This post is short.
Mar 31, 2009
Moving
I know I have that title often. But we're actually almost done. I am hoping to have internet installed by next week. Thank you for the comments, everybody. I'll be commenting back as soon as I get to my computer. Right now it's in the laptop bag in the bedroom underneath clothes.
Mar 28, 2009
And
"a little five o'clock ass shadow" courtesy of The Soup.
These little posts would be even more awesome with VODKA but I forgot my ID at home and keep getting carded. It sucks.
Um...
What's up with Miley Cyrus being asked if she wears a thong on thw Nickelodeon Kid's Choice Awards? Am I the only one who thinks that was a tad innapropriate? Even my little brother said something about it. But how cute was she when she started crying? Adorable.
And yes, I love bad TV. Especially when I can't sleep.
Trying To Find Words
My mom came out of surgery. She's doing well, but will be starting treatment soon. Chemo. That word terrifies me.
She calls her home La Casa Pateeta. So I'm going to stick with that. Here at La Casa Pateeta I am staying with my twelve year old Hulk of a brother and with Emily. Emily has been a mess of tantrums and tears, a mixture of being spoiled rotten by every family member that gets within two feet of her and being completely confused about why we're not home, why we're at Grandma's house and not school, and why the hell Grandma isn't here because, um, mom? When we're at Grandma's house there're supposed to be multitudes of fruit snacks and other general teeth-rotting foods and why aren't there?
Her whole world is upside down right now, and honestly, so is mine. Apparently at daycare they sing songs ALL DAY LONG because Emily is requesting constant singing. I didn't bring enough clothes with us as I was madly rushing out the door to get here, and we're both allergic to my mom's laundry soap, so we both have little red bumps covering the entirety of our bodies. My mom has this beast of a dog, Chongo, who I am also wicked allergic to and therefore I am just miserable in every physical aspect. I also started my period while my mom was still in surgery.
I have no idea what normal protocal is with a twelve year old, and am just trying to maintain some sense of normalcy in his life while trying to do the same foe Emily and in the mean time, The Girlfriend is stuck finishing the move all by herself and I'm scared I'm going to come home to a room entirely decorated to a Coors Light theme. On top of all of this the hospital won't talk to me but asked that I not bring the kids in until later today, so I have no clue what's happening there and I'm worried, and scared, and I have to go home tomorrow because I HAVE to be at work on Monday.
I'm exhausted, worried, allergic and will go insanse if I have to sing the I Love You song one more fucking time and Emily just stepped on the dog and he barked at her and now she's terrified. I'm updating from my phone and my thumbs hurt. I can't wait for real life to return to normal, so my internet life can resume.
I know it's terribly obvious, but I have become very grateful in the last few days for all the good things in my life. I can't wait for my mom to beat this.
Duty calls.
Mar 26, 2009
When Real Life Takes Over
I'm sitting in a waiting room right now at a hospital in Scottsdale. My phone is plugged in to the wall and my head is pounding. My mom had a consultation with an oncologist yesterday and then so quickly, so quickly The Girlfriend is hugging me and there are tears and we're in the truck and driving south and she left this morning to go back to work and here I am, right back to the beginning of this post: I'm sitting in a waiting room right now at a hospital in Scottsdale. My mom has been in surgery for over two hours and still has at least an hour left. I am tired. I am scared.
Internet, I'll be back soon.
Mar 22, 2009
We Call It a Slight Breeze
We're having some wind. I'm updating from my phone because the wireless signal I usually am able to pick up at The Girlfriend's house is experiencing major fail. I have a whole story centering on Emily's new fears, and I will write about it tomorrow. Hopefully.
In other news, I really can't wait to be settled in to the new apartment.
Mar 21, 2009
Day One of Moving
Me, to Emily; So are you excited about helping us move today?
Emily: Um, well, I kind of want to hang out with Maddie first. Ok? And is there candy?
Gotta love kids. Today is the mine and The Girlfriend's first anniversary, and the day that we're moving into an apartment together. We're moving all of my stuff in today, and will be moving her stuff in throughout the week, and next weekend. I'm pretty stoked.
I'm also pretty tired. There was a lot of crap that went down yesterday with the Landlord and things not being ready when they should have been. So instead of starting the move in about ten minutes, we can't start until two. I imagine we'll be moving until about four or five, and then Emily is going to The Girlfriend's mom's house for a sleepover. Anyone have good dinner suggestions for a semi-romantic dinner? I'm still trying to figure it all out.
Coffee is the nectar of the gods.
Emily: Um, well, I kind of want to hang out with Maddie first. Ok? And is there candy?
Gotta love kids. Today is the mine and The Girlfriend's first anniversary, and the day that we're moving into an apartment together. We're moving all of my stuff in today, and will be moving her stuff in throughout the week, and next weekend. I'm pretty stoked.
I'm also pretty tired. There was a lot of crap that went down yesterday with the Landlord and things not being ready when they should have been. So instead of starting the move in about ten minutes, we can't start until two. I imagine we'll be moving until about four or five, and then Emily is going to The Girlfriend's mom's house for a sleepover. Anyone have good dinner suggestions for a semi-romantic dinner? I'm still trying to figure it all out.
Coffee is the nectar of the gods.
Mar 20, 2009
Dittel.
I woke up about twenty minutes ago, late, as usual. No shower, look like ass. And my nose is stuffed.
Every morning, I wake up with no voice. Emily is next to me reading Snow White (and by reading I mean looking at the pictures and saying the memorized lines, or making up pictures of her own. I'm pretty sure I just ehard her call the Queen a bitch.)
Interesting stuff, huh?
The problem with me waking up late is that it takes me a long time in the morning to get to functional, to get to a point where I can handle other people, both physically and mentally. And now, instead of doing the normal human thing and, you know, get ready for work? Instead, I'm on the couch in my underwear and tshirt, holding my coffee cup like it's the last cup of coffee in the world, and I'm on my computer trying to decide if I have enough time for some Sims before I absolutely HAVE to get ready. But. I'm pretty sure that'll just end up getting me in trouble. I should go wash my face.
Yeah. I'll do that.
Every morning, I wake up with no voice. Emily is next to me reading Snow White (and by reading I mean looking at the pictures and saying the memorized lines, or making up pictures of her own. I'm pretty sure I just ehard her call the Queen a bitch.)
Interesting stuff, huh?
The problem with me waking up late is that it takes me a long time in the morning to get to functional, to get to a point where I can handle other people, both physically and mentally. And now, instead of doing the normal human thing and, you know, get ready for work? Instead, I'm on the couch in my underwear and tshirt, holding my coffee cup like it's the last cup of coffee in the world, and I'm on my computer trying to decide if I have enough time for some Sims before I absolutely HAVE to get ready. But. I'm pretty sure that'll just end up getting me in trouble. I should go wash my face.
Yeah. I'll do that.
Mar 19, 2009
In Which I Discuss Grossness
What grossness is this, you ask? Why, the Public Restroom!
I was at Walmart today so The Girlfriend could get her fishing license. I had to pee, like always, so I go to the nearest restroom, where I am greeted by a giant burly man holding a mop. I ask him, um, when are you going to be done cleaning? He responds with a grunt and points at a sign asking customers to please go to the front of the store to use the restroom, as this one is currently being cleaned. I look up at him, mutter "thanks" under my breath, and head to the front of the store.
I get there, and, lo and behold! Another fucking sign! This sign says that the women's restroom is out of order. So I go to the men's restroom because I was scared I was going to pee in my pants, only to be pushed out of the way by a large, eighteen-year-old-ish kid with a tilted hat and a spiderweb tattoo on his neck. He opens the door ahead of me and I am hit in the face with the brick wall of OHMYGODSTENCH from that bathroom. He offers to let me go first, and I politely decline. I hear his other high school friends laughing at me as I walk away, all "that girl was gonna use the dude's room! Does she have a dick or something?" Yeah, you guys were HILARIOUS AND VERY MATURE.
