Two

The Buddha turned two yesterday.  I spent all day cranking out work in order to go home early and spend time with her, so I didn’t write anything on the day itself.  But if had written something, I would have written about how much I’ve enjoyed this past year.  I would have written about how much fun it’s been to discover the Buddha’s true personality and how it’s taught me to be a better, more patient and trusting person.  I definitely would have mentioned that I’m so happy that she’s turning out to enjoy doing things like cooking and hiking with me, just like I’d hoped she would.  And without fail there would have been a bit o’ something about how shy doesn’t mean cowardly, and reserved doesn’t mean boring, and public bashfulness means home funniness.  The Buddha has a quiet, sure manner of winding her way into everyone’s heart eventually, and I would have told you all about it.

But, you see, I couldn’t.

Because we had

to eat

cake.

So, what did you talk about on Sunday?

“Hey, baby, look what I found?”
“Wha?”
“A frog.”
“Oooooh!”
“Do you want to hold him?  Here, give me your hand.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.  You’re holding a frog, baby.  Oops.  He jumped.”
“Where go?”
“He’s hiding now.”
“‘iding?”
“Yep.  He’s hiding.  Let’s keep walking.”
“Frog!”
“I know, huh?  How neat?”
“Hand!”
“Yes, I saw…”
“‘ump!”
“Yes, he did…”
“‘iding!”
“I know.  Sometimes frogs are a little…”
“Frog! Hand! ‘ump! ‘iding!”
“Good story, baby.  Okay, let’s keep walking!”
“Frog! Hand! ‘ump! ‘iding!”
“Yes, I know.  Let’s keep heading home and you can tell Dad what happened.”
“Frog! Hand! ‘ump! ‘iding!”
“Keep walking, please.”
“Frog! Hand! ‘ump! ‘iding!”
“We’re walking, and we’re walking, and we’re walking…”
“Frog! Hand! ‘ump! ‘iding!”
“Walk, please.  Okay, thank you.”

(One minute later)
“Frog! Hand! ‘ump! ‘iding!”
“Good remembering, babe.  Don’t forget to tell Dad your story when we get home.”
“Frog! Hand! ‘ump! ‘iding!”
“Keep walking.  Thank you.”

(Two minutes later)
“Frog! Hand! ‘ump! ‘iding!”
“Yep.”
“Frog! Hand! ‘ump! ‘iding!”
“I know.”
“Frog! Hand! ‘ump! ‘iding!”
*silence*
“Momma!”
“Yes, babe?”
“Frog! Hand! ‘ump! ‘iding!”
“Yep.”

(Ten minutes later)
“Okay, babe.  We’re home.  Go talk to Dad.”
“Daddy!”
“Yes, babe?”
“Frog! Hand! ‘ump! ‘iding!”
“Um, what?”
“She’s telling you a story.”
“Frog! Hand! ‘ump! ‘iding!”
“You had a frog in your hand?”
“‘ump!”
“And it jumped?”
“Yeah! ‘iding!”
“Ummm…”
“And now it’s hiding.”
“Oh!  Right!  Hiding!”
“‘iding!”

(Ten minutes later)
“She probably needs a diaper change.”
“I’ll do it.  You just took her for a walk.”
*from upstairs*
“Daddy! Frog! Hand! ‘ump! ‘iding!”
“Yes, I heard.”

(Many hours later)
“Okay, baby.  Good night, sleep tight.”
“Frog! Hand! ‘ump! ‘iding!”
*in chorus* “WE KNOW!”

(Fifteen minutes later)
“Oh, man, I’m so tired.”
“Hey, babe.  Did you know that the Buddha had a frog?  In her hand?”
“Seriously, you need to shut up right now.”

Like, Oh. My. God.

