Ode to Joy

After feeling really blue all day Monday and Tuesday -- whether from pregnancy hormones, 9/11, or what, I don't know -- I awoke Wednesday feeling...happy! A total and welcomed surprise. Brendan, too, awoke in a fabulous mood, full of good humour.

Before he awoke, however, I spent some time browsing on-line for writing jobs. I'm still doing my gig with Atlanta Dog Life, but I need more work. I did write October's cover story on Uga, the University of Georgia mascot as well as two brief articles on agility dog training and Frisbee dog training. But I need more! More writing, more money, a greater sense of self-worth.

So...anyway...I found an ad on craigslist for a writing job with this group. The concept of the organization blew me away. And when I read the web site, which I did in depth, I felt a little overwhelmed by a renewed sense of purpose and joy. I can't really explain it, except to say that when I read about what they do, I really thought this is where I belong.

Crazy. I know. But I sent my resume and some writing samples along with the requested sample paragraph describing what their organization does. I thought that it would be like most of the other ads I've responded to in the last year where it takes several weeks before anyone gets back to you. Within a few hours, however, I had heard back from the founder of the organization, who by the way, sounds like a really cool woman.

Her e-maibeganin with the word namaste, which means (in case you've never heard it before) the god in me salutes the god in you. It's a lovely greeting that I have never been able to bring myself to use because I feel a little pretentious saying it. But I love it when others use it.

Anyway, she sent me a delightful e-mail asking me to tell her about my spirit, about what makes my heart sing. She asked me what I would do if I could do anything in the world. It's exactly the kind of interview process I've been dreaming of my whole life. I'm not sure I answered with the answers she would have wanted to hear, but I think I answered very honestly.

For some reason, I feel that the sense of joy with which I awoke that day had a part in my finding that ad. I don't know why, but I feel very confident about this. Oddly so. It may not work out at all. I'm sure a thousand other writers have applied for this same job. But I'm okay even if I don't get it because I had a brief, but meaningful encounter with another human being. One who, by all accounts, is a genuinely loving and wonderful person.

I'm having difficulty articulating it, because it seems strange to me, but something has changed within me, and relates directly to discovering this organization and seeing the good they want to do in the world, and feeling like I have the power within me to do good in the world, even if it's just in making life better for the people I touch every day. That may be enough. It's the kind of thing that if everyone did it, the world would automatically become a better, more connected place.

100 Years

I remember being a kid and hearing my grandmother and mom and other friends and relatives telling stories about where they were when they heard President Kennedy had been shot. I remember my grandmother saying that moments before the news came over the radio, she heard a loud cracking sound and looked out the kitchen window to see a very large branch fall from a tree near the house. She always saw it as an omen.

September 11 has become that day that will live in my memory forever, a miscarriage my harbinger of the evil in this world.

Five years later, every moment of that day is as vivid in my mind as if it happened yesterday. Sometimes I wish it weren't. Sometimes I wish that I didn't feel the emotional pain of that day still lingering on in my heart. Other days I simply accept that like the scar on our nation, I will always carry this tender scar on my heart, on my soul.

I spent much of September 11 in the hospital, having a D & C and recovering. Before I went into surgery, Scott and I sat in the waiting room, glued to the TV, terrified of what was happening, wondering how much worse it could get. When I awoke following the surgery, I couldn't stop crying. In the days to come, I lay in bed, immobilized by sorrow. The pain and guilt I felt over losing my baby seemed trivial examined next to devastation of the World Trade Center and the greater loss of life. Still, I needed to mourn my loss, my baby girl that I would never know.

Those first few days after it happened are all a blur. I just remember lying in bed with Scott, both of us crying silently, watching CNN constantly, and reading about miscarriage, trying to figure out how I could have prevented it.

In many ways though, I wondered if it was a sign from God that we were entering a dangerous time and that it was too dangerous a world to bring any more children into. I wondered if it were somehow a blessing in disguise.

In the months that followed, we began to talk of trying again to conceive another child. I wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do, still afraid of this new and terrifying world. But Scott said one day that having a child is the greatest act of hope anyone can perform in this world. For me, it was a turning point. By May, on a trip to New York City, we conceived Brendan. Finally, I felt hopeful and happy again.