So I'm walking now, a waddle involving trying to move while clenching the legs together, to the other end of the store thinking maybe the burly man was done with the mop. He wasn't, and there were FIVE WOMEN WAITING in the line now. So I wait. And I do the dance, the pee dance. And then I get a text asking where I'm at, and have to silence my phone (because my text alert is Emily saying "Oh no you didn't!"). I FINALLY get to the stall and am pissed because there was pee in the toilet. A big deal? Probably not. But still.
I lift my foot to look for the flusher and it's an automatic seat. So I figured the flusher wasn't working. Fine. I unzip and sit down quickly because really, I had to fucking pee. And, my thighs are wet. EWWWWWWWWWWWWW. I regret not having any Lysol or flame throwers with me because EW SOMEONE ELSE'S PEE IS ON MY THIGH and the toilet begins making this hissing noise.
hiiiisssssssssssssss. HIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.
I stand up quickly, cutting my pee short, and cling to the back of the stall door with my pants around my ankles because of course, the toilet decides to work. Why does it want to flush when I'm still peeing? Is there something moving around behind my back while I'm peeing that I'm not aware of? Is it not a motion sensor, but a timed sensor? Something? So I'm standing and in true form, I have my eyes squeezed shut (which is what I normally do when there is something inevitable vile or scary happening, because, you know, if my eyes are squeezed shut then nothing will happen to me) in horror at the thought of all the germs flying up from that toilet, germs that are aiming for the backs of my legs, germs that maybe are looking for some company in the pee drops that were on the toilet seat. And I'm thinking, did I piss someone off?
I pull up my pants and with the excuse of being extremely bothered I forget to wrap my hoodie around my hand before I open the door, which I realized when my hand got wet on the door handle. Who the fuck used the bathroom before me? Who tricked the toilet in to not flushing, peed on the seat and then got the door handle wet? WHO WOULD DO THIS?! So I'm cringing and walking out of the stall and see four women in line giving me dirty looks because, apparently, I took too long to pee or something. I rush to the sink and scrub my hands for about four minutes (which is a long time if you think of it). I look up, and sure as shit, there's no paper towel dispenser or anything. So I push the handle to get some paper towels out and then wash my hands again, grab the paper towel, use it to push the handle to get more paper towels, and then finish and open the door with the towels as well.
It was horrifying. I'm not normally such a germaphobe. But my hands are constantly near my face, in my daughter's face and my immune system is for shit. I get sick SO EASILY. Keeping my hands clean is one of the only ways I can battle all of the illnesses in the air attempting to attack my body and leave me sick and dying for weeks on end.
Hi internet, I talk about toilets.
I was at Walmart today so The Girlfriend could get her fishing license. I had to pee, like always, so I go to the nearest restroom, where I am greeted by a giant burly man holding a mop. I ask him, um, when are you going to be done cleaning? He responds with a grunt and points at a sign asking customers to please go to the front of the store to use the restroom, as this one is currently being cleaned. I look up at him, mutter "thanks" under my breath, and head to the front of the store.
I get there, and, lo and behold! Another fucking sign! This sign says that the women's restroom is out of order. So I go to the men's restroom because I was scared I was going to pee in my pants, only to be pushed out of the way by a large, eighteen-year-old-ish kid with a tilted hat and a spiderweb tattoo on his neck. He opens the door ahead of me and I am hit in the face with the brick wall of OHMYGODSTENCH from that bathroom. He offers to let me go first, and I politely decline. I hear his other high school friends laughing at me as I walk away, all "that girl was gonna use the dude's room! Does she have a dick or something?" Yeah, you guys were HILARIOUS AND VERY MATURE.
So I'm walking now, a waddle involving trying to move while clenching the legs together, to the other end of the store thinking maybe the burly man was done with the mop. He wasn't, and there were FIVE WOMEN WAITING in the line now. So I wait. And I do the dance, the pee dance. And then I get a text asking where I'm at, and have to silence my phone (because my text alert is Emily saying "Oh no you didn't!"). I FINALLY get to the stall and am pissed because there was pee in the toilet. A big deal? Probably not. But still.
I lift my foot to look for the flusher and it's an automatic seat. So I figured the flusher wasn't working. Fine. I unzip and sit down quickly because really, I had to fucking pee. And, my thighs are wet. EWWWWWWWWWWWWW. I regret not having any Lysol or flame throwers with me because EW SOMEONE ELSE'S PEE IS ON MY THIGH and the toilet begins making this hissing noise.
hiiiisssssssssssssss. HIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.
I stand up quickly, cutting my pee short, and cling to the back of the stall door with my pants around my ankles because of course, the toilet decides to work. Why does it want to flush when I'm still peeing? Is there something moving around behind my back while I'm peeing that I'm not aware of? Is it not a motion sensor, but a timed sensor? Something? So I'm standing and in true form, I have my eyes squeezed shut (which is what I normally do when there is something inevitable vile or scary happening, because, you know, if my eyes are squeezed shut then nothing will happen to me) in horror at the thought of all the germs flying up from that toilet, germs that are aiming for the backs of my legs, germs that maybe are looking for some company in the pee drops that were on the toilet seat. And I'm thinking, did I piss someone off?
I pull up my pants and with the excuse of being extremely bothered I forget to wrap my hoodie around my hand before I open the door, which I realized when my hand got wet on the door handle. Who the fuck used the bathroom before me? Who tricked the toilet in to not flushing, peed on the seat and then got the door handle wet? WHO WOULD DO THIS?! So I'm cringing and walking out of the stall and see four women in line giving me dirty looks because, apparently, I took too long to pee or something. I rush to the sink and scrub my hands for about four minutes (which is a long time if you think of it). I look up, and sure as shit, there's no paper towel dispenser or anything. So I push the handle to get some paper towels out and then wash my hands again, grab the paper towel, use it to push the handle to get more paper towels, and then finish and open the door with the towels as well.
It was horrifying. I'm not normally such a germaphobe. But my hands are constantly near my face, in my daughter's face and my immune system is for shit. I get sick SO EASILY. Keeping my hands clean is one of the only ways I can battle all of the illnesses in the air attempting to attack my body and leave me sick and dying for weeks on end.
Hi internet, I talk about toilets.
Mar 18, 2009
"Where's your butthole?" "Let me find it!"
I have been very, emotionally exhausted. I want to write about it, but it's not over yet and I have this disease where I can't write/deal with/talk about stuff until it's over. I can't remove myself enough until the situation is done with and therefore I live in these extreme states of blissful ignorance and dramatic emotion. The two battle with each other and break out in spurts with no warning or flashing lights saying "Beware: She's about to switch!" It's rather annoying, I'm sure. Anyway. I'm sure I'll write about it sometime in the next two weeks.
In the mean time, I'm sitting here watching HGTV (because I am a BIG OL' DORK) and dreaming about the day I will own a house and what I will do with that house. Since I am bound to be an apartment dweller for several years more, I console myself with The Sims. Of course, I use the cheat code to give me millions and millions of Sim dollars. I know I shouldn't do that, because ultimately, I'm setting myself up for disappointment in real life. But hey, that's what video games are for, right?
The Girlfriend lives under a rock (also known as OUTDOOR SYNDROME, TYPE B (BOY), this crazy syndrome that involves actually doing things, like outside, with bugs and dirt and vehicles the occasional video game obsession, and therefore having no idea about the internetz or computers or having friends that you have never met and loving them dearly... and she thinks I'M crazy), and had never heard of The Sims. I was more than happy to show her the joy of building outlandishly lavish homes with swimming pools that extend from the inside of your kitchen to the front of your house. I showed her the different wall colors and hair colors and the party room and the jacuzzi on my character's second-floor deck. I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm crazy. I can't wait to show her how to kill the sims that annoy you. Build a shed, make them go in, and remove the door. Voila!
The Girlfriend is at her best friend's house dog-sitting. Her friend has the cutest dogs in the world, these two small animals, one that is a serial barker. I would love to be there, but alas, I am allergic. Poor Emily is only allowed to have fish.
