X-Mas Wrap Up

• I found my Christmas spirit sometime in between the time we dressed the Peanut in his reindeer footie pajamas and my second glass of wine.
• My grandfather gave my dad a ring, and he explained that one of the stones was from the Great Depression. My grandpa's brother was dying, and he took the diamond to the doctor. He told him that he would pay him back for his services as soon as he could, but just in case the doctor could hold the diamond for collateral. He did save the brother, and they did get the diamond back. Another stone was my great-great grandmother's engagement ring. My dad thought this was the coolest thing ever (we all kind of did) and the story kept getting more heart wrenching the more Scotch my dad consumed.
• The best gift that I gave out this year was for A*, and it was only $5.99. It really is the thought that counts.
• The Peanut was thoroughly disgusted with all the fuss and noise, and though he received more gifts than anyone, he did NOT deck the halls.
• My cousin, who had never met the Peanut before, examined him coolly and said, "He's short, kinda."
• I got to watch my nephew open his X-Box 360, and I have never heard a louder scream or seen someone race around a room as fast as that little boy. His joy was so big he couldn't contain it.
• My mom gave the Peanut some books that were my favorites when I was a child, and the Peanut and I listened as she read them to us. I realized I am never too old to be read to by my mom.
• Members of my extended family threatened to spend next Christmas at the following places... New York, a cruise, a ditch by the side of the road... but I know that they will all be back next year, bitching about the same things. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

I hope everyone had a very Merry Holiday, and spent time laughing with those who are the most important to you.

It's Only One Day!

I have lost my Christmas spirit, somewhere amid the tangle of family obligations and low finances and misunderstandings. It seems like everyone has an agenda for us, when really all I want to do is spend a nice day with my son and family. It is the Peanut's first Christmas, and I wanted it to be really special. I mean, I know he is only an infant and he will never remember this, but I will, and I want to look back on his first year with joy, not irritation.

I just want to know when the magic left Christmas. When did it become who is giving what present and who's family dinner you go to first? When did we lose the whole point, which is that Christmas is that time of year when people are nice to each other, they smile in the store, they wave you on ahead in traffic. I think it should be about families, and togetherness, and the way the house smells after cooking a big feast.

I'm just bitter. I'm having some problems with one side of the family, and I have to make a really hard decision as to whether or not I will participate in this charade of happiness for one more year. Especially when I said last year that I would not do it again. I have just gone back and forth with this, and I don't know what the right thing to do is.

Today my mom and I are taking the Peanut to visit Santa and have his picture taken, and maybe when he is done I might crawl up onto the big man's lap myself and whisper in his ear what I want for Christmas this year.

Peace.

Pink Elephant

My husband and I are in the middle of ignoring the large pink elephant sitting right in front of us. We are not supposed to talk about Something, so all I think about is Something. I keep thinking of really funny, yet inappropriate, jokes about Something, and have literally had to bite my lips so as not to let them get out. A* is Very Sensitive about Something, and I can't keep my fucking mouth shut.

When I'm not supposed to talk about Something, I am thinking about it constantly. I want to FIX Something. I want to TALK ABOUT Something. How can Something be worked out if we are not talking and examining it in the smallest detail and talking some more and maybe worrying a little.... how can Something get better if I am forbidden to speak of it.

I don't want to hurt my husband's feelings. More than anything in the world. That is why I have to take out my frustrations here. A while ago, I made a tiny comment about Something, and A* looked at me like I had broken his heart. It broke my heart to have him look at me that way, and I have felt horrible and the worst wife ever since.

So we sit and don't look at the hugest pink elephant I've ever seen, even when it takes a giant shit on the floor and tries to eat the Peanut.

Or Something.

Bits

- My best friend had a baby boy on Monday night. He was 7.5 and 21 1/2 inches long, with a full head of curly black hair. He looks exactly like his dad. The Peanut and this new baby will be best friends too, because their mommies already decided that they have to be. Is it wrong that I am a little bit self satisfied because she is just beginning her journey of no sleeping and not knowing what the hell she is doing? Nah, misery loves company. Welcome, baby Matthew!

- I discovered a new song that I absolutely love, so I was very excited to download some more stuff onto my MP3 player. I put another four or five songs on it, and was so disappointed to realize that besides the original song, I don't really like any more of their songs. I was so pissed, because I thought that I had unearthed a new person for me to play obsessively over and over in my headphones.

- I take care of a ninety one year old woman, Miss Anna, in the mornings. The other day we were watching one of those dumb court shows and there were some lesbians on. Miss Anna was eating her breakfast when she turned to me and asked, "How do women have sex with each other, anyway?" How do you answer this question to someone who was born in 1917? I muttered, "Toys," and continued to wipe off the table. "Toys," she repeated to herself, and I just know she was picturing some train set or Lincoln Logs and trying to figure out just what the lesbians would do with them.