And today, five years after the whole world changed forever, I have another darling baby boy growing within me. As I sit here writing, feeling him shifting and stretching, I am again filled with hope. I remain in awe that the families whose lives were devastated on 9/11 found the strength and courage to go on. But when I look into the smiling face of my three-year old boy and I think about holding the new little person growing inside, I know why. Hope can be buried within our hearts beneath all the burdens this world throws at it. But ultimately, it cannot be destroyed.

Trouble Me. Or Don't. But Don't Bitch about the Advice I Give You.

Have you ever had a friend who asked for your advice? Repeatedly? Not just your advice, but even asked you for specific information that is readily available from books, TV, magazines, or the Internet? And, when you've given the person the advice he or she asked for, had them freak out and say you're overwhelming them?

I just had this experience and it really chapped my hide. I am pissed.

My friend is newly pregnant and began inundating me with questions regarding pregnancy the day she learned she was pregnant. I mean, she called me to ask what two lines on the pregnancy test meant and has asked me everything from whether it's okay for her to have sex with her husband to whether or not she should stick with her OB/GYN or find another.

What the hell? How should I know?

I am happy to help her and excited for her, but she was driving me nuts. In a series of e-mails, I told her some basics and in each case sent links to web sites and the names of books where she could go do her own research.

So after several days of this, she sends me an e-mail yesterday telling me in the bitchiest way possible that I am simply overwhelming her with information and asking her to make decisions she's not ready to make yet.

Excuse me? She's the one who asked for the information. She's the one who acts as if she's never met a pregnant person and doesn't know her ass from a hole in the ground. I offered her resources where she could do her own research at her own leisure, but she kept coming back to me asking the same questions and more. So, I thought I was giving her what she wanted.

AAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHH!

Lack of gratitude really frustrates me and there's no quicker way to get me to turn against you.

Lord Protect My Child

Forgive me if I'm repeating myself, but why, why is it so difficult to parent and feel confident that you're making the right decision?

I am almost 100% certain that neither my mother nor my grandmother ever weighed any decision they ever made regarding discipline. They didn't think about what they were feeding me, although I'm certain they gave a lot of thought to whether or not they would be able to put food on the table at times. They never questioned whether or not they were playing with me enough or providing me with essential experiences to make me more well-rounded or to enhance my intellectual opportunities. They didn't send me to preschool, so they never worried whether or not it was a good enough school to ensure I could go to kindergarten when I turned five. They just did what they did and that was it. I had a roof over my head, food in my belly, and clothes on my back, and books to read. And that was enough.

I'm not being critical here. They did the best they knew how under the circumstances and they did just what 90% of all parents in their generation(s) were doing.

Why have things gotten so complicated and we parents so competitive? I worry about every little thing and feel I get little of it right.

I love my son so much. But this summer has been so hard. He's just at an age where he wants to be his own person and challenge every thing I do or say. I feel as if we have spent our summer with horns locked, neither of us willing to back down. And instead of pushing back harder, my urge is to back away. I know my mother never thought like that and by the time I was my son's age, I knew not to argue or to sass my mom. I knew "the look" that meant I needed to stop whatever I was doing or else I was in for it. Part of me feels like giving him some freedom now will help him to become more independent and better able to make decisions for himself. (Something I have always been terrified of and horrible at.) The other, more rational and less emotional side of me feels as though I have to whip (figuratively speaking) him into shape before it's too late. I don't want my child to be a brat. And when I have pushed back this summer, we have seen some amazing breakthroughs.

We can now go into Target or ToysRUs without his asking for a toy. He is listening better most days. He is sleeping better, relatively speaking. He is sharing better with other kids and seems generally happier when he is playing with other kids.

He still doesn't eat and the things he does eat, he has suddenly decided that he no longer cares for. He still talks back. He still won't talk to adults in stores. He still has major meltdowns in the doctor's office, to the point I fear they will tell me not to bring him back. He is still bossy, though less so than a few weeks ago. He still is not potty-trained, but I hope we're getting closer.

And me? I still feel horrible for not having the perfect child. For not being able to overcome these shortcomings. For having my son tell me that he's mad because I'm mad at him all the time. For failing to believe in myself and feeling that my child is not perfect.