I had an irritating thing happen at work today, and I don't want to write about work, ever. But, why do people insist on getting upset about things that are completely absurd? Things I can't control? Why? Why? It's like going to a car dealership and bitching that the car you like has the wrong-colored seat belts. How can the salesman help with that? Maybe they can, I don't know anything about car dealerships. But still. It soured my day a little. I love my job and do my absolute best to make sure that people leave me a little more happy than they came. I know how much it can fuck my day up when I encounter someone unpleasant, so I do my VERY best to make sure that that never happens with me. I hope that the lady who flipped out was having a bad day, or something, because she really challenged ym belief in humanity. I also hope she left and felt like a huge asshole.
Today Emily beat me in Princess Memory.
In the mean time, I'm sitting here watching HGTV (because I am a BIG OL' DORK) and dreaming about the day I will own a house and what I will do with that house. Since I am bound to be an apartment dweller for several years more, I console myself with The Sims. Of course, I use the cheat code to give me millions and millions of Sim dollars. I know I shouldn't do that, because ultimately, I'm setting myself up for disappointment in real life. But hey, that's what video games are for, right?
The Girlfriend lives under a rock (also known as OUTDOOR SYNDROME, TYPE B (BOY), this crazy syndrome that involves actually doing things, like outside, with bugs and dirt and vehicles the occasional video game obsession, and therefore having no idea about the internetz or computers or having friends that you have never met and loving them dearly... and she thinks I'M crazy), and had never heard of The Sims. I was more than happy to show her the joy of building outlandishly lavish homes with swimming pools that extend from the inside of your kitchen to the front of your house. I showed her the different wall colors and hair colors and the party room and the jacuzzi on my character's second-floor deck. I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm crazy. I can't wait to show her how to kill the sims that annoy you. Build a shed, make them go in, and remove the door. Voila!
The Girlfriend is at her best friend's house dog-sitting. Her friend has the cutest dogs in the world, these two small animals, one that is a serial barker. I would love to be there, but alas, I am allergic. Poor Emily is only allowed to have fish.
I had an irritating thing happen at work today, and I don't want to write about work, ever. But, why do people insist on getting upset about things that are completely absurd? Things I can't control? Why? Why? It's like going to a car dealership and bitching that the car you like has the wrong-colored seat belts. How can the salesman help with that? Maybe they can, I don't know anything about car dealerships. But still. It soured my day a little. I love my job and do my absolute best to make sure that people leave me a little more happy than they came. I know how much it can fuck my day up when I encounter someone unpleasant, so I do my VERY best to make sure that that never happens with me. I hope that the lady who flipped out was having a bad day, or something, because she really challenged ym belief in humanity. I also hope she left and felt like a huge asshole.
Today Emily beat me in Princess Memory.
Mar 17, 2009
Mar 15, 2009
I Suck at Titles.
Mental note to update for real. Checked out of my apartment today. What was bittersweet a few days ago is now just sweet.
I am fucking exhausted.
Mar 13, 2009
Bittersweet.
Today is my last day in my apartment. I've lived here for two years, one month and twenty-nine days. That is the longest I've lived somewhere since I moved out when I was seventeen.
Between April of 2005 and January of 2007 I moved something like eleven times. One of those times I was seven months pregnant and moved from Chicago to a suburb of Phoenix.
Emily and I moved in to this apartment on January 15th, 2007. She has lived here longer than anywhere else, in her entire life. Today I packed up her room and got all of the furniture out except for the beds. I almost cried. I am so ridiculously excited to start this new chapter of life, and I can't wait to live with the person I love, and that I'm actually in love, and that I'm doing something by choice and not by force. It's amazing.
Right now we're sitting in my living room on camping chairs. The Girlfriend is playing playstation and I have this thing in my lap. I've been working on a piece of art for you all, pictured below. This is part stolen and part touched up, to include a general idea of my setup of the apartment. It's little.
(First off, I know the picture sucks. I wasn't having fun in paint and I gave up after five minutes. Secondly, I changed the size of it so much that it's blurry and since it's not a picture I care about, but rather a picture for demonstration, I didn't care enough to fix it. Thirdly, the thing on the right of the bedroom, kind of next to the couch is my computer desk and the thing in front of the couch is the TV stand with TV on top, and a bookshelf on either side.)
526 square feet of MINE. When I moved here, it was winter. And it was cold. I had just had a falling out with a roommate that I adored and decided to move to make life simpler. It was just Emily and myself, and I loved it that way. Emily and I lived here and I was so fucking proud of myself for being able to give her someplace secure, someplace of our own. Slowly, I began realizing what a shit hole this place is, complete with mold, no security and Mormon RAs. The families that live here are, in general, wonderful. I've had a couple run-ins with graduate students that are complete assholes, but I'm pretty sure I'd be an asshole too if I were in graduate school and trying to raise a three year old. Anyway. The people are wonderful, and I've made some friends here. Emily has as well.
The school keeps raising rent, though. When I moved in, it was a very good deal. Now, two years later and rent $150+ higher (and going up $50 more in July), it no longer makes sense. I knew last year that I wanted to leave this year. And then, I fell in love.
We are moving to a place that has MUCH more space, and it has a patio, and a swimming pool in the complex and THE LANDLORDS AREN'T MORMON thank god. Nothing against the Mormons, just that we don't have many, at least not public ones, in Chicago and um, wow. I've seen enough glazed eyes and have had enough visits from some "sisters" for a lifetime. (Funny story, at the apartment I lived in previous to this one, my downstairs neighbors were two young Mormon men on their missions. They met me and, to my surprise, didn't pass judgement. Instead, they would be kind and say hello to me, often stopping to hand me a prayer card. I gladly accepted the cards, because they were never ever trying to shove anything down my throat. I got to know the cute one a little bit. Of course, all of our conversation was on my porch, because there were no MEN IN MY HOUSE so he couldn't come in, weirdo. I found out that on the mission they can't listen to anything but church music, or something, and so I would make play lists of his favorite bands and BLAST them from my patio when he was outside. I totally caught him dancing, and tricked him into saying that two girls in a shower would be hot. I wonder if he's still Mormon? Tangent. Anyway.)
So anyway. I am so excited. I've been planning where to put things, instead of just figuring out how the hell to fit my couch somewhere. I've been looking at decorative things, like picture frames and curtains and rugs, instead of never bothering because there are very few ways to warm up white concrete brick interior. Did you know it's damn near impossible to put anything on brick that's impermanent? It is. A few drunken nights spent with a hot glue gun succeeded in getting some things on my walls, but, well, I was drunk and using a glue gun. Yeah. Not so pretty.
I am so excited for Emily to have space to play and for her to have a room that isn't as cramped. I'm so excited at the possibility of ZOMG SOME PRIVACY. But, I'm sitting here tonight, staring around and I'm actually a little sad. All I want for Emily is stability, consistency, a loving home. And with as many problems as I've had with this apartment, those things have been constant. Our little home may be ghetto, and cold, and dangerous, but it is one filled with love. I know, it's cheesy. But it's true.
I hope I have enough love to fill a bigger place. I'm sure I do; My heart feels like it's swelling over most of the time. I guess this post can be entirely summed up like this: I hate to admit it. And I'm more happy than I can describe to leave. But, I'm sad to leave the place that holds the most memories of my adult life.
Goodbye, family housing. I'm never coming back.
Between April of 2005 and January of 2007 I moved something like eleven times. One of those times I was seven months pregnant and moved from Chicago to a suburb of Phoenix.
Emily and I moved in to this apartment on January 15th, 2007. She has lived here longer than anywhere else, in her entire life. Today I packed up her room and got all of the furniture out except for the beds. I almost cried. I am so ridiculously excited to start this new chapter of life, and I can't wait to live with the person I love, and that I'm actually in love, and that I'm doing something by choice and not by force. It's amazing.
Right now we're sitting in my living room on camping chairs. The Girlfriend is playing playstation and I have this thing in my lap. I've been working on a piece of art for you all, pictured below. This is part stolen and part touched up, to include a general idea of my setup of the apartment. It's little.