I haven’t been writing about the Buddha’s sleeping troubles because is there anything more boring to blog about than non-sleeping children?  Maybe sickness.   That’s pretty dull.  And definitely dreams.  I hate when people blog about dreams.  But non-sleeping children is up there, am I right?  But, man of mercy, I have to write about it now because I suspect that this child is actually trying to kill us in an effort to hasten her inheritance of used power tools, a 14-year old car, and massive credit card debt.  And who wouldn’t, really?

I knew this day would come, namely because the Buddha was always a good sleeper.  She was so big that she was sleeping 4-5 hours at a stretch from the very beginning.  My doctor told me to wake her up to eat every few hours and I was all, “Yeah, right.  Bite me.”  She slept through the night at six weeks.  For the majority of her young life, with the exception of periods of sickness or teething, we’ve been able to put her down at 7:30 and then not hear a thing until 6 or 7.  Don’t worry, I wasn’t cocky.  I knew we would pay for it some day.  And that day, it has arrived.

Actually, it arrived a few months ago.  Five months?  Six months?  Who knows.  It’s not like I knew that first night of waking up was the beginning of the end of my life.  I didn’t mark it on a calender.  All I know is that I no longer remember what it is like to get a good night’s sleep.  No memory.  Gone, along with my reason, patience, and will to live.

For the first few months, I tried to get up with her myself.  It usually wasn’t a big deal.  I’d just cover her back up, tell her to go back to sleep, and presto.  Done for a few hours.  When possible, I try to let the Alias Father sleep, which sounds like a total Good Wife thing, I know.  But really, it’s because if I go to work tired the worst that’s going to happen is a paper cut or accidentally passing out in front of a room full of people.  If he goes to work tired there’s the possibility of falling off a roof or lopping off a hand in a tragic table saw accident.  And I like his hands.  Both of them.  And his intact skull.  I’m fond of that, too.

But about a month ago, I started to hit the Pregnancy Wall and realized this was becoming unrealistic.  I compared our daily to-do lists:

HIS
1) Build stuff.
2) Make dinner.

MINE
1) Shuffle papers.
2) Manage the successful continued existence of one woman, one man, one child, one dog, one cat, and two stupid fish that won’t die.
3) Grow human being.

I think it’s clear who’s wining these days and it isn’t his skull.  So now we take turns getting up in the night.  Except, of course, I am married to one of those people who can sleep through anything and so, instead of me peacefully slumbering on my nights off, I still have to wake up enough to punch him in the shoulder and tell him to get up and get the Buddha.  Which he does, in a haze of mumbles and grunts and lurching and only after managing to trip over the one dog bone/sock/piece of lint that happens to be on our bedroom floor, resulting in even MORE mumbling and grunting and lurching with some added profanity.  And then when he gets back into bed he elbows me in the head.

It’s still not restful, is what I’m saying.

Which brings us to last night.  Last night, which was my night to get up of course it was, she decided that it wasn’t enough to wake up five times before 1 a.m., oh no, what we all really needed was for her to scream loudly and unreasonably for a half-hour straight.*  And the entire experience, which really looks pretty benign here, I must say, after all that build up, threw me into an absolute pit of middle-of-the-night despair.  I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it here, but, you see, I’m pregnant and due with another screaming child in, hold on, let me count, 12 weeks exactly.  And what am I supposed to do then, internet?  What then?  Listen to them scream in stereo while kicking my husband awake with my foot?

I keep having these mid-day fantasies where all I want do is lay my head down in someone’s lap and let them stroke my hair while I fall into a blissful, endless sleep.  Ahhhh…

Hey!  What are you doing right now? You look like an excellent hair-stroker.  Get over here and let me lay in your lap!  No!  Wait!  Get back here!  Come back!  Come baaaack!

See?  This is why I will never be a true part of the internet community.  You people just aren’t supportive enough.

*And, no, she is not sick, nor teething, nor injured, nor cold.  She is ornery.  I swear, I don’t know where she gets it from.

