So, even though I’ve read time and again that babies really are better off on exclusive breast milk till 6 months old, and I really prefer this idea over the whole tiny bits of packaged and mushy food (have I mentioned how much I *hate* mushy food?) when our pediatrician said we could start giving Alex food at 4 months we went straight to the grocery store.

See, I’m barely keeping up on milk for the boy. I’ve tapped into the frozen reserves and only have 12oz left. Even if I think formula is fine … I apparently think it’s fine for the rest of the world, but I really don’t want to use it. Apparently, I am more comfortable with food and milk rather than formula and milk. I have no logic to it.

So he’s been lusting over the applesauce, and barely tolerating the bananas.

Please tell me you caught the *immediate* problem here.

Um. Applesauce and bananas are binders. I might as well have fed him Elmer’s Glue and Wonder Bread, poor kid. So we’ve now gone to prune juice and baby massage.

Please don’t let the gypsies take me away. I like it here.

It was Easter season 2002. I had a good circle of friends, a good church, I was back in school and doing well, I had goals, I laughed deeply and really, really meant it for the first time in several years. I had good friends, and needed no dude to fill any of my places.

So CLEARLY, I met a boy. THE boy. I met this boy at church (a change from my priors), he had a good job (a change from my priors), cool parents (a change from my priors), shared my friends (a change from my priors). We’d been in the same circle of 10 or so friends at church for a while, and I’d called him one night for some random nothingness and ended up still on the phone several hours later. For two people who only sort of knew each other, we totally steamed up the phone lines with the double entendres in the midst of the church and politics and college and swapping stories talk.

I saw him at a St. Paddy’s gathering (at NOT Mrs. Tater’s) a couple days after this phone call. The day was full of close touches and that first date sort of breath holding, stomach fluttering, damp parts kind of rapport. This was perfection.

I fessed up to a couple of the girls what was going on, I was flat out commanded to NOT fuck this up with him. That he was SO MUCH BETTER than anyone else I’d ever dated, etc etc.

It was 3-4 weeks of late night phone calls, emails etc. All was well. I was SO happy.

And I prayed, oh how I prayed that God would show me the way, that s/he would help me make good decisions and be with us.

There was this thorn.

NOT Mrs. Tater.

Bitca. (Name that reference.)

She seemed to think she and the Repellican had something something special. She’d asked if I was okay with them going to lunch. I was like, uh, sure. Because I knew he was mine, so whatever. Just keep your hands off, bitca. I wasn’t worried. And why would I be? When I talked to him about it, like the oh, so mature person I was, he told me she had gotten the wrong idea and wouldn’t leave him alone. He was mature about it, and I let it go.

It all blew up the night before Easter. She saw us kissing. She was pissed. I thought she needed to get over it.

Then he dumped me the next day. After Easter Sunday service.

The fuck? (verb, not noun)

My friends were shocked. I was shocked. And man was I bloody pissed that this carrot of a perfect relationship had been put in front of me and made me jump for it, never quite reaching it.

****

Now this is a story of getting played. Later that summer, after many hard feelings had moved past, NOT Mrs. Tater and I sat down with a box o’ wine and one of her friends and we literally. picked. apart. every. day. of. that. month.

We fanatically went over the details and it boiled down to starting St. Paddy’s weekend he started seeing her and talking to me at the same time. He would take her to a movie, take her home, call me and talk dirty for several hours. Or he would see me, I’d go home, he’d call her.

Dating two women from the SAME social circle at the same time? Seriously?

And that whole line of compost about getting the wrong idea and not being left alone had been fed to NOT Mrs. Tater as well.

He dumped me, and went straight to her apartment. He pushed the sex issue, and when she made it abundantly clear that they. were. not. having. sex. He let it go.

And never called her again.

At this point we decided the best course of action was for her to call him from MY phone. If he had any sense of self preservation, the idea of her and I up in the middle of the night, clearly drunk, and with him enough on our minds for us to call him – this should have shriveled his brass balls to the size of raisins in fear.

The next day at church, he seemed nervous. And we giggled.

****

This is also a story of “living well is the best revenge”.

I was so hurt over this, that I swore off men and vowed to have only cats and “rabbits” (you know what I mean) from then on.

It was only this kind of hurt that made me innocently email Scout after a conversation with a friend. I never expected a response from him, much less anything else.