(First off, I know the picture sucks. I wasn't having fun in paint and I gave up after five minutes. Secondly, I changed the size of it so much that it's blurry and since it's not a picture I care about, but rather a picture for demonstration, I didn't care enough to fix it. Thirdly, the thing on the right of the bedroom, kind of next to the couch is my computer desk and the thing in front of the couch is the TV stand with TV on top, and a bookshelf on either side.)
526 square feet of MINE. When I moved here, it was winter. And it was cold. I had just had a falling out with a roommate that I adored and decided to move to make life simpler. It was just Emily and myself, and I loved it that way. Emily and I lived here and I was so fucking proud of myself for being able to give her someplace secure, someplace of our own. Slowly, I began realizing what a shit hole this place is, complete with mold, no security and Mormon RAs. The families that live here are, in general, wonderful. I've had a couple run-ins with graduate students that are complete assholes, but I'm pretty sure I'd be an asshole too if I were in graduate school and trying to raise a three year old. Anyway. The people are wonderful, and I've made some friends here. Emily has as well.
The school keeps raising rent, though. When I moved in, it was a very good deal. Now, two years later and rent $150+ higher (and going up $50 more in July), it no longer makes sense. I knew last year that I wanted to leave this year. And then, I fell in love.
We are moving to a place that has MUCH more space, and it has a patio, and a swimming pool in the complex and THE LANDLORDS AREN'T MORMON thank god. Nothing against the Mormons, just that we don't have many, at least not public ones, in Chicago and um, wow. I've seen enough glazed eyes and have had enough visits from some "sisters" for a lifetime. (Funny story, at the apartment I lived in previous to this one, my downstairs neighbors were two young Mormon men on their missions. They met me and, to my surprise, didn't pass judgement. Instead, they would be kind and say hello to me, often stopping to hand me a prayer card. I gladly accepted the cards, because they were never ever trying to shove anything down my throat. I got to know the cute one a little bit. Of course, all of our conversation was on my porch, because there were no MEN IN MY HOUSE so he couldn't come in, weirdo. I found out that on the mission they can't listen to anything but church music, or something, and so I would make play lists of his favorite bands and BLAST them from my patio when he was outside. I totally caught him dancing, and tricked him into saying that two girls in a shower would be hot. I wonder if he's still Mormon? Tangent. Anyway.)
So anyway. I am so excited. I've been planning where to put things, instead of just figuring out how the hell to fit my couch somewhere. I've been looking at decorative things, like picture frames and curtains and rugs, instead of never bothering because there are very few ways to warm up white concrete brick interior. Did you know it's damn near impossible to put anything on brick that's impermanent? It is. A few drunken nights spent with a hot glue gun succeeded in getting some things on my walls, but, well, I was drunk and using a glue gun. Yeah. Not so pretty.
I am so excited for Emily to have space to play and for her to have a room that isn't as cramped. I'm so excited at the possibility of ZOMG SOME PRIVACY. But, I'm sitting here tonight, staring around and I'm actually a little sad. All I want for Emily is stability, consistency, a loving home. And with as many problems as I've had with this apartment, those things have been constant. Our little home may be ghetto, and cold, and dangerous, but it is one filled with love. I know, it's cheesy. But it's true.
I hope I have enough love to fill a bigger place. I'm sure I do; My heart feels like it's swelling over most of the time. I guess this post can be entirely summed up like this: I hate to admit it. And I'm more happy than I can describe to leave. But, I'm sad to leave the place that holds the most memories of my adult life.
Goodbye, family housing. I'm never coming back.
Mar 11, 2009
Cluster!
Ok. So. Arizona is run by a bunch of old, white people who stick their noses in everyone's business. There are two issues that I HATE with every fiber of my being. One, there is no protection for homosexuals. In this state you are not allowed to be discriminated against based on age, race, ethnicity, religion, etc. Sexual orientation is not included. You can get fired for being gay, a lawyer can choose not to defend you because you're gay, you can be denied service because you're gay, etc. Recently this has been brought up again in the news, the paper, etc. There is a new Governor, a Mrs. Jan Brewer who is a conservative. Anyway. This is not what this entry is about, although it is something that I am very actively (quietly, oh so quietly, but very actively) working against, along with a couple of groups of people. I am lucky to work in a place that values me as a person, and doesn't base my job on who I'm dating. There are many people who don't have that benefit.
This entry is about women. This entry is about the bone-deep absolute RIGHT that women have to make decisions regarding their bodies. That's right everyone, ABORTION! Now, to be clear, abortion is legal here. In the town I live in, surgical abortion is not an option. But it is in Phoenix. While it's legal, though, there are a LOT of people who are very upset about it and fight it all the time.
The old Governor, Janet Napolitano, who moved to be the United States Secretary of Homeland Security vetoed every abortion paper that came to her desk. Thankfully. However, Governor Brewer is conservative and the people in Arizona have started jumping up and down and throwing bills and laws and ideas at her, in hopes of gaining her conservative signature.Jan Brewer is 80 million years old and is an active member of Life in Christ Lutheran Church in Peoria. There is nothing wrong with that, and I've read some things that Brewer has done that aren't half bad. But as a woman, I have no respect for her.
I used to work at an abortion clinic in Chicago. A regular Saturday was 60-70 patients. In one clinic, in one city, on one day. There were always protesters outside, protesters that would spit on women walking in (regardless of the fact that they could have been there for any number of things), protesters that would throw bibles and call fourteen year old girls cunts. There was one protester that I got along with. We both obviously knew the other's point of view, but instead of him hurling ugly words and judgement and me ducking and covering my head, we would talk on my breaks. He protested because he was against it. But he protested the act, not the woman.
The House today passed HB2564. (click here to read.) This states that a woman has a twenty-four hour waiting period before she can get an abortion. In that twenty-four hour period, she has to, if she's a minor, get a parental consent form notarized and then she has to be told, in person that the father of the child is liable for support, that medical assistance benefits may be available for prenatal care, childbirth, and postnatal care if they decide against the abortion, that public and private agencies can assist the woman before and after she has the child, and she has to be told the "probable anatomical and physiological characteristics" of the "unborn child."
As for the things that they are forced to be told, I will comment on the "probable anatomical blah blah blah" in a moment. But the first part? This right here is why, even had McCain won me over in other areas, I could not ever have voted for him. His little speech on the "courage of the woman and the compassion of society" regarding women who keep their children, well, hi. I'm Melissa, and I kept my daughter. Am I courageous? To keep a child at eighteen, to stop drinking on my own, with no help or medical assistance, to move across the country to escape the violent and scary atmosphere her father provided, to move away from everything I know and love to give her a chance at a better life, to risk having a baby with FAS, to go to college and pay for it by myself, and everything else. It's not often that I get on any high horse about my life, because I think I have no place to be there. But. When it comes to this, I will absolutely speak out. Was i courageous? Or was I stupid but hopeful? I think it was the latter, personally.
This compassion of society that McCain spoke so passionately about? Where the fuck is it? Is it on the faces of the people at the grocery store? How about in the "care" provided by the hospitals? Or the looks from the other parents? Or the social conservatives who look down on my bicycle, from their nice cars? Or is that passion in the medical care that is provided for my daught- oh, wait! She doesn't have health insurance! I work a full-time job and am in the working poor class, the class that doesn't qualify for assistance but can't afford private insurance or bills. I'm a full-time student who is guaranteed not to get pregnant again, who is not abusing the system, is not receiving welfare, and is working her ASS off every single day to give her baby girl the best that she can, and to improve my own life, and to reach out to others, and I can't afford health insurance for my three-year-old. So is that were that compassion is? Or wait, is it the compassion coming from the child support department? The one that, despite several addresses, phone numbers, and other various methods of contact, just couldn't locate Emily's father? The system that, after forty-seven calls in one week STILL did not get back to me? That must be the compassion. Yeah, that must be it. Right?