I’d apologize, except I’m really not sorry

One of the things I find most amusing about the blogosphere is when a blogger will apologize for a random entry because they don’t have the time or topic for a fully thought-out post.  I love random entries.  Give me a bulleted list anyday.  Sometimes, that’s the only thing to do when you’ve got a bunch of completely unrelated things floating around in your head.  Like today, for example.  Hypothetically speaking.  Or not.

• Yes, I am very disappointed with the results of last week’s election.  No, the entire Maine universe has not imploded in a haze of seaweed and Gore-Tex.  I think we will be okay.
• I am not okay with the response of the rest of the pro-gay-marriage nation, who acted like we showed up on their front porch and kicked their puppy.  Twitter was an ugly place to be the day after that vote.  People, I just did an extensive research project (um, I counted up the states on the Wikipedia map) and it looks like 28 states have constitutional bans on same sex marriage.  7 more have a statute banning the same.  You are welcome to boycott Maine if you’d like, but you really should boycott everyone in order to truly make your point.  Have fun only visiting and using goods from Massachusetts, Connecticut, Iowa, Vermont, and New Hampshire.  Meanwhile, I’ll continue in my assumption that there are good people with differing opinions in every state and that attaining civil rights is work in progress.  All you see is failure.  I see that conservative, curmudgeonly Maine managed to match the voting percentage from chakra-clearing, wheat-grass-swilling California, and I think that’s pretty good.
• Wow, that was kind of a long and ranty bullet.  How about a pallet cleanser?  It is 60 degrees today and I went to work without a coat.  In Maine, in November.  If you live in a warm climate and think 60 sounds cold…shut up.  Two nights ago it was 20 degrees.
• That wasn’t very palate cleansing?  Okay, how’s this: the Buddha loves helping in the kitchen so much that every time she hears something that might resemble cooking noises, she comes running in clapping her hands and yelling, “Helps!  Helps!” and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
• I am so large now that I can only see the very tips of my big toes when I look down.  I forget how fond I am of my feet until I can’t see them anymore.
• I also have started sleeping with a pillow tucked under me to support the belly.  This is annoying because it takes up room in the bed, which is already at a premium considering I sleep with a man who is eleventy hundred feet tall and has 87 elbows.  I am so well rested!  You wouldn’t even believe it!  I’m also lying!
• I am exceeding frustrated with my haggard appearance and have decided that the way to fix it is with a dramatic change to my hair.  Except that I can’t even imagine what that change would be, as I have no sense of style at all.  I’m considering walking into the salon that has given me my best haircuts and saying, “Oh, I dunno, surprise me.”  Good idea or bad?
• Unrelated to the previous three bullets (or maybe not), I am finding it so much harder to stay away from booze this pregnancy.  I think it’s because, due to nearly a year of budget-related-lack-of-fun prior to the pregnancy (you can only convince yourself that a night in with popcorn and Netflix is AWESOME for a finite number of months), I was already feeling deprived.  Now I walk by the liquor aisle in the grocery store and am bitter (BITTER) that I cannot just have a dirty vodka martini my god that would taste so good right now.  Yes, I know that in Europe pregnant women have a periodic glass of wine or beer and all is fine, and I truly believe it is, but I also feel that the effects of alcohol on a baby are so detrimental and avoiding those effects is so easy that, well, I need to just suck it up.  Go have a nice glass of dark beer for me, would you?  I’ll go eat three slices of pie for you in exchange.
• I have got the travel itch mighty bad, which is a shame considering I have nowhere to go, no money to get there, and would still be fat and bitter once I arrived.  If I had a time machine, I would go back to my 26 year old self, back when I was single and free with a smidge of disposable income, for just one day and I would live the hell out of it.  Then I would come right back to my marvelous family and job and crushing responsibilities, I swear, but what I wouldn’t give for that one day.
• This weekend I called a single friend who I haven’t seen in a month or so and asked if she wanted to get together.  She was busy with what I think was a legit excuse, but I felt like she was blowing me off because I’m all mother-y and boring and I cried for like an hour afterward about how I have no friends.  Could I be any more cliche?  Yeah, I know.
• I had an extensive conversation with someone about how I don’t like pain medication.  That’s why I did natural childbirth and why I weaned myself of the post-C-section meds as soon as I could.  I also will try for hours to get rid of a headache via caffeine, fresh air, water, and food before taking something.  I don’t take cold or flu meds either, because I’d rather feel the discomfort than be disconnected from what’s going on with my body.  She thought that made me weird.  Does that make me weird?
• I planted some bulbs last weekend in a fit of optimism.  I expect them to die, which I think means my optimism has turned on me.
• My husband is getting hotter as he ages while I am getting significantly less hot.  I am disturbed by this development.
• Project Runway sucks hard this season, no?  But The Amazing Race has been awesome, so I think that makes up for it.  I’m ambivalent about Top Chef because I am simultaneously repulsed by the preteen drama and intrigued by the Voltaggio robots.  Like, seriously, could those guys be any more tightly wound?  What, you don’t watch any of these shows?  Well, I don’t give a crap about Mad Men or Gossip Girl or vampires so we’re even.