Like, say, getting married four years later.

The end of this tale is that NOT Mrs. Tater met Mr. Tater at our wedding.

and they will exchange wedding rings and become Mr. and Mrs. Tater come next Spring.

Repellican? Moved to the coast and fell off the face of the Earth, never to be heard of again. Never piss off a couple of redheads by choice.

(and the story closes to the strains of The Dixie Chicks’ “Goodbye Earl”)

We went to the ped last week, and on the 4 month information they gave us was this line:

“Many babies sleep through the night by this time.”

Oh. My. Gaw.

Now, I really should have asked for definition of terms of the word “many” and the phrase “sleep through the night” because what those words translated as in my exhausted “oh. my. gaw. I’m never getting a full night of sleep again” brain is:

“Every baby but YOURS is sleeping 12 hours at a stretch by this time, so if you are so fucking tired you could fucking die, it’s your own fucking fault.” (When I get tired, my adjectives decrease to only my favorite one.)

I need advice. I need to hear from every single person who has a baby who did/does any of the following:

Screams when he’s snuggled down to nap – at the FIRST possible sign of being tired (negating the over tired argument – I did read my Pantley).

Does NOT scream when Daddy walks him around the house to go to sleep – either at night or during the day.

Does NOT scream when I put him in the wrap and walk him around the house to go to sleep during the day.

Apparently sleeps with one eye open like a cat, because as soon as I try to shift him out of wrap – fuhgeddaboudit, he’s awake, nap is ruined, screaming commences, and we’re farther and farther away from getting those 15 hours of needed sleep a day.

Will. Not. Sleep. at night. for long. for the last three weeks. Wakes, kicks, if not fed will commence that I’m asleep but I’m still going to cry and keep everyone awake cry.

Will. Not. Allow me to give him the bottle for a few minutes till he is CLEARLY not drinking, and then take it away – see above.

If your baby has/had any of these issues, please tell me that I will not die from this. That someday he will sleep a decent chunk of time. That I’m not a freaking failure as a parent because My. Baby. Will. Not. Sleep.

I’m so tired, I don’t even want advice, just tell me someday it will be okay.

So, I’m in the process of registering a domain name and moving stuff around. It’s been on my mind for a while, and I want to do the BlogHer ads. Why? Well. 1) I think BlogHer does good stuff. The articles that tick through my reader are generally well written and intelligent. I get to read articles about current events that appear factual without the scary media shock n awe bias. So part of the ad money goes to them to support what they do. And I can live with that. I appreciate that emails are friendly between the staffers and I, and that I get responses from real people, not auto spit backs. (or links that are broken and forms that can’t be filled in. Yes, I’m looking at you, G00g1e.)

2) of course the allure of making some money off what I do every day. Because it’s hard out here for a pimp mommy. There’s very little I can do given the restraints of my current dictator child.

Other than my freshman year of college, I’ve had a paycheck continuously from when I was a senior in high school. I can make a killer budget and stick with it. I budgeted so well for year three of teaching that I still have money in the bank, and will have money to call my own until November.

Please notice the “money to call my own” part of things.

Scout and I are pretty independent. We have our rigid individual ways of doing things when it comes to finances. We’ve always had it divided that I pay for xyz and he pays for abc and whatever money we have left over is our business. This has worked perfectly well for us.

Now, once my checking account is empty, I have NO MONEY. Regardless of the fact that no one else can mother our child and moo on a pump all the live long day to give him food, it’s still not a paying gig, and it’s …. it makes me quit breathing when I try to visualize what it will be like when I have no money I have made on my own and I have to ask, ASK hubs for money for something that isn’t a bill or food or fuel.

Don’t even for a minute picture Scout as some Scrooge who will penny pinch and not share what he makes. This is my issue, not his. All he can do is helplessly stand by and admit, “I would feel weird if I was the one not making cash for the house too.” Otherwise, he doesn’t know what to say, and he hates that I feel so uncomfortable about it.

So yes, I will put every ad imaginable along side my words. I will sell off anything on ebay that doesn’t seem necessary in my house … I will do what I can to keep that fear at bay, and put off for another week the day that I swipe my debit card and it pops up “are you kidding me, go get a J. O. B.”

I’m scared that my worth is tied to a dollar figure, and that when the dollars are gone my worth will disappear as well.