There is no societal compassion. None. I love my life, but I would be lying if I said that it is an easy one, or a fun one, or a normal one. I am very fortunate in my friends, as I have found a group of people that make life better. I have met more courageous women in my time living in family housing than I could possibly name, and their stories are screaming in my head right now. I think we're all good women, doing our best. But what about the women that can't pull it off? Abortion was not the choice for me, but it is a necessary choice. I think that abortion is an inevitable thing in human life. It has been happening since the dawn of time and for that option to be so severely restricted, which in my opinion is a step towards making it illegal, is absurd.
Who do these lawmakers think they are? These old men with no womb, no understanding of the struggle that is associated with raising a child, more often alone than not, these men with no grasp on the realities of being young, alone, and pregnant. Who are they? Have they ever walked in to a public aid office on the southwest side of Chicago? I did. I was the only white girl there, and after a three hour wait, I got told that it's totally OK to keep smoking during pregnancy, even pot. Yeah. Quality care, huh?
Most women who have come to the conclusion that abortion is the way to go, for whatever reason, have not come to that decision easily. And for that woman who has made that choice, you know, the woman with four children and one job, or the girl that got raped by her boyfriend, or the girl whose condom broke, or how about the nine year old girl whose father raped her? Or what about a less drastic circumstance, the girl who partied a lot and made a mistake. How about that girl, the one addicted to alcohol that works at a hot dog stand? The girl who woke up from drunken stupors to realize, hey, you fucked me last night? How about that girl?
Those girls, those women should not be SHAMED in to keeping a baby. They should not, after all of the mental anguish and deliberation with their parents, their boyfriends and husbands, their sisters and their God, they should not have some pompous asshole telling her, well, ma'am, are you sure about this here abortion? Because that there BABY has toenails you know, and do you want ta' see it's head? Cuz it's damned cute. NO.
The goal is to lower abortion rates. But what about the suicide rates? The infanticide rates? The creation of welfare sluts, because the state will be TELLING women that they'll be taken care of as long as they keep their babies? What about depression and neglect?
There is so much wrong with this. The vocabulary in this state is the first thing (conception here begins when the sperm meets the egg, and it is considered a child, not a fetus), and then beyond that, forcing women to hear things that aren't true, telling a woman that she'll be OK, that she'll have help, that she'll be taken care of and so will her baby. And then when her child is eighteen months and she's staring at her fridge full of ketchup packages and oatmeal, she'll cry. Or when her child is two and cant get her vaccinations, she will feel like a failure and will hate the world, or when her child is three and she can't afford new shoes when her child cries about her feet hurting, she'll realize that EVERYONE FUCKING LIED TO HER. That woman is me. I have more experience than a lot of women my age, and I am the oldest of several children, so I had some clue. What about the women that don't? What is the state going to do with the women that they fucking create?
I love my daughter and I don't ever, for one second, ever regret my decision. Emily saved my life. I think we were meant for each other in a way I am hard pressed to explain. However, shame and misinformation is not the way to lower the abortion rate. Prevention should be the goal. education about safety, education about resources available in cases of rape, education about the importance of education, these are the things we should be focusing on. The state should be focusing on teaching responsibility for actions and should implement teaching techniques that prevent unsafe sex, to lower the PREGNANCY rate. The abortion rate will go down if the pregnancy rate goes down. How can the state expect the pregnancy rate to go down when they're telling women, hey! We'll take care of everything, and if we can't, well that's what your babydaddy is for!
For women that do make the decision to terminate a pregnancy, it is important that she has the resources to safely do it and the help and education to make sure it never happens again. She needs gentle and loving hands to guide her through one of the worst moments of her life, she needs to be told that it is OK to grieve and that her body will heal. It is not a good thing, and it should be avoided at all costs. But. It is necessary.
I think it's time for these people, whoever these people are behind their desks, need to get over thinking that my uterus is their business. I think they need to come see what it's like to be a young, single mom. I think that children need to mean more than a political platform, that they need to be more than an easy way to win votes and that these higher-ups need to remember the children after they're out of the womb.
I AM SO FRUSTRATED. I'm sorry for the rantiness of this. I'm sorry, because this is not a political blog, but this issue is so important to me. How can I raise my daughter to think she is free and privileged, when she can't even make a decision about her body without the law stepping in? How can I live in a country that doesn't understand this?
This entry is about women. This entry is about the bone-deep absolute RIGHT that women have to make decisions regarding their bodies. That's right everyone, ABORTION! Now, to be clear, abortion is legal here. In the town I live in, surgical abortion is not an option. But it is in Phoenix. While it's legal, though, there are a LOT of people who are very upset about it and fight it all the time.
The old Governor, Janet Napolitano, who moved to be the United States Secretary of Homeland Security vetoed every abortion paper that came to her desk. Thankfully. However, Governor Brewer is conservative and the people in Arizona have started jumping up and down and throwing bills and laws and ideas at her, in hopes of gaining her conservative signature.Jan Brewer is 80 million years old and is an active member of Life in Christ Lutheran Church in Peoria. There is nothing wrong with that, and I've read some things that Brewer has done that aren't half bad. But as a woman, I have no respect for her.
I used to work at an abortion clinic in Chicago. A regular Saturday was 60-70 patients. In one clinic, in one city, on one day. There were always protesters outside, protesters that would spit on women walking in (regardless of the fact that they could have been there for any number of things), protesters that would throw bibles and call fourteen year old girls cunts. There was one protester that I got along with. We both obviously knew the other's point of view, but instead of him hurling ugly words and judgement and me ducking and covering my head, we would talk on my breaks. He protested because he was against it. But he protested the act, not the woman.
The House today passed HB2564. (click here to read.) This states that a woman has a twenty-four hour waiting period before she can get an abortion. In that twenty-four hour period, she has to, if she's a minor, get a parental consent form notarized and then she has to be told, in person that the father of the child is liable for support, that medical assistance benefits may be available for prenatal care, childbirth, and postnatal care if they decide against the abortion, that public and private agencies can assist the woman before and after she has the child, and she has to be told the "probable anatomical and physiological characteristics" of the "unborn child."
As for the things that they are forced to be told, I will comment on the "probable anatomical blah blah blah" in a moment. But the first part? This right here is why, even had McCain won me over in other areas, I could not ever have voted for him. His little speech on the "courage of the woman and the compassion of society" regarding women who keep their children, well, hi. I'm Melissa, and I kept my daughter. Am I courageous? To keep a child at eighteen, to stop drinking on my own, with no help or medical assistance, to move across the country to escape the violent and scary atmosphere her father provided, to move away from everything I know and love to give her a chance at a better life, to risk having a baby with FAS, to go to college and pay for it by myself, and everything else. It's not often that I get on any high horse about my life, because I think I have no place to be there. But. When it comes to this, I will absolutely speak out. Was i courageous? Or was I stupid but hopeful? I think it was the latter, personally.
This compassion of society that McCain spoke so passionately about? Where the fuck is it? Is it on the faces of the people at the grocery store? How about in the "care" provided by the hospitals? Or the looks from the other parents? Or the social conservatives who look down on my bicycle, from their nice cars? Or is that passion in the medical care that is provided for my daught- oh, wait! She doesn't have health insurance! I work a full-time job and am in the working poor class, the class that doesn't qualify for assistance but can't afford private insurance or bills. I'm a full-time student who is guaranteed not to get pregnant again, who is not abusing the system, is not receiving welfare, and is working her ASS off every single day to give her baby girl the best that she can, and to improve my own life, and to reach out to others, and I can't afford health insurance for my three-year-old. So is that were that compassion is? Or wait, is it the compassion coming from the child support department? The one that, despite several addresses, phone numbers, and other various methods of contact, just couldn't locate Emily's father? The system that, after forty-seven calls in one week STILL did not get back to me? That must be the compassion. Yeah, that must be it. Right?
There is no societal compassion. None. I love my life, but I would be lying if I said that it is an easy one, or a fun one, or a normal one. I am very fortunate in my friends, as I have found a group of people that make life better. I have met more courageous women in my time living in family housing than I could possibly name, and their stories are screaming in my head right now. I think we're all good women, doing our best. But what about the women that can't pull it off? Abortion was not the choice for me, but it is a necessary choice. I think that abortion is an inevitable thing in human life. It has been happening since the dawn of time and for that option to be so severely restricted, which in my opinion is a step towards making it illegal, is absurd.