I… think that’s it.  I think my brain has been dumped.  If I come up with anything else, I’ll update.  If you’d like a full post on any of the above, write it yourself.  I kid, I KID.  Ask and I shall expand.

As you were.

Coming out for those who have come out

I write anonymously for a few reasons.  I started out that way because I didn’t know what I was doing and this seemed safer.  Then I got better at the writing part, but had trouble owning my words.  Now I’m improving on that, but I have concerns about how my writing might come back to haunt me, even though I work hard to never say anything regrettable.  While I am the opposite of big and important, I do have a job where I serve as a public face and I am stupidly Google-able.  So now I mostly continue behind my little veil out of a desire for the public appearance of respectability.

If you’ve been around a while, you may remember that the Alias Father didn’t even know that I had this blog for the first few months.  I eventually let him in on it, about the time that it started to feel like a Thing between us.  Now I’ve got another Thing, and I’ve pondered a while (too long, in some respects) about whether to address the Thing or not.  But I finally decided to lift the veil a bit, mostly because I don’t like Things.  But also because, dammit, sometimes a girl’s just gotta let it out.

Here’s the Thing:

I’m from Maine.

When I say that, I don’t just mean, oh here’s this nice place where I live and I generally like it.  I mean, I’m from Maine.  FROM.

What does it mean to be from Maine versus just being, you know, from Maine?  It, um, means stuff like this:

I am the daughter of a hunter, the granddaughter of a lobsterman, and the great-granddaughter of a sea captain’s widow who spent 60 years waiting for her husband to come home (hand to heart on that one).

I know what a lobsterboat smells like and why you should never, ever wear shoes you like on one.

I only eat lobster once or twice a year because, meh, but I’ll eat crab anytime I can get it.

I consider winter broken once I can smell the seaweed at low tide again.

I can spend a full week housebound by snow and ice and not even twitch.

I know what happens when 30-degree-below-zero air hits your nostrils and, frankly, I find it invigorating.

I can make whoopie pies, oatmeal bread, and a damn fine fish chowder.  Furthermore, I believe that no fish chowder will ever be proper again until Nabisco resumes making pilot crackers.  (Currently I make biscuits, but it is not the same.)

I have eaten moose.

I have had both Allen’s-and-milk and Moxie on more than one occasion, though I am not a fan of either.

I experience annually what watching the sun set at 3:30 in the afternoon does to your soul and, thus, I do not judge the people who do regularly drink Allen’s-and-milk and Moxie.

I know the proper usage of both “wicked” and “cunnin’” and use them periodically, though generally not together.

I have strong opinions on the matter of wool versus fleece versus down for winter wear and I will share them with you.

I own a couple token pieces of outerwear from L.L. Bean, but no actual clothing (hint: only people from Massachusetts wear full L.L. Bean ensembles).

I live in a house with exposed housewrap, a pile of trash and firewood in the yard, and a truck parked out front and my dog is hardly ever on a leash.

