Different Does Not Mean Bad

I am freaking the fuck out right now.

It hit me about an hour ago that tomorrow will be the first day that T-Boogie is left with a stranger, and I can't handle it.

I tried to bake... still anxious.

I drank a beer... still anxious.

I cried for 20 minutes, took a long hot shower, and gave myself a hand massage...

Still freaking the fuck out.

I just don't know what I was thinking, to trust this Nanny to watch my Angel, I mean, she's a freaking KID. I don't know how I tricked myself into this, but right now, this instant, I'm too freaked out to even go downstairs and tell her the things she needs to know for tomorrow.

So instead, I'm up here blogging.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I am so sorry for the language, but my hands are shaking I'm so scared right now. I keep running through my head all the things that could happen, all the things that could go wrong that I would never forgive myself for, and I am just freaking out right now.

Month Eight

T-Boogie, you are eight months old today!

This last month has draged on and on and on... just waiting for that top tooth to come in. You've been fussy and not wanting to sleep, nursing in your own version of a pattern, which once only included daytime hours and is now based on a 24 hour schedule. And of course, it still hasn't pooped through yet.

On the bright side though, you've started saying "Dada" which would irk me to no end in most cases except for the fact that nobody in this house is called Dada. Your Papa swears up and down that you're talking about him, but I'm not going to count this as your first work since, well, in my mind you are only making sounds. Very cute indeed, you prance around the house in your walker (the one with wheels that we really aren't supposed to be using) chewing on a mini red disco ball and chanting "Dada.....eeeeeeeiiii.....Dada."

You've also gotten back on a razzberry trip which I'm thinking might last a while. I just hope you grow out of that and chewing on pill bottles by the time you get into school. I can just imagine the CPS worker's face when you are being questioned about your neglectful parents and all you do is blow razzberries at her, scream like a banshee, smack a pill bottle against your forehead then start chewing the cap off it.

*sigh*

Your Nanny has also come to stay with us as of yesterday. You seem intrigued by the rings she's wearing, and you've already ripped the necklace off her throat, destroying the clasp and stuck your fingers simultanously in her eye socket and up her nose. I can tell you guys will get along famously.

On a side note, your favorite foods at the moment seems to be slices of apple, and mashed squash. When nothing else will work, either of those are sure to get you in a jolly mood, and you're actually willing to eat them, so I apologize ahead of time if you grow to hate them after being served for every meal. I really try not to force you to eat, because deep down inside I dread the day you decide to wean yourself, so every closed-lipped smirk of yours is an undercover victory for nursing.

So what else? You are just the most charming little beast I've ever met. Even when you cry you are so dang cute that I can't resist doing whatever you want, and I suppose my wish for you should be that I don't spoil you by caving to your every demand, but really I wish that you have this same effect on everyone and you don't have to struggle too much in life. A little won't hurt you, but I hope you never become jaded like your Mama.

Darling, darling girl, when everything else is going wrong in my world, I look at you and forget there is anything but your smile. Thank you for being so wonderful.

I love you,
Mommy.

Cause and Effect

I was nursing T-Boogie in bed this morning, partly because I'm lazy, and partly because my back is killing me and I know it's supposed to be good to nurse in her glider, I quit using the Boppy when she was big enough to sit in my lap and still reach the boob, I don't think I'm getting the support I need.

Anyway.

I was lying on my side while she nursed on Lil' Bit, and Ms. Perky was hanging loose in plain sight like a loaded cannon with a very short fuse. Evidently T-Boogie takes after her father and can't pass up a free boob even when she's got a perfectly good one monopolized. So she grabs Ms. Perky and squeezes my nipple before I had a chance to snatch her little fingers off, and sqirts herself in the face with milk.

She looked so shocked and confused, like "Where on God's green Earth did that just come from?" And I think she would have cried if I wasn't laughing so hard, because she looked up at me with that pouty do-something-or-I'm-going-to-start-wailing mouth, paused a second, and then blew a razzberry at me and started chuckling.

She's got to learn cause and effect somehow.

By the way, the razzberry thing is getting hilarious. I was holding her up in the air while I was lying on the couch yesterday, and we were blowing the at each other and cracking up...and pissing off P who was trying to watch a movie at the same time. Well yesterday, she got really into it and blew four or five in a row, and the spit bubble coming off her lips got so huge that when she blew the last one, it flew right into my mouth. Yuck! I was freaking out, and P was laughing too hard to get me a tissue.

Alternative Style V-Day

I was in a foul-ass mood yesterday. Between not getting any flowers and not finding out until the very last second if I'd be able to get off work in time today to pick up Taryn, I was in absolutely the wrong frame of mind for Valentine's Day.

P did cheer me up a bit when he told me he had been looking for a fireman costume to wear last night...yummy. Too bad he couldn't find one in time.

But he showed up after work with beer and chocolate, and while he gave T-Boogie her bath, I ran over to Pasta Pomodoro (which was freaking PACKED. I've never seen so many people in that place, ever) and picked up some dinner. We ate, had a glass of wine, a couple beers, and watched Little Miss Sunshine, which was freaking hilarious. Loved ever second of it.