Who do these lawmakers think they are? These old men with no womb, no understanding of the struggle that is associated with raising a child, more often alone than not, these men with no grasp on the realities of being young, alone, and pregnant. Who are they? Have they ever walked in to a public aid office on the southwest side of Chicago? I did. I was the only white girl there, and after a three hour wait, I got told that it's totally OK to keep smoking during pregnancy, even pot. Yeah. Quality care, huh?
Most women who have come to the conclusion that abortion is the way to go, for whatever reason, have not come to that decision easily. And for that woman who has made that choice, you know, the woman with four children and one job, or the girl that got raped by her boyfriend, or the girl whose condom broke, or how about the nine year old girl whose father raped her? Or what about a less drastic circumstance, the girl who partied a lot and made a mistake. How about that girl, the one addicted to alcohol that works at a hot dog stand? The girl who woke up from drunken stupors to realize, hey, you fucked me last night? How about that girl?
Those girls, those women should not be SHAMED in to keeping a baby. They should not, after all of the mental anguish and deliberation with their parents, their boyfriends and husbands, their sisters and their God, they should not have some pompous asshole telling her, well, ma'am, are you sure about this here abortion? Because that there BABY has toenails you know, and do you want ta' see it's head? Cuz it's damned cute. NO.
The goal is to lower abortion rates. But what about the suicide rates? The infanticide rates? The creation of welfare sluts, because the state will be TELLING women that they'll be taken care of as long as they keep their babies? What about depression and neglect?
There is so much wrong with this. The vocabulary in this state is the first thing (conception here begins when the sperm meets the egg, and it is considered a child, not a fetus), and then beyond that, forcing women to hear things that aren't true, telling a woman that she'll be OK, that she'll have help, that she'll be taken care of and so will her baby. And then when her child is eighteen months and she's staring at her fridge full of ketchup packages and oatmeal, she'll cry. Or when her child is two and cant get her vaccinations, she will feel like a failure and will hate the world, or when her child is three and she can't afford new shoes when her child cries about her feet hurting, she'll realize that EVERYONE FUCKING LIED TO HER. That woman is me. I have more experience than a lot of women my age, and I am the oldest of several children, so I had some clue. What about the women that don't? What is the state going to do with the women that they fucking create?
I love my daughter and I don't ever, for one second, ever regret my decision. Emily saved my life. I think we were meant for each other in a way I am hard pressed to explain. However, shame and misinformation is not the way to lower the abortion rate. Prevention should be the goal. education about safety, education about resources available in cases of rape, education about the importance of education, these are the things we should be focusing on. The state should be focusing on teaching responsibility for actions and should implement teaching techniques that prevent unsafe sex, to lower the PREGNANCY rate. The abortion rate will go down if the pregnancy rate goes down. How can the state expect the pregnancy rate to go down when they're telling women, hey! We'll take care of everything, and if we can't, well that's what your babydaddy is for!
For women that do make the decision to terminate a pregnancy, it is important that she has the resources to safely do it and the help and education to make sure it never happens again. She needs gentle and loving hands to guide her through one of the worst moments of her life, she needs to be told that it is OK to grieve and that her body will heal. It is not a good thing, and it should be avoided at all costs. But. It is necessary.
I think it's time for these people, whoever these people are behind their desks, need to get over thinking that my uterus is their business. I think they need to come see what it's like to be a young, single mom. I think that children need to mean more than a political platform, that they need to be more than an easy way to win votes and that these higher-ups need to remember the children after they're out of the womb.
I AM SO FRUSTRATED. I'm sorry for the rantiness of this. I'm sorry, because this is not a political blog, but this issue is so important to me. How can I raise my daughter to think she is free and privileged, when she can't even make a decision about her body without the law stepping in? How can I live in a country that doesn't understand this?
The Joys of Parenting
So I'm sitting at work and the phone rings. I see that it's the daycare calling me. I sigh and pick up the phone. Hello?
The director informs me that Emily just shoved a bead up her nose. I forgot to ask where the hell she got a bead, but to make a long story short, Emily was able to blow the bead out. I ask to talk to Emily.
Me: Hi baby. Are you supposed to put things up your nose?
And she says: Well I don't know! I'm only three!
I love her. We'll be having a long talk tonight, a talk that will probably involve me lying to her (like when I told her that if you eat your boogers you'll grow a booger tree in your stomach and then you'll explode), which is something I totally support when it's being done appropriately (example: Emily didn't respond to me when I told her that eating boogers is yucky, or explained that it's not good t have one's finger in one's nose all day, but the SECOND I told her about a tree of boogers underneath her bellybutton, she stopped. Problem solved!), and then I really need to figure out a health insurance option for her before she sticks something in her nose that requires an ER visit or something.
Do you like ridiculously long run-on sentences? Because I do.
Mar 9, 2009
Moving.
Moving is so exhausting. I have funny stories in my head, itching to be let loose, to flow from my brain and through my arms, down to my fingertips and in to this computer, on to this blog. However, I worked ten hours today and have been packing and moving furniture and budgeting and dealing with state budget cuts that directly affect me and I've been writing angry letters to representatives and frankly, I'm tired.
Soon though. Soon. Tonight, I'm going to play The Sims and eat some Chunky Monkey and go to sleep, fat and happy and in a computer daze. Some days I need to play God.
Soon though. Soon. Tonight, I'm going to play The Sims and eat some Chunky Monkey and go to sleep, fat and happy and in a computer daze. Some days I need to play God.
Mar 7, 2009
Oh. And Emmy Had Her First Nose Bleed Today.
Boobs. Again.
Emily caught wind of a conversation about sensitive nipples and said, Mom, I think I don't have just nipples. I have LITTLE TINY BOOBIES, ok?
Mar 5, 2009
Gotta Love Kids.
Anyway. So I've missed Emily like whoa all day and the dentist appointment made me even later to pick Emily up from daycare. I was so excited to just see her and to dig my nose in to her neck and hug her. I go in to her classroom and see her and run to her and swing her up in my arms and she says "I'M GOING TO AUNTIE'S!" I say, yeah baby, tomorrow. How are you?
Instead of answering me and being happy, she thrusts her lower lip out and pouts and says, "well I don't WANT TO GO tomorrow I want to go TODAY and I want my AUNTIE, NOT YOU."
She's sleeping over at my friend Natalie's house tomorrow night so I can go out for The Girlfriend's birthday.
And there went my excitement. And I know I shouldn't be hurt, because she's three. But if I'm being honest, I was a little. I love that Emily has people that matter, and her Auntie Nat is at the top of the list. But I'm not sure I'm ready to not be her favorite anymore.
Mar 4, 2009
Three Years and One Month
My Emily,
Today you are three years and one month old. I hope you appreciate the fact that I've kept you alive for THREE WHOLE YEARS. Believe me kid, it's been rough.
Your birthday party was a hit. You loved dressing up as a princess and you loved your friends there and you loved that games I had there for you, with the amazing help of our friend Sarah, and you loved your presents. What really got me was how well you behaved. I must be doing something right baby, because you're amazing.
Maybe it's selfish of me to take the credit for it; Maybe I just lucked out. What I think, though, is what I've always thought: That you and I are just meant for each other.
This month has been so much fun. SO MUCH FUN. You're getting in to real music in a way you never have before. You're developing preference and though I may not always agree with what you like, I'm thrilled at this advancement. Your favorite song right now, hands down is The Best of Both Worlds byevil incarnate Hannah Montana. Now, I don't know how you even figured out that she existed. I imagine it has something to do with school, because I never would have introduced you to her. School is the same place that you got introduced to Spanish and talking in the third person, aka Dora and Elmo. You say their names so clearly now, Dora and Elmo. I almost miss "Doowah and Momo." Almost. But now it's Hannah Montana, which you can also say correctly (you've gone from tannah-anna to saying it correctly, which is awesome.) You've seen one episode because it was on and you SHRIEKED. It was the same shriek that you made at the store one day when you located a two-inch by three-inch bottle of Hannah Montana perfume on the bottom shelf two aisles down. Your radar is impeccable. You jump and sing and wave your head around and scream "SHE'S GOT THE BEEEEEST OF BOTH WORLDS" over and over, to the point where, against my judgement, I'm actually making you a damned CD just so you can learn the rest of the words.