- Our bathtub drain is clogged, and there is a foot of dirty water laying in the tub. Last night I had to take a shower with my ankles buried in freezing cold filmy water. A* seems strangely unbothered by this, and has been halfheartedly plunging and pouring Draino in the drain. I wonder when he will actually do something. I also wonder why I don't just call the landlord myself and have her send for a plumber. Oh yeah, because I'm lazy.

Picture Perfect

Well, I finally joined the legions of other mothers before me, those exhausted and hollow-eyed people that are blindly carrying around a bag of clothes and a hairbrush... I took the Peanut to get his pictures professionally taken.

Let me tell you, this was a bigger deal than his actual birth. I had to make no less than THREE trips back and forth to the photo place. It was hot, there were kids screaming, the Peanut fell into an exhausted sleep on my shoulder... it was like another dimension.

The first time we went, a V!E!R!Y! cheerful man took us back into a hot, hot room filled with fabrics and bedraggled toys and bright lights. He instructed me to undress the Peanut and place him in a basket, with a blue ribbon covering his bits. I tried not to think of how many other kids had placed their bare bottom where I was now resting my son. The Peanut tried to eat the ribbon. He squinted in surprise at the pop of the camera. He had absolutely no interest in any of the dumb toys the cheerful employee tried to wave in front of his face. He let his picture be taken a few more times, and then fell asleep in the basket. Done for the day.

We were told that we didn't have to make an appointment for the next time, since we were just continuing the session. Of course, when we got there, with the Peanut decked out in his finest Christmas sweater, there were four million people, who actually HAD appointments, and they all were taken back before us. After three hours in his hot and uncomfortable sweater, smack in the middle of nap time, the Peanut screamed bloody murder when we finally set him down on a mock sled to take some pictures. He did not appreciate the squeaky toy that they were waving at him, he was having none of sitting by himself, and just wanted his mom to take him away from all of these insane people and bright lights. Needless to say, there were no pictures taken on this trip.

I dragged us back for the final time, putting the Peanut back into a sweater that was now a little worse for the wear. We lost a shoe in the parking lot, and I barked at the man who was now just irritatingly happy, "Just take the pictures, I don't care if he has a shoe on or not!" We got a couple of pictures of the Peanut looking highly pissed off about all of the proceedings, and then I got to pick through the wreckage and decide what to spend ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY FUCKING DOLLARS on to complete my picture experience.

I don't have the pictures back yet, and I don't even care if they look good. I will be displaying those suckers until he has children of his own.

Six month pictures, anyone?

Grown Up Things

Gazing at my son, I realize something horrible. I'm supposed to be a grown-up now, responsible for a whole other human life. An adult! And most of the time, that is quite the opposite of what I am.

I always turn the music up as loud as it can go, and sing at the top of my lungs, and sometimes use objects to be my pretend microphones. I dance around like a maniac. I stand on furniture to really belt it out.

I am drawn to all things glittery or shiny or sparkly. If I could wear a tiara everyday without getting strange looks, I would. I half-way believe that I was either a fairy or a princess in some past life. I paint my nails with pink glitter polish and coat my mouth with bubble gum flavored lip gloss.

Tinkerbelle is my bitch. I wanted to watch the new movie, and invited a two year old over so that I would have a friend. I watched the movie, she played with the cats. She was not impressed.

I sometimes want to just keep driving and driving and see where I end up. Or just pick up and move to a different city, where no one knows me and I could totally reinvent myself.

When I am sick or upset, I still want my mommy.

I eat a diet that consists of fast food, boxed dinners, and ready-made brownies. And I'm not apologizing for it- that shit is good!

I watch all the animated Christmas movies every year, and the original Frosty is my favorite. I love Christmas, and I really love presents. I like to receive better than give most of the time. I almost still believe in Santa.

I laugh loudly and without consideration for others around me. I often snort and hit people when I laugh. Farting still makes me giggle. People falling cracks me up. I like to eat candy and I like to roast marshmallows and I like to put on costumes and I like to play make over with my friends and I still go down the doll aisle in the toy store and I still sleep with a Cabbage Patch doll and I don't like to be in the dark alone.

Actually, after reading this over, I'm glad I'm not a grown-up. One of the coolest things about having a kid is that you get to do all this stuff all over again and see it through new eyes.

"Forget them… forget them all. Come away to Never Never Land.
Come with me, we’ll never…never have to worry about grown-up things again."
-Peter Pan

Girl

I thought she was beautiful, in a fragile, waifish kind of way. She wore a green hooded sweatshirt and had bleached blond hair. I met her in the psychiatric ward.

When I was in high school I fell into a deep depression and after therapy and medication and no relief, and my mother sleeping on my bedroom floor in case I got up at night, I was sent to the local Children's hospital, seventh floor. The crazies. I was terrified.

She was already a patient when I got there. At my first group, I noticed her, and she gave me a small grin. A breath I didn't know I had been holding came shooting out... someone that looked normal, not the drooling zombie I had pictured being in the psych ward.