My glass of mommy is pretty empty. I’d say it’s at about a 10. I’m new to this whole mom thing, but I’m wagering that I need to be at about 100 to be a happy, well rounded, good for Scout and Alex, mommy again.

Being a goal oriented kind of girl I am creating a list of things and their point values to get me back to 100. I’m not listing the negative points because that’s just too frustrating, and I might find that my 10 should actually be -100. If anyone would like to donate to my cause, please feel free.

Jeans/shorts/non yoga pants that fit while sitting without needing to be unbuttoned +5

Already owned, prepregnancy jeans etc that fit while sitting without needing to be unbuttoned +10

159 +10

154 +10

149 +10

145 +10

139 +10

sex +5 (unless Scout is reading this then clearly it’s +200)

a foot rub and massage +15 (hey, I’m lazy, what can I say?)

healthy dinner made of real food that I have no responsibilities for other than eating it +10

followed by dessert of sinful calorie amounts +15 (total)

fitting into the bras I splurged on, then got pregnant and went up a cup size as soon as the stick turned pink +15

the entire inside of the house being painted +50

all the rooms in the house being settled/usable +50

getting all our money reimbursed from the move +50

8 hours of uninterrupted sleep +30

10 hours of uninterrupted sleep +40

watching an entire movie (of my choice) +10

baby sleeping 4 hours straight +25

baby not screaming/whimpering/needing anything +5 per hour

completing a project, any project +5

completing a fun project – knitting, scrapbook +10

finding a combination of eye makeup that enhances my eyes, not the purple shadows under my eyes +10

finding time to put on magical combo of eye makeup +15

What am I forgetting?

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Overwhelmed, out of time, in the midst of a messy house, with that fucking 164.5 on the scale AGAIN, can’t find my bra so the girls are sagging to the new post pregnancy location of my navel, cute shirts from Old Navy already feel like cheap shit after being washed a few times, yoga pants – again -, baby crying and not going down for nap, Scout leaving to go home for an overnighter, me dropping my basket.

I *refused* to say the words “I don’t want you to go.” I wanted to say them. But I would not. Three times he said he was staying, three times I said he was going.

Deep down I’m a little pissed he’s going. It’s money I’d rather spend on stuff for the house to make my world easier (selfish). It’s another 36 hours where I’m on my own with baby (selfish). I still don’t know anyone out here well enough to have them help me today.

I hate being weak like this. I feel like he goes to work and makes the money and I stay home and raise the baby and keep the house. Only ….. I feel like shit every time he does anything about the house, because it’s not like I can go to his job and help him out on a hard day.

I feel like I can’t catch my breath. Like in 9th grade gym when we had to run the mile. I knew I couldn’t do it, so I would alternate sprinting with walking (long before I knew the phrase “interval training”). I would sprint a leg and walk a leg to catch my breath. But before I’d caught my breath it would be time to sprint again. Each leg I was a little more out of breath and it hurt a little more. By the end of the mile I was still the last one (unless you count the girl gasping near me, “I need a cigarette”), having been lapped by the “good” runners, and passed by everyone else.

I feel like that today every day.

If I ever run into this woman I promise I will smack her around with one of my milk filled mammaries that wouldn’t fit into pretty lingerie BEFORE getting pregnant. In the meantime I’ll just quit fucking eating so “something” cute in my closet will fit that aren’t a pair of yoga pants and an old navy tshirt. Now what can I find that goes with little boy pee and spit up……. clearly something that needs to be drycleaned….. and that manicure … right….. my nail biting habit might be gross, but so is picking poop out from under perfectly manicured nails. As if I don’t have enough to freaking worry about, now I have to bounce out of bed and do my makeup? And I guess the ponytail is bad too? I should let baby hands yank it all out. Clearly the look of broken beads all over the house from all my earrings and necklaces would be a good idea too…… frumpy mama my ass…..

To anyone giving me dirty looks in the grocery while I was holding my vocally crabby infant and pushing his stroller: Yes, I know it looks stupid, Yes, I know he’s annoying to listen to, I know this because I spend several hours a day listening to it. You get to go home. Blow me.

To the woman in the awesome dress with her daughter in a wrap, who was chatting with a random stranger (In one of those conversations all new parents get stuck in with strangers), thank you for not rolling your eyes at my predicament and acting superior b/c you were baby wearing and I was not. I forgot my wrap at home which is what caused the predicament in the first place. I am one of you.