People.  I am from Maine.

I don’t know where else to be from, really.  I have lived other places, and may again, but the truth is that this place, this weird, cold, smelly place with food designed to kill you by age 50, is the only place I’ve found where I feel at home.  My ancestors go back here as far as there are records.  I have salt water in my veins, granite in my bones, and pine needles in my hair…and that last one isn’t always just poetic.  I consider myself to be of true Maine stock: resilient, circumspect, warm-hearted, and good humored.

And I’m very worried about my state.

Today, as you may know, Mainers will be voting on whether to repeal the gay marriage law that was signed by the governor this spring.  I liked his statement about it at the time.  I thought it upheld what I believe to be some of the finest qualities of Maine: our desire to be fair to all, our emphasis on keeping religious and governmental responsibilities separate (people, there’s a reason we left the Puritans behind in Massachusetts, okay?), and our heritage of respectful disagreement.  This is a place where people still get together at the annual town meeting to argue viciously and profanely with each other for several hours before sitting down to eat a potluck meal, pass the butter please, because we understand that different opinions do not necessarily make enemies.

The run-up to today has been ugly.  Hideously, shamefully ugly.  I’ve heard a lot of hateful and untrue things said on both sides, egged on in large part by non-Maine money.  Because this argument isn’t just about what rights the little state of Maine will or won’t allow to a minority, of course.  This is just the latest battleground in a national fight, and I suspect that’s how most people invested in the issue see it.  But when you take big fights and put them on tiny stages, those of us who perform on those stages feel a smidge overwhelmed.  To draw out the theater analogy further, stop groaning, it’s rather like we thought we were performing our play in the Congregational church basement, but when the curtain went up, all of a sudden we discovered we were in Lincoln Center.  And the audience was throwing rotten tomatoes.

I don’t know what this post is about, really.  It’s about my love for this place.  It’s about how disappointed I’ll be if my fellow Moxie-drinking actors let me down.  It’s about how saddened I am that my little state has become an ugly place because big interest groups see us as their pawns.  It’s about how, no matter which side wins tonight, the gloating and the tears will be the gloating and tears of my neighbors and how I don’t want to see that.  It’s about how concerned I am that the measured, compassionate, moderate words of our governor (who is also from Maine, which I respect though I do often disagree with him) have been long forgotten in our race to yell the loudest.

It’s about how I’m worried that no matter which way the vote goes, this place that I love will not be the same.

I think that’s what it’s about.

Or maybe it’s about how I need to go home and bake some whoopie pies and eat them all.

It’s very likely that this is what it’s about.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, I voted No on 1.

Notes on the Buddha: The Making Momma Proud Edition

It’s funny how many ways I’ve tried to sell it.

“She takes some time to warm up.”

“She can be a little bashful around new people.”

“She doesn’t talk that much yet.”

“She’s a tough nut to crack.”

“She can be a bit serious.”

“She likes to just take it all in.”

I’ve tried the soft sell, the hard sell, and the funny sell.  I explain it apologetically, confidentially, and offhandedly.  I try to bolster her confidence, ignore it, and teach her how to get past it.  But the thing is this:

The Buddha is shy.

Really shy.

Really, really shy.

She doesn’t want to talk to you.  Or smile at you.  Or be touched by you.  In fact, she’d really just prefer to stare at you unblinkingly with a high level of disdain.  With so much disdain, and with such a flinty stare, that I honestly have no fear at all about this girl’s future dating experiences.  She’ll tell those boys where to go, oh yes she will.  If she even needs to tell them anything after giving them that look.

She’s been in the Toddler Room at daycare for four months now.  And she seems fine and comfortable there.  But she didn’t smile at a teacher until a month ago.  She just started using a word here or there with them last week.  Last week!