But you know what? He is perfect. He's perfect for me and I am the perfect mother for him. I simply have to remember that God gave him to me for a reason and me to him for a reason. We have something to teach each other, to learn from each other. All I need to do is try and remember to trust God and to ask for his guidance when I need it.

Easier said than done for a stubborn girl like me who just wants a little more control over her own life.

Gotta Serve Somebody

It never ceases to amaze me when someone says something like "But you don't seem religious; you're so intelligent."

Why is it that intellectuals -- particularly those who don't wish to have anyone else's faith pressed upon themselves -- are so quick to deny others their faith? It really boggles the mind.

We had this experience on Saturday night when we went out to dinner with some new friends. Wonderful people that we are delighted and excited to know. In so many ways, they are more like us than anyone else we've met in years. We are so excited to be getting to know these folks. But, that said, now I feel a shadow cast over my enthusiasm.

They didn't say this, but my perception is that they think that because I have faith in God, practice a religion, and believe in something bigger than myself, that I am somehow, intellectually inferior.

I didn't want to argue the point, but I was mentally making a list of people of faith and great intellect. Just off the top of my head I can think of: Albert Einstein, Thomas Merton, C.S. Lewis, Bill Clinton, Jimmy Carter, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Walker Percy, Dorothy Day, John Newman, Graham Greene. Of course, there are a lot of Catholics on that list because, well, I'm Catholic, and they're probably the ones I know the most about.

Clearly, I don't put myself in league with those people. But I'm no idiot. And I certainly don't think that my faith lessens my ability to think. I came to my faith through a great deal of thought. As is true with many Catholic converts, I thought my way into my faith and into the Church. There were a lot of obstacles to overcome, many things I disagree with. But no other faith spoke to both my heart and my mind the way Catholicism did. The belief in the unity of good works and faith drew me to Catholicism perhaps more than any other facet of the faith. And now here I am. Unwilling to accept the notion that intelligence and faith are mutually exclusive ideals.

Thankfully, everyone involved Saturday night was willing to have an open dialogue on the subject and to accept each others' beliefs.

And that alone was enough to maintain my faith in friendship.

Misunderstood

Have you ever said something, only to have your brain scream at your tongue, "You idiot, what are you saying?", as the words come tumbling out head over heels landing in front of someone you care about, where they lay dying in a painful, awkward silence?

Yeah. Me too.

Last night, in one of those fortuitous moments of pregnancy-induced insecurity and insanity, I said something really stupid to Scott. Sadly, he felt the need to throw me a few very specific comforting crumbs this morning.

I felt like an idiot. I hate it when my insecurity comes to the surface in a way that makes someone I love feel like they have to justify themselves or reassure me in some way.

I'm an idiot.

Hopefully, this, too, shall pass.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

So, last night Scott, Brendan, and I are watching The Simpsons after dinner. Homer, disgruntled about something, says, "Damn It!"

Brendan whirls around, looks at me and says, "Mommy, Homer says 'Dammit' just like you do!"

After we stopped laughing, Scott and I reiterated the point that "Dammit" is a bad word and you shouldn't say it. I also apologized for having said it in front of him, but for the life of me, I can't remember when I did say it in front of him. I have been very careful to clean up my act since I had him. From time to time, these things do pop out, I suppose, but I just really can't remember when I said that with him around.

And yes, I do realize that The Simpsons isn't the most wholesome programming for a three-year old or anyone for that matter. It's not like he watches it all the time, but when he does, he really enjoys it.

Just Like a Woman

Hormones, hormons, hormones. I am sick and freakin' tired of hormones.

Of course, hormones are my excuse. Maybe I'm just a bitch. Either way, I am sick of feeling this way. Crying every 15 minutes. Feeling like I am constantly fighting with my child. Feeling guilty for fighting with him. Being angry at my child because of his behavior. Feeling guilty because I'm angry and guilty because somehow I've made him this way. Second-guessing every parenting decision I make. Feeling utterly useless and unable to feel like I am in control.

At this point, I really don't know if it's him or it's me. My perception is that he's defiant. He talks back. He argues. He doesn't eat. He demands a lot of me. Too much. He won't dress himself. He won't use the potty. Every fucking thing is a power struggle with this kid. And as much as I love him, I am sick of it. And I keep asking myself how we got here. I've always tried to encourage his independence and he does play well by himself. But at every other turn, he wants me to do something for him.