You got a stereo for your birthday and it is pink and has gemstone buttons. I love it because now you can listen to music whenever you want to. And it means that I don't have to incessantly listen to ABC songs or anything else high-pitched and rhyme-y in repeat.
I want you to know that this CD will have a lot of different music on it. When w2e listen to the radio or to my playlist, you have preference. At least twice a day you will tell me which songs you like and which ones you don't. So I'm making you a couple CDs in hopes of expanding your musical horizons. And in hopes of getting you early, there will be some Backstreet Boys on there. At least it's not as bad as Grandma getting me hooked on Michael Bolton at the tender age of eleven. Be thankful for small things, Emily. It's an important lesson.
We are getting ready to move. You don't really know what that means, but you're picking up on the excitement of it. I've really been trying to amp you up for it, to get you smiling and laughing about it, because I'm not sure how you're going to handle the transition. You're excited that we're moving close to one of your friends though. I'm excited to be somewhere safer and with someone I love. To have the both of you in the same house is something that creates such a feeling of excitement I'm hard-pressed to describe it to you. I'm scared of the stairs though. You've never lived with stairs.
You've gotten more empathetic this month too, baby. You're quick to say sorry when someone's in pain, often coming up to me at the end of the night when I'm doing dishes and you hear a sigh and saying "are you tired momma?" You tilt your head and make your eyes big with mock understanding and you take my hand and kiss the top of it. You tell me I'm silly and that if I'm tired I should go to sleep. You are so sweet.
Emily, I love getting to share this life with you. I love even more that you forgive me, every time. Sometimes it takes you a little longer, but I love navigating this with you, All of my letters the last few months have had this same theme of being grateful to you, grateful for you. And while I don't like that they're probably going to sound repetitive when you're reading these someday, I can't change it. Every day I am so amazed at what you give me in this life, at the things you teach me. I think it is so interesting to watch you learn things, things like how to tell a joke or how to recover from embarrassment (which, honey, you need to work on. Because the rage thing isn't working so well.), or watching you learn to button your pants and letters omhygod LETTERS YOU'RE STARTING TO LEARN LETTERS. I can't WAIT to turn you on to the world of books. I can't wait.
I got a picture of your Uncle Steve from Grandma a few days ago. My three year old brother in a denim jacket with hair spiking up to the sky is all of a sudden 6' tall in a skateboarding shirt and looks like what he is: a young man. I can still see the three-year-old face in him, beneath the grin and the Myspace hair and the lanky arms I can see the eyes that teared up when I had to leave and the teeth that were coming in to make up his incredibly toothy smile. I wonder if I'll always remember your faces. I have one of your school pictures next to me that was taken when you were about two and a half and already, seven months later, you look different. Older. I love how your face changes and I miss the days when I got to stay home with you. I would stare at you for hours, memorizing every detail. I got so intimate with that baby face that sometimes when I see you grinning or look at your expressions from afar I am shocked at how much you've grown.
Our days are longer now, Emily, than they used to be. When you were little we were never separated for longer than ten or twenty minutes at a time. I miss those days and I regret the necessity of it changing. I hate that now our days aren't like that, that by the end of the day I am so happy to see you but so exhausted and just DONE smiling that sometimes, you don't get what you need from me.
Even our little routines we used to have have been hit because of packing and behavior things and eating things. Life is happening Emily, and it will always do that. But as frustrated as I get, I always love you. As much as I fail, I always try and as much as sometimes I just need quiet, your voice will always be my light.
I love saying goodnight to you. I love our kissy games and I love when you surprises me. Usually I say I love you and you say "OK! Bye mom, and hey, turn out the light." Last night I walked in to say goodnight and you held up both arms to me. I leaned down to hug you and dug my nose into your collarbone, in one of your tickle spots, and you said "Hey, momma? I love you so much. You know that?"
I'm rational enough to know that that's mostly imitation. But I know you well enough to know that it came from your heart, that you love me as much as you know how.
I love you so much,
Momma.
Today you are three years and one month old. I hope you appreciate the fact that I've kept you alive for THREE WHOLE YEARS. Believe me kid, it's been rough.
Your birthday party was a hit. You loved dressing up as a princess and you loved your friends there and you loved that games I had there for you, with the amazing help of our friend Sarah, and you loved your presents. What really got me was how well you behaved. I must be doing something right baby, because you're amazing.
Maybe it's selfish of me to take the credit for it; Maybe I just lucked out. What I think, though, is what I've always thought: That you and I are just meant for each other.
This month has been so much fun. SO MUCH FUN. You're getting in to real music in a way you never have before. You're developing preference and though I may not always agree with what you like, I'm thrilled at this advancement. Your favorite song right now, hands down is The Best of Both Worlds by
You got a stereo for your birthday and it is pink and has gemstone buttons. I love it because now you can listen to music whenever you want to. And it means that I don't have to incessantly listen to ABC songs or anything else high-pitched and rhyme-y in repeat.
I want you to know that this CD will have a lot of different music on it. When w2e listen to the radio or to my playlist, you have preference. At least twice a day you will tell me which songs you like and which ones you don't. So I'm making you a couple CDs in hopes of expanding your musical horizons. And in hopes of getting you early, there will be some Backstreet Boys on there. At least it's not as bad as Grandma getting me hooked on Michael Bolton at the tender age of eleven. Be thankful for small things, Emily. It's an important lesson.
We are getting ready to move. You don't really know what that means, but you're picking up on the excitement of it. I've really been trying to amp you up for it, to get you smiling and laughing about it, because I'm not sure how you're going to handle the transition. You're excited that we're moving close to one of your friends though. I'm excited to be somewhere safer and with someone I love. To have the both of you in the same house is something that creates such a feeling of excitement I'm hard-pressed to describe it to you. I'm scared of the stairs though. You've never lived with stairs.
You've gotten more empathetic this month too, baby. You're quick to say sorry when someone's in pain, often coming up to me at the end of the night when I'm doing dishes and you hear a sigh and saying "are you tired momma?" You tilt your head and make your eyes big with mock understanding and you take my hand and kiss the top of it. You tell me I'm silly and that if I'm tired I should go to sleep. You are so sweet.
Emily, I love getting to share this life with you. I love even more that you forgive me, every time. Sometimes it takes you a little longer, but I love navigating this with you, All of my letters the last few months have had this same theme of being grateful to you, grateful for you. And while I don't like that they're probably going to sound repetitive when you're reading these someday, I can't change it. Every day I am so amazed at what you give me in this life, at the things you teach me. I think it is so interesting to watch you learn things, things like how to tell a joke or how to recover from embarrassment (which, honey, you need to work on. Because the rage thing isn't working so well.), or watching you learn to button your pants and letters omhygod LETTERS YOU'RE STARTING TO LEARN LETTERS. I can't WAIT to turn you on to the world of books. I can't wait.
I got a picture of your Uncle Steve from Grandma a few days ago. My three year old brother in a denim jacket with hair spiking up to the sky is all of a sudden 6' tall in a skateboarding shirt and looks like what he is: a young man. I can still see the three-year-old face in him, beneath the grin and the Myspace hair and the lanky arms I can see the eyes that teared up when I had to leave and the teeth that were coming in to make up his incredibly toothy smile. I wonder if I'll always remember your faces. I have one of your school pictures next to me that was taken when you were about two and a half and already, seven months later, you look different. Older. I love how your face changes and I miss the days when I got to stay home with you. I would stare at you for hours, memorizing every detail. I got so intimate with that baby face that sometimes when I see you grinning or look at your expressions from afar I am shocked at how much you've grown.