We made ridiculous clay sculptures in Art Therapy, and weaved each other friendship bracelets. We giggled and drew inspirational posters to hang on our walls, as instructed by someone. She told me about her boyfriend and how much she wanted a cigarette. She seemed glamorous to me, someone who had experienced things that I couldn't even imagine. I watched her apply meticulous make-up every morning, smoothing her fingers across her cheeks. Piece by piece, her story came out in group, and she only grew more mysterious to me.

I got sent home on Partial, meaning that I got to go home overnight but had to spend all day at the hospital. She asked me to bring her some blush and a pen. We were only allowed to write with pencils, with soft lead tips that couldn't puncture. I agreed to bring the contraband, thinking nothing of it. I gave her the pen the next day, and she broke it apart and scraped the sharp ends over her wrists.

It was taken away from her and she had to spend the afternoon in the Quiet Room. I was shocked at this betrayal of our friendship and also at my naivety. I had forgotten for a while that we were in a mental hospital.

Eventually we both got "better" and were sent home. I lost touch with her as soon as we left, but I hung up the signs she had made me, wore her friendship bracelet till it broke, and thought of her often.

A couple years later, I saw her at a local pizza place. She looked skinny, but well. I watched her laugh and toss her head back, noticed the flush on her cheeks. I never said anything to her, not sure if she would want to be reminded of a difficult time. But I was so glad to see her, to see that she had made it.

I still think of her often, and hope that she is still out there somewhere smoothing liquid foundation like a magical paintbrush over her fevered face, and safe.

Helpful Hints

Here are some things that they don't tell you about being a mom. Yes, you will love your child more than life itself, and yes you will be doing the most rewarding job of your entire life, but there are some things that you should know first.

1.) If you are trying to watch the Britney Spears documentary on TiVo, your child will start to cry and scream. If you are trying to watch ANYTHING except Dora and the Wonderpets, your child will cry and scream. You can try and distract him, and put him in his bouncy seat, but he will have no part of that. You will never find out why Britney shaved her head.

2.) Even if you do manage to get him to sit in his bouncy seat or swing for an extended period of time (that means more than three seconds), you will feel guilty that you are not playing with him or stimulating him. Everyone will tell you how you need to stimulate your baby, so every moment that you are not spending with him dangling age appropriate toys that he has no interest in in front of his face, you will feel a crushing sense of guilt. Pretty much everything you do from now on will be filled with guilt, get used to it.

3.) The best present that your significant other can give you is a block of uninterrupted time, which you will use to shower. Or nap, if you are me. But remember, refer to number 2, because you will feel guilty about this.

4.) If you want the baby to nap, say so that you and your mate may try and make another one (what??), the baby will never ever nap. If you don't want him to nap, because it is a half hour till his bedtime and you want him to sleep tonight, he will be harder to wake up than your grandpa after a big dinner.

5.) No matter where you are going, tack on another fifteen minutes at least, because your child will poop right before you leave.

6.) This job is sometimes really, really boring! It is really hard to spend all day trying to entertain someone who doesn't even know how to use his hands yet. You will crave adult interaction, and will be reduced to yelling back at Judge Judy on TV, because at least she isn't pulling your hair or pooping her pants.

7.) You may never wear regular clothes again. Your new uniform will consist of sweatpants, a ponytail, and flip flops... if you have to leave the house. Inside, you will be in your pajamas. Maybe a robe.

8.) You will not get to shower everyday, and you don't even care. Soon you won't even notice the scent of spoiled formula wafting from your pores. You are too busy yelling at the TV and feeling guilty.

9.) You will never eat a full meal again. You will simply graze on whatever is left if your child sees it fit to let you have five minutes to scarf your food down. If you do get a meal, it will be cold.

10.) It is the very best job you will ever have in your life, and someday you will look on these early days with fondness. And guilt.

Gushing

Yesterday I sent my first fan email and I was such a dork. I gushed and went on and on and even linked to my blog just in case she wanted to really experience my nerdiness. As soon as I hit the send button my insecurities came flying out, and I thought it was a dumb idea but then if I wrote a book I would want people to let me know that they liked it... Anyways, she wrote me back! Stefanie wrote me such a nice reply and even commented on my blog.

Thanks, Stefanie, for not judging me on my dorkiness. And if you haven't read "Sippy Cups are Not for Chardonnay" yet, close this window and go get it. It's hilarious! And honest! And Stefanie is really nice!

Torturing my Son

All right, it's time for me to come clean, and really I would never admit this to anyone but hey, who out there is really reading this anyway? The first step is admitting you have a problem...

The other day I was playing with the Peanut on the floor and we were listening to some music, as we are known to do. (We really kick it here, we really do.) I always sing along and he never objected before. Well, a song came on that has a great crescendo in the middle and I got all geared up and belted out the lyrics at the top of my lungs... and the Peanut started screaming like I had jabbed him with a red hot poker. He was totally terrified of my singing voice.

I guess all of my American Idol dreams are now slowly going down the toilet. And I was ready to be all famous and runner up and then go on Celebrity Rehab, just like that chick that's on there right now. But if my own son can't stand the sound, how can I expect the rest of America to torture themselves?

He's getting a lullaby before he goes to bed, damn it, and I don't care who calls CSB on me.