To the man who came around me in the self check out to see the vocally crabby infant and then joke with me “are you going to feed him that sushi?”: Dude, do I LOOK like I’m in a mood or position to joke. I think not. Help me scan my groceries, or get them out of the bottom of the stroller while trying to not lose my balance while my son filets my face with his fingernails. I’ll love you forever. But thank you for saying as you walked away that he’s cute as a button. I wish you would have led with that, you would have gotten the thank you that etiquette owed you.

To the cashier who wouldn’t stop talking to her friend when my card was failing and the check out said “wait for cashier”. Who kept talking to her friend when I pushed the call button. Who finally walked over when the pissy laser beam mom eye glare burned a hole through her and got her attention: fuck off. I DID press CREDIT you biatch. I’m out of high school, undergraduate and graduate school. Don’t look at me like that because I procreated, and I won’t report you to your boss that you SUCK at your job.

To my boy – who managed to laugh for me in the midst of all of this. A new sound from his little self. Thank you. You always make me glad you are around JUST at the moment I contemplate praying for gypsies to kidnap you.

I have a box sitting and waiting for me at the fucking post office. I have to repeat today in order to get my yoga pants. This is another “post office” than what I was at today. God help me.

I’ve had a stack of mail sitting in my car all month. It’s impossible to find a post office in the land of all the vices. Especially since I’m still learning how to do things with the little kaiser running the show. Garmin tried to take me to the next town over. So I’ve had photos for the grandparents, baby presents, wedding presents and a box of kilt in the car all of July.

Today I had only 1 goal. Get this shit out of my car.

I had a list of 4 possibilities from the net. I find one (Garminless bc Scout took it out of town with him). It’s in the back of a RiteAid pharmacy. I walk in with my big ole box, multiple envelopes, check card and baby. I wait patiently while the woman in front of me chats about mice with the desk clerk.

I hand off my stuff to the clerk, she notices my card and tells me they only take cash and checks. She starts processing my shit, I walk back out to the car to get my 20 dollar bill and/or my checkbook. I assume they won’t take an out of state check so the 20 it is. Till I realize that my Kate Spade carrying days have been replaced by a JJCole baby backpack and all I have is my ID, Credit card, check card, diapers, and 7 dollars Scout happened to leave in my car. I take the 7 back in, apologize, the girl asks if I want to come back. I think on it and then answer honestly. No. No I don’t. I will, but No, I don’t want to. She sends off the box of kilt, pulls postage off the stuff for the grandparents and sends me up front where the cash register has stamps I can use my check card to purchase (Wtf, I can’t buy stamps at the PO but I can buy them with my condoms?) I get in line behind ONE person. Meanwhile one woman meanders past me, and an older guy stands right up in my shit. I’m bemused. Buncha close talkers out here in the land of vices. The woman finally notices “oh were in line ahead of me”. Uh, Yeah. At the same time the older guy goes “are you in line” No cocksmoker, I’m juggling a baby and a bunch of fucking envelopes b/c I’m expecting the Easter Bunny to hop on by.

I think I’m going to spend my time learning Morse Code so I can summon the Pony Express the next time I need to mail something.

As long as I’ve lived with Scout, anytime I had to do some household chore I didn’t want to do I would mentally refer to it as “being the mom”.

Now I am the mom and here’s the reasons (today) that it sucks.

Everyone else in the house is sleeping (Scout, Alex, MIL). I am not.

I have had less than 5 hours of sleep ….

for many nights in a row.

Movers are showing up today and rather than sleeping, I am getting the house final ready for them.

Why am I on the computer? Because Hubs is sleeping in one room and I want to let him sleep. MIL and Alex are sleeping in another room and I want to let them sleep.

And I can’t face closing up the office yet (Picture Joan Cusack in Grosse Pointe Blank for this scene please).

I have been on chairs with screwdrivers taking down curtains. This hurt. This really makes it look like we are leaving home.

I’m so sad, but I don’t have time to sit and cry about it. And just like a mom… what would crying fix anyway?

The odd thing though about this particular day of “being the mom”….

I don’t so much mind it. I don’t mind the being the one taking care of the house… I don’t mind taking on this job.

Today anyway.