At home, of course, she’s a chatterbox brimming with confidence.  At the playground, she runs around and climbs structures so high that I can’t reach her and then from above she watches me panic and giggles.  When it’s just us, she’s funny and goofy and full-speed ahead.  She hugs and kisses and invents new games.  As soon as someone else enters the picture…BAM.  Lock down.  No words.  No playing.  Flinty stare of death.  My flimsy explanations.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me.  Of course it bothers me.  Look at this whole post: paragraphs of overwrought explanation teetering over the hidden framework of me being bothered by it.  I’m jealous of friends with their jolly toddlers, the ones who light up parties and make everyone laugh.  I get cranky about the kids at daycare who joyfully call out the Buddha’s name when she walks in, only to get her blank stare in return.  I worry when these kids, nice normal kids, not overly aggressive ones, take her toys and ignore her during games.  Why wouldn’t they?  She’s not going to do anything but stand there.

I remember being shy as a child, but I didn’t know this is what it looked like from the outside.  I remember watching everyone in the room, taking note of their interaction, waiting to figure out all the roles and rules before jumping in.  I remember people thinking I was dumb because I couldn’t think of the right words to say, so I just didn’t say any.  I remember overly loud adults getting in my face in an effort to make me crack a smile and I remember hiding behind my mother’s leg exactly–EXACTLY–as the Buddha now does to me.  And I remember my mother’s hand on my back, gently and lovingly moving me out into the line of fire exactly–EXACTLY–as I now do to her.  So it’s not that I don’t get it.  I get it.  I get it a little too much.

But I didn’t know what my mother was feeling over on this side of the fence.  That she was probably afraid that I would get bullied, that I would always be on the outside, that I would forever be considered slow because I didn’t show I could keep up, even when she knew I was ahead of the pack.  And that deep down, she was probably a little embarrassed by me and my total lack of social niceties.  This side of the fence sucks.

I know the Buddha will be okay, because I am okay.  I know she will, eventually, learn some social skills and figure out how to join in.  I know that she will learn to appreciate that people-watching practice because it will give her hidden advantages galore in school, dating, and work.  I know she will someday figure out that the best way to overcome shyness is to find the person in the room who is feeling even more shy, and go talk to them.  I know she’ll learn that confidence can be faked and that, if you do it right, few people can tell the difference.  I’ll teach her some of these tricks, some she’ll figure out on her own, and she’ll find her own ways of compensating.

At the Buddha’s daycare, there’s a little boy with some serious developmental delays.  He didn’t crawl until two.  At almost three years old, he still can’t walk unassisted.  The daycare is tremendous with him, working closely with his parents to find that right balance between pushing and accommodating.  He and the Buddha have been in the same room since she started there, despite his being almost a year older.  The Buddha has always liked him, probably because his physical problems slow him down to a pace she can understand.  Recently the classroom teacher told me that the Buddha watches him throughout the day.  No matter what else she’s doing, she’s got one eye on this guy.  Because walking is such an effort for him, he spends a lot of time sitting on the floor and playing.  And he always has something to play with, because the Buddha brings him toys.  And books.  And games.  And snacks.  She circles the room on her own toddler business, then will zoom in periodically to bring him a new present to keep him busy.  She’s taken him on as her own personal mission, unasked, unexpected, untaught.

And so, yeah, I worry.  I worry a lot.

And then there are times when I don’t worry at all.

The Buddha with her party face on.

You’ll wish you were being kicked by the end of this

I’m feeling a little better today, because what are my options, really, but I still seem to have a bit of bad-attitude hangover.  My bad attitudes tend to mostly take the shape of feeling like the world is pitted against me and, woe, it is all tragically unfair that my life is so hard.  You know, my life where I and my whole family are healthy, my child is well and safe, I am gainfully employed, I have a solid roof over my head at all times, and my country is not at war (in my backyard, anyway) nor in the midst of some horrifying natural calamity.

God, my life sucks.

When I get that bad attitude, there’s nothing to do except ride it out and the bulk of it usually passes pretty quickly.  This time was no exception and so right now I’m feeling much less put upon but still a bit…out of sorts, I suppose.  And that out-of-sorts feeling has to find an outlet and so today, well.  Today I’m just really sick of being pregnant.