And for dessert... well, you know. Wouldn't be Valentine's Day without a little cookie, now would it?

So all in all, it was a good end to a shitty day. I keep wishing for things to be different, more romance, less fighting, but P and I are in our groove. We have a comfort level with each other that only comes with time. No pretenses. We know what we like, and even when I think I want something else, I'm still happy with what I've got. Maybe when T-Boogie gets bigger we'll make more of an effort to get out and have our alone time, but for now, it's nice to stay around the house and be a family.

*** *** ***

On a side note, I squeezed my over-sized ass into a pair of pre-pregnancy pants the other day. Yessssssss! I always thought people were full of shit when they said it takes 9 months to put all thet weight on, and it'll take 9 months to get it all off, but I guess it really is true. I was shocked shitless after T-Boogie was born and I still looked 6 months pregnant!

So I was flaunting my newly-slimmed-down ass the other day in a pair of form-fitting pants at work. I went down to reception to call a client in for an intake, and Lydia who works down there called me over to her window and was telling me how good I looked. We were kind of joking around about baby-weight, and that with the next one there is no way in hell I'll ever ben this skinny again when she stood up, lifted her shirt up to reveal her tummy and started smacking it like a 5-foot tall gorilla, talking about "This is what happens when you're 36. Just wait, Girl, just you wait."

I was cracking up, this chick is crazy. Because there much have been 10 or 15 clients sitting around waiting for their workers, and this little-ass girl us standing in front of them all smacking her belly as if she's some 300lb sweaty electrician. Anyway. Just had to share.

Nobody's Valentine

I was taking my shower this evening, and felt this overwhelming grief and sadness. I don't know why, but I'm just feeling depressed and hopeless right now.

I feel like a jerk to complain, but with V-day coming up, I just feel really lonely. I know there are those folks out there who really have no one, and at least I can count on a box of cheap chocolates from Safeway when P gets home. I guess I just keep hoping that one day he'll do something for me, something special without me hinting at it first.

I just wish I was someone's favorite.

I think it started coming up talking to Diana at work today, and telling her that my supervisor, who is very on top of things, just completely blows me off when I ask for help. He gets back to everyone else so quickly, but completely forgets to email me back, or sign off on my vacation, or answer my questions. And I don't go to him for much because I'm not the person to keep bugging and bugging until I get an answer, and with him it seems like that is what I have to do to get even a simple reply.

Fuck me and my pity-party. I'm just sad and lonely tonight. Tomorrow it's sure to be worse with the inevitable question, "What did your husband get you for V-day?"

And I have one of two answers. I can lie, and say he hasn't given it to me yet, or lie and say "we" decided not to do anything so we could save up our money for our anniversary party next month. The other answer would be to tell the truth and say that he never does shit for me without my asking for something specifically, and even then sometimes gets too busy to follow through. Then I'd have to grin and bear the uncomfortable condolences from co-workers who's partners make them a fancy dinner, or buy them expensive jewelry, or take them on exotic trips.

Joy, oh-FN-joy.

Even complete A-hole husbands who fuck up 364 days out of the year will send their wives flowers tomorrow. And I'm left with nothing.

Again.

Like always.

Another Attack of the Flapping Jaw

If someone ever wrote a book about my life, it might be titled Aletta - Normally Pretty Quiet, But When She Gets to Talking, You Won't Believe the Shit That Comes Out of Her Mouth. Seriously. I think it sounds about right.

Judge for yourself:

I was recounting an exchange between my mom and I, regarding a certain Cup of Blonde (why couldn't she be a Spoon of Blonde, then I could just call her SOB all day), to said Blondie about her girlfriend.

Already, the readers are groaning in their seats.... I know, I know. I should have seen the set-up, but the huge red flag... I thought it was just a piece of lint stuck to my eyelash.

I even prefaced this little story by telling CoB "Look, laugh at this even if you don't think it's funny so I won't know if you're mad at me."

WTF? Who says that?

Oh yeah....me.

So anyway. Here's the story. CoB has this great girlfriend who is Italian, and cooks Italian food, and she's funny as all get-out, and so yeah, I'm not the jealous type, but sometimes you wonder, you know, if maybe you're batting for the wrong team? So I was kind of moping one day when P was being a man and telling my mom about how CoB's Vic cooks! And helps her clean! And my mom makes this comment like, "Well, what are you going to do about it, go after her?"

And I thought it was hilarious, not only because CoB's Vic is so totally in love with her, but because I had been joking with another friend, we'll call her Teapot to protect the innocent, that I really wanted to get a girlfriend on the side for all the other stuff, you know? And we kind of decided that in my situation, it would probably be better to have a live-in girlfriend, and a man on the side, since men are only good for that one thing that a woman just can't do for you.

Of course, I didn't explain all this to CoB, because once the words left my mouth (see "...go after her." above. Doh!) I realized how bad it really could sound and made some lame follow-up about how I know Vic loves her and...

