway, I like this :)

Ultimately, we all have to decide for ourselves what constitutes failure, but the world is quite eager to give you a set of criteria if you let it. So I think it fair to say that by any conventional measure, a mere seven years after my graduation day, I had failed on an epic scale. An exceptionally short-lived marriage had imploded, and I was jobless, a lone parent, and as poor as it is possible to be in modern Britain, without being homeless. The fears that my parents had had for me, and that I had had for myself, had both come to pass, and by every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew.

… So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

Frank, the tea cup sleuth

Well, I'm proud to say that my law review comment has been turned in. Will it get published? Not a clue, but at least I did it! So, enough of that, I want to talk about something more fun :)

As many of you may know, I absolutely LOVE to plan parties. The more fabulous, fantastic and over the top, the better! I've got several in the works right now, but my favorite upcoming one has to be the Alice in Wonderland themed Mad Hatter Tea Party for my friend's bridal shower. I'm going to have it at the London Tea Room, and there will be crowns, top hats, scones and tea. Truly fantastic.

So, while trying to think of a party favor, I came across the idea for tea cup candles - you buy old tea cups and saucers, and make candles in the cups! Naturally, I began the hunt for old tea cups in kitschy patterns - really vintage stuff. I happened upon an estate sale a few weeks back and found something things that were perfect! I only bought the tea cups (not the accompanying china set), and was really amused that the bottom of some of the cups said "Made in Occupied Japan". Well, of course the first thing I did was call my mom to celebrate my fantastic deal. When I told her about the cups and what some of them had printed, she screamed into the phone, "BABY DOE, GO GET EVERYTHING ELSE IN THAT SET!" Turns out that little Occupied Japan stamp makes those pieces ten times more valuable. Grabbing my purse, I ran two blocks at a flat out sprint (and you should know that I detest running, I will only run for a pair of shoes or an excellent deal) and bought the rest of the china, many pieces of which had "Occupied Japan" on the bottom. In fact, for nine place settings, I paid less than half of what one place setting goes for.

So, my sweet sweet husband politely listened to me tell this thrilling tale of my estate sale bargain and even ooed and awed in all the right places when I told him of the old ladies I'd nearly knocked over and how I carried around nine place settings of china in this old house to insure that no one else picked it up. I think it's safe to say that he's politely amused at my antics. I've spent the past few weeks admiring my new china pieces and serving dishes. Frank always makes sure to agree with me and tell me how lovely they are.

I continued the tea cup adventure last weekend with him, and we ended up at Goodwill (after much frustration with a bunch of old broads with their heads stuck so far up their fleshy asses that I'm pretty sure they'll never see the light of day again). After finding some tea cups and saucers that would be perfect, we went to get in line, when a small white fabric box caught Frank's eye. I watched as he reached over and lifted the lid and his hand froze. He quickly looked up to see if anyone was upset by the fact that he was messing with the box. When he ascertained that no one was, he put the lid back and leaned protectively over the box. I asked him what was going on, and he whispered, "It's that china pattern you love. Twelve cups. I'm trying to make sure no one takes it."

Well, I was so excited at that point that I was itching to get my hands on them and see if they had that magical little stamp I was so excited about. Frank continued to protect them from the greedy hands of others (he was determined that my greedy hands would be the only ones who possessed those cups).

Needless to say, I got the cups, and one of them had "Occupied Japan" on them. But I never would have found them if it hadn't been for my precious husband and his patience as I went on my grand tea cup adventure. It's moments like that where he jumps into action at the sight of something that I want to bad that my heart melts. Even if we couldn't have afforded those cups or none of them had that little stamp on it, I would never have forgotten how happy he was that he'd found something so important to me.

A new year, the same old me

So, it's fair to say that I'm pretty bad about blogging. I just haven't gotten into the habit of it, I guess. But maybe I'll try a little harder, get a little better, and see what happens.

Sometimes we have to separate ourselves from the people that we care about, not because they have done anything wrong, but because we need the time. I'm at that point right now, and I do not like it. I'm always worried that I'm hurting someone's feelings, and maybe I am, but it's not my intention.

To all my friends: know that I love you and care about you and I would do just about anything you ever asked of me, no matter the cost. Right now, I've got to take a step back and take care of me, because I'm literally worn out and don't have much left to give. But rest assured, soon I'll be back and better than ever and all myself again. I'd rather you had that girl than the grumpy old fart sitting here typing right now. You all are amazing, and I'm lucky to know such wonderful people.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night - take these broken wings and learn to fly.
All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night - take these sunken eyes and learn to see.
All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free.
Blackbird fly, into the light of the dark black night.