I don’t like being pregnant.  I know that in some groups, that’s the equivalent of heresy.  I’m supposed to be getting in touch with my inner womanly wisdom right now or some such.  Except I doubt I have inner wisdom of any variety, womanly or otherwise, and even if I did have some once upon a time it’s probably been kicked to death by this kid.  This kid, who is the kickingest kicker that ever kicked.  I am constantly being pummeled in the bladder, intestines, butt, you name it.  On more than one occasion I have suspected that there is a tiny little foot hanging out of my vagina because seriously, how else could I feel that much kicking that low down.  Stupid kicking kid.  I bet I could feel some wisdom if you’d stop kicking for a second.

It’s not just the kicking, of course.  There’s the getting fat.  I suppose some might think that makes me vain and you know what?  I’m fine with that.  I am vain.  I don’t care that my hair is messy all the time or that I have constant bags and wrinkles under my eyes and I’ve even learned to live with spider veins.  But the getting fat?  It bothers me.  The gigantic stomach?  Bothers.  The spreading butt?  Really bothers.  Feeling my wedding ring get tighter and tighter?  Bothers, bothers, and bothers some more.  Call the pregnancy police!  I don’t like the getting fat part.

And the clothes.  Oy!  The clothes!  I’ve gone off on these before and I’m sure that you will be shocked to learn that I still hate maternity clothing with the white-hot heat of a bazillion suns.  I hate the pants that fall down and the underwear that creeps up and the devils bargain I must make every morning between waistbands that slice me in half below the belly or that creep up around my ribcage above the belly.  I hate the tent-like shirts that never fit right, the increasingly tight shoes, and that every morning is a new game of “Does this still fit or not?”

I hate that my skin is simultaneously peeling from dryness and breaking out.  I hate that I’m starving all the time and yet am sick of chewing.  I hate that I am exhausted all the time and yet can’t sleep soundly.  I hate that my gums bleed if you look at them wrong.  I hate that everyone is waiting for me to drop dead of swine flu.  I hate that people feel the need to express their opinion on whether I am really showing, oh my god, or whether I look pretty small, is everything okay?  I hate that every trip to the doctor results in a horrifying moment on the scale when I realize that I’ve gained how much?  Is that even possible?

And now I’m back to the weight thing again, so it’s probably time to stop.

I can hear you all thinking: wow, is this really what she’s like when she’s feeling better?

The answer is yes.  Yes, it is.

Because at least I no longer think that I am a directionless, purposeless loser who is incapable of achieving anything.  Instead I’m just pissed I keep getting kicked in the cervix.

In my world, that’s an improvement.

I think my next dream job will be Unpaid, Unpopular Blogger

I got the official E-mail of Rejection today.

The dream job is not to be.  For me, that is.  It will certainly be the dream job for someone.  At least I hope it is, because I’d feel even crappier if it turns out the person they hire isn’t even happy in the job and instead is just killing time for a paycheck.  Then I will have to hate them.  I will be forced to.  I hate them already, come to think of it.

But for me, the game is over.  And I know that it was bad timing (who takes a new job right before giving birth?).  And I know that I was a long shot (I haven’t worked directly in the field for a while now).  And I know that the transition would have been unbelievably hard on my whole family (see: new baby + no earned maternity leave).  Furthermore, I know the fact that I secretly was treasuring this job possibility as a way out of my current job is a sign that I need to use this transition phase in my life productively and with an eye to the future.  And I know that, ultimately, this is their loss because I would have been DAMN GOOD at that job.  I know all of this.

And I will keep all of it in mind and will use it to console myself and fire myself up and steel myself against those mean job streets.  Tomorrow.

Today…well.  I think that for today, I’m just going to sit here and be defeated.