On a scale of one to ten, that was probably douche-y.

(God, most of you don't know just how clever I am)

And so yeah. I didn't really trip off the whole conversation, my brain didn't kick in just how lame it was to tell CoB that until she came to say 'bye' at the end of the day, and I was like, "Oh shit. She's going to tell Vic I said that. And the next time I see Vic....ah. How embarassing."

And the worst part of it, I think CoB was trying to make me feel better for being married to a stinky, sloppy man, because she told me that if Vic and her weren't together, Vic would go for a mixed girl, or a Latina. I think maybe she was trying to cover all the bases there, because most people aren't sure which I am.

So here's my disclaimer to the world: I'll be married for 5 years next month. Yes, P-Dely pisses me off, and he does smell sometimes, and while he does cook, it's often a different version of the same thing, but love is one of those fucking things that you just can't help. I can't imagine my life without him. I love him so much more than I ever planned to, and I'm happy and satisfied that every year we are together, our life together gets fuller, richer, more chock-full of amazing memories and more enjoyable.

But if I was Mormon, I'd totally have a chick on the side.

Titty Milk for Sale!

Yes, you read that right. After all that bitching and moaning last month about Taryn starving to death after I went back to work because my let-down was broken, I've come to the realization that I'm the Dairy QUEEN.

And also, that I'm hoarding precious titty milk that I might possibly never use, because I am pumping way too much milk for my scrawny little Dumpling. Let's do the math:

Taryn eats 2ozs of milk 2 times per day while I'm at work. That's 20 ozs of milk per week.

I pump 2 times per day while I'm at work, getting about 8ozs per day. So that's 40ozs per week.

Which means on average, I'm storing 20ozs of milk each week.

And if you see my freezer, the lower right-hand corner is packed full of frozen milk, probably close to 100ozs already, and really? I need some room to store my ice cream.

And since the milk donation place down in San Jose won't take my milk (I tried, but then I hated pumping and never returned the application, though maybe I'll try again, even though they think I'm an alcoholic because I sometimes drink more than 2 drinks in a sitting, which is considered binge drinking...but whatever) I figure I should just sell it.

Because I heard it goes for like $6 per ounce to bodybuilders and such who need the super-enriched calories. So if I can sell 100 ounces, I can pay off my dinig room set. And a new pair of shoes!

It can come in packages of 2-7ozs.

Any takers?

The Dreaded Visit

After 18 months, I was kind of getting used to it, you know?

But now...damn.

Aunt Flo is coming to visit this weekend. I think.

I guess I can't complain since some folks don't even get this long of a break after having a baby, but still.

Damn.

Unworthy

I’ve always been an anxious person. I like to think it’s because I’m an optimist, who is always prepared for the worst, rather than because I have a chemical imbalance. And before last summer, it was for the most part a helpful quirk in my life. My anxiety ensured that I did well in school, was a great employee and a conscientious friend. It gave me a bonding point for fellow anxiety-ridden peers, and though it did prevent me from maintaining some friendships, I’ve realized that those friendships weren’t good for me anyway.

It’s only been since I’ve been blessed with my Angel, that the anxiety is transforming itself to this overwhelming paranoia that not only am I so completely not worthy of raising such a beautiful, intelligent, amazing little life, but that God is going to figure out that a mistake was made when she was given to me, and take away my baby.

And I know, am I really so important that God would take notice of me? And my child? Probably not, but I can’t help worrying … constantly .. that something bad is going to happen to her. I look back at my life so far and think of all the people I’ve hurt, physically and emotionally, and all the lies I’ve told, and things I’ve stolen, and just generally seeing my past in this hazy fog of selfishness and deceit, and I feel so incredibly ashamed of myself and of my past. I’m ashamed of the things I’ve done, and the things that have been done to me, and I don’t want to taint her with my disgrace.

And if all of this is true, then maybe she’s my saving grace. Maybe she was given to me to help me stop doing all those dumb-shit things, like drinking (even just a little bit) and driving, And opening myself up to get hurt in relationships. But I don’t want to weigh her down with those expectations either. I don’t want her to feel like she has to save me. It’s not her job to make me happy, though she does every time I think about her smiling face, and I hope not to cry too much when she drives a rusty spork through my heart with her “Mom. Don’t embarrass me!” when I try to give her a kiss in front of her friends.

I know these are ridiculous worries, but it just seems so odd that without even making an effort (okay, so it was an … exertion, but a very enjoyable one) P and I were able to create this life together. And so many people struggle for years to get pregnant, going through medical procedures over and over again, the waiting and worrying, then disappointment only to do it again the next month.

And we were just having fun.

I don’t know where I’m going with this anymore. I suppose a part of me feels guilty for having Taryn when so many people want children more than we did at the moment she was conceived. And though I love her more than anything else, and will love her unconditionally until the day I die, I just don’t feel like I deserve her.

But I am damn proud of her. And I’ll be eternally grateful that she chose me as her mommy.