Our days are longer now, Emily, than they used to be. When you were little we were never separated for longer than ten or twenty minutes at a time. I miss those days and I regret the necessity of it changing. I hate that now our days aren't like that, that by the end of the day I am so happy to see you but so exhausted and just DONE smiling that sometimes, you don't get what you need from me.
Even our little routines we used to have have been hit because of packing and behavior things and eating things. Life is happening Emily, and it will always do that. But as frustrated as I get, I always love you. As much as I fail, I always try and as much as sometimes I just need quiet, your voice will always be my light.
I love saying goodnight to you. I love our kissy games and I love when you surprises me. Usually I say I love you and you say "OK! Bye mom, and hey, turn out the light." Last night I walked in to say goodnight and you held up both arms to me. I leaned down to hug you and dug my nose into your collarbone, in one of your tickle spots, and you said "Hey, momma? I love you so much. You know that?"
I'm rational enough to know that that's mostly imitation. But I know you well enough to know that it came from your heart, that you love me as much as you know how.
I love you so much,
Momma.
Puberty.
Setting: Emily and I are in the bathroom. I am peeing, the water is running and she is taking her shirt off. (She's just recently figured out a way to get her shirt off by herself. She pulls the head hole over and behind her head, and then pulls it off her arms. Which means there's a point when the shirt is behind her neck and her arms are still in the holes, kind of as if she were wearing a shawl.)
Emmy: Momma, look!
Me: What baby?
Emmy: I have nipples.
Me: ... Most people do.
Emmy: Aren't they pretty?
Me: Emmy, you're beautiful.
Emmy: Um, yeah. I know. I mean thank you! Someday? Mommy, I'll have boobies like you. And they'll be biiiig and they'll bounce when I jump!
Me, as Emmy is jumping up and down while trying to look at her chest: Um, Emmy, it's not nice to talk about boobies.
Emmy: Ok. But someday I'll have 'em. When I'm older. Cuz now I'm a kid. So I just have nipples.
At least she knows her body parts, right?
Mar 3, 2009
Wireless.
I'm kind of a freak of nature. Have a certain flow to my days. A rhythm, a way I go about doing things. I like to wake up at a certain time, at which point I like to clean and then shower and then wake Emily up and get her ready. I haven't been able to wake up lately. At all. My ideal time is 4:45. I've been averaging about 5:30. To some of you, that may seem disgustingly early. To me, it is not. I like to wake up and get things done and have time to actually wake up. I've said it many times in this blog and I'm likely to say it many more: I am not a morning person. If I don't have time to wake up, it's hard for me to be nice to the people that I need to be nice to. ANYway.
I read two newspapers a day . (Does anybody else still read the paper? You know, that delectable delight of the printed word, words printed on that stuff, that paper that makes your fingertips dirty? The kind of paper that's a pain in the ass to fold and would probably be better formatted as a magazine? Yes, those almost obsolete things, these newspapers, are a part of my daily routine. My grandpa used to read the paper every day and in high school I got in the habit of buying the Sun-Times every day while I waited for the bus. I credit him with my insane need of information.) I read through my local one and then a copy of USA Today. I'm always done with them by a certain time, and I read them in a certain order that always ends with Sudoku.
Granted, I supplement my reading with copious .com usage (primarily CNN and the Chicago Sun-Times, sometimes with some Wall Street Journal and some Chicago Tribune), but I still love the paper. I also regularly read Newsweek and Time, Glamour, Us Weekly and Vogue. I've even been known to buy the O magazine and I often flip through some of the ones about How To Decorate Your Home to Most Accurately Represent Every Other House On Your Block. With this, I try to read two new books a week, although lately that's been on hiatus because my book-buying money is gone. Needless to say, I read a lot.
Today I didn't get it done in the time I normally do. And I flipped out. Honestly, does it make any difference? No, not at all. But I seriously take a certain amount of time to read the papers, a certain amount of time to check on the blogs I read every day and a certain amount of time I spend reading other books, and I didn't realize it had gotten so regimented until today. I was two hours behind and it was freeing. Pathetic, I know. But I'm kind of a nerd.
(I sat down to type this and I'm not by my computer so I'm typing on my phone via bluetooth pocket keyboard. I was happily typing along without looking when I decided to check on this entry and I remembered that my batteries were dying the last time I used it. So I flipped out, bought new batteries, and here I am, although I've lost about half of this entry.)
I like to think I'm pretty informed. I wish I had the money to be a stay-at-home-mom so I could just play with my baby and blog all day long but, alas, my world is a different one.
I don't remember where I was going with this post, at all. I have no idea. Just that right now my head is so full of injustice and rage at some of the things in our newspapers today (and I can't do HTML links from my phone, so unfortunately I can't link to it), and last week, and the last eight years that I feel all cloudy.
I hate ending things. Ask any of my teachers and they will tell you "Melissa doesn't know how to conclude." So I've just gotten in to the habit of stopping the typing.
I read two newspapers a day . (Does anybody else still read the paper? You know, that delectable delight of the printed word, words printed on that stuff, that paper that makes your fingertips dirty? The kind of paper that's a pain in the ass to fold and would probably be better formatted as a magazine? Yes, those almost obsolete things, these newspapers, are a part of my daily routine. My grandpa used to read the paper every day and in high school I got in the habit of buying the Sun-Times every day while I waited for the bus. I credit him with my insane need of information.) I read through my local one and then a copy of USA Today. I'm always done with them by a certain time, and I read them in a certain order that always ends with Sudoku.
Granted, I supplement my reading with copious .com usage (primarily CNN and the Chicago Sun-Times, sometimes with some Wall Street Journal and some Chicago Tribune), but I still love the paper. I also regularly read Newsweek and Time, Glamour, Us Weekly and Vogue. I've even been known to buy the O magazine and I often flip through some of the ones about How To Decorate Your Home to Most Accurately Represent Every Other House On Your Block. With this, I try to read two new books a week, although lately that's been on hiatus because my book-buying money is gone. Needless to say, I read a lot.
Today I didn't get it done in the time I normally do. And I flipped out. Honestly, does it make any difference? No, not at all. But I seriously take a certain amount of time to read the papers, a certain amount of time to check on the blogs I read every day and a certain amount of time I spend reading other books, and I didn't realize it had gotten so regimented until today. I was two hours behind and it was freeing. Pathetic, I know. But I'm kind of a nerd.
(I sat down to type this and I'm not by my computer so I'm typing on my phone via bluetooth pocket keyboard. I was happily typing along without looking when I decided to check on this entry and I remembered that my batteries were dying the last time I used it. So I flipped out, bought new batteries, and here I am, although I've lost about half of this entry.)
I like to think I'm pretty informed. I wish I had the money to be a stay-at-home-mom so I could just play with my baby and blog all day long but, alas, my world is a different one.
I don't remember where I was going with this post, at all. I have no idea. Just that right now my head is so full of injustice and rage at some of the things in our newspapers today (and I can't do HTML links from my phone, so unfortunately I can't link to it), and last week, and the last eight years that I feel all cloudy.
I hate ending things. Ask any of my teachers and they will tell you "Melissa doesn't know how to conclude." So I've just gotten in to the habit of stopping the typing.
Mar 1, 2009
Going On Sixteen...
Me: Emmy, put your damned backpack away. I've been cleaning all day and I don't want it out right now.
Emmy: Mom, I'm checking my homework.
Me: You're three. You don't have homework.
Emmy: Are you KIDDING ME?
Me: Don't yell at me Em- EMILY GRACE I SAID PUT IT AWAY.
Emmy, with an eyeroll: You're killing me mom, really, you are. Just killing me. I'll put it away. Chill.
Emmy: Mom, I'm checking my homework.
Me: You're three. You don't have homework.
Emmy: Are you KIDDING ME?
Me: Don't yell at me Em- EMILY GRACE I SAID PUT IT AWAY.
Emmy, with an eyeroll: You're killing me mom, really, you are. Just killing me. I'll put it away. Chill.
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