Because it’s better than writing “uhhhhh” for ten paragraphs

Small Town, Small Times tagged me for this meme last week…sometime…and I’m finally getting around to it.  It was a busy week around Chez Alias and a nearly equally busy weekend, so this seems like a good a way to get some writing up without actually having to, you know, think.  Plus I like reading these things about others, due in part to #3 below, and I flatter myself that others care that much about me.  So here we go.  I’m supposed to list seven personality traits.  Right.  Ahem.  Shall we?

1) I’m empathetic.  To the point of PAIN, people.  I not only feel badly for you if you are going through a rough spot, I actually, completely, feel what you are going through.  This has actually gotten worse as I’ve gotten older, and especially once I had the Buddha.  Now I can actually feel the heartbreak of hurt children around the world.  I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like after Kid Redux appears.  Remember [GEEK ALERT] in one of the later seasons of Buffy when Willow went all witchy-woo and could feel the pain of everyone in the world?  And thus wanted to kill us all to put us out of our misery?  Yeah.  That.  For non-geeks: I’m just saying, post-partum me could get ugly.

2)  I’m messy.  I am.  I like the look and feel of a well-kept home, but, ultimately, it’s not as important to me as other things.  Like playing with the Buddha.  Or going for a hike.  Or watching Top Chef. That said, I have improved since becoming a mother because one look at the Buddha crawling around on my grubby floors was enough motivation to dig out the mop.  But my house is absolutely a far, far cry from tidy.  And my desk at work is cluttered enough that when I actually do clean it off?  People stop by and say, “Whoa.  You cleaned.”  Embarrassing, yet true.

3)  I like people.  This one actually came as a surprise to me, since I spent most of my youth being generally grumpy about all humans.  Then I took a job where I worked from home, on a computer, all alone, all day.  I was desperate for human interaction within a week.  That’s when I realized that people are really pretty interesting and I like dealing with them on a daily basis.  The stories and insights I come out with are worth the minor irritations.  This is also why I love blogs.  You people are fascinating.  So, individually, I like people.  But as an entire species?  I confess that I still find you irritating as hell.

4)  I’m impatient.  We’ve covered this one before, but it is so true that it must be mentioned.  Am I doing five things while you talk to me and don’t appear to be listening?  I’m sorry.  I am listening.  Am I trying to hurry you along while you examine some plant on the side of the trail?  I’m sorry.  That is a nice flower.  It’s not you; it’s me.  Okay, sometimes it’s you.

5)  I like sleep.  A lot.  I’m at my happiest in that awesome moment right before I drop off into unconsciousness, all snuggled under blankets and curled up into a pillow.  Left to my own devices, I used to routinely sleep in until 10 or so in the morning.  *sigh*  I miss sleep.

6)  I’m moderate.  And I don’t just mean politically (although that’s true).  I dislike stridency.  I tend away from extremes.  I dislike Al Franken as much as Rush Limbaugh and Wall Street traders as much as sanctimonious hippies.  I don’t want to pick fights and I don’t want to hug everyone.  I take the middle road, man.  Can’t we all get along?

7)  I’m simple.  And I don’t just mean intellectually (although that’s true).  I don’t buy a lot; I have no interest in handbags; I don’t need to go out every night; I don’t spend my time thinking deep thoughts; I don’t want to save the world.  As I type this on a very basic laptop, I’m sitting on my beaten-up couch with a snoring dog beside me, a sleeping child upstairs, a piece of homemade apple cake at hand, and a hot cup of tea balanced next to me.  And that’s just about all I need right now.  That’s really about all I need any afternoon, though I rarely get it.

There’s me, in seven items.  I think I’m supposed to tag people, but I’m going to skip that part because I need to go mix up some breadsticks so they will rise in time for dinner.  Which sound very homemaker-y, does it not?  Should I put that as #8?  That I’m wholesome?

Nah.

Let’s call this her introduction to womanhood

Her: Wha’ da?
Me: Those are called tights.
Her: Oooooohhh.
Me: Do you like them?
Her: Ya.
Me: Let’s see how you feel about them by the end of the day.