And then, I think, well, it's my job to do things for my kid. But it's also my job to teach him how to grow up. To do things for himself.

I just feel like I'm in a pit and I can't climb out. And to make it all more confusing and/or emotional for me, I've been having really bizarre dreams.

Early Thursday morning, around 4:00 a.m., I awoke from a very scary dream. In the dream, a DeKalb Co. Police car was parked in front of my house and it was obvious the cop was watching someone. I was home alone. Scott and Brendan had gone somewhere overnight. I decided to go set the alarm. Just as I was setting the alarm, our kitchen door opened. I had my hand on the alarm and accidentally pushed the button that calls police directly. Within seconds, the police officer was at my door. He was young, friendly, African-American. The person coming in the kitchen door turned out to be Scott with a sleeping Brendan on his shoulder.

The officer told us there had been some burglaries and home invasions in our neighborhood and he was trying to catch the burglars.

Okay. Here's the freaky part. When I awoke for the day at around 7:00 a.m. and read the paper on-line, I saw there had been a home invasion at the home of a DeKalb Co. Police officer just a mile or so from our house. The officer killed one of the three men who broke into his home. This happened at 2:30 a.m. Just before I had my dream. Freaky.

In addition to that dream, for the last three nights in a row, I have dreamed I was a teenage girl. Each dream involved either a boyfriend or a cute boy that I was interested in. Each dream was in a different location with different "co-stars" and different subjects. I haven't a clue what it means unless it's a series of wish fulfillment dreams. I wish I were young and unencumbered by the tedious and frustrating aspects of my life. The thing is, I hated being a teenager and couldn't wait to grow up. Of course, in these dreams, my life is very different than my real life was, so I guess that makes it a double wish fulfillment dream.

Right now I'd take a kid who listens, cooperates, and doesn't say, "But I was just...."!

Sweet Dreams

Perhaps last night's dream was prophetic. Or perhaps my subconscious was just focused on what I would be doing with myself tonight.

Scott has gone with some friends to see Tom Waits at the Tabernacle. I'm on my own for the night and while I'm sure there are a million things I could and should be doing, I'm just vegging out. I've watched reruns of House and Bones and am debating whether to watch Rescue Me while it's on, or just record it and watch it with Scott when he gets home. Actually, it 's more likely to be tomorrow night before we watch it.

All in all, it's been a good, quiet evening, which I needed.

The last several days Brendan has really been pushing the limits. Yesterday he had the worst tantrum in recorded history in the grocery store. In hind sight, I realized he was tired when we went to the store. But I didn't know that going in. He had slept until 10 a.m. and we had a relatively low-key morning. We went to Chick-fil-A for lunch then to grocery shop. He lost it because I wouldn't buy him a Spider-Man comic book. In all fairness, before the tantrum, I offered to buy a kid's Spider-Man book, but he freaked out insisting it had to be the comic book. So, we left amidst much screaming, giant tears, staring, and rude comments from other patrons.

He screamed for the first seven minutes of the ten minute drive home. The last three minutes, he simply whispered sadly, "I want it! Please mommy, I want it!".

I really don't know how I did it since I'm the least patient mommy in the world, but I somehow managed to keep my cool. The only time I raised my voice was once during the car ride home when I asked him to quiet down. Thankfully, I did not use my "angry voice," but stayed calm. A first for me.

Today was a pretty good day. Brendan behaved really well and I used a new technique I read about this morning. The idea is that instead of simply praising the child for good behavior, you give them very specific praise. So, I tried that. I also made sure that we played and had ample time together. I made sure I gave him lots of choices where I could, so that there were fewer opportunities to say no or have him feel like he had no control over anything.

All in all it seemed to make a difference. His playdate went well and he was in bed, sound asleep by 8:15. That's a rarity these days. Somehow we got through the day with only one meltdown and that, I know, was a direct result of his being tired. Thankfully, he bounced back from it rather quickly and I never lost my cool. Major accomplishments for mother and son!

A Taste of Two Sons

Brendan has a friend over for a playdate right now. He's a boy we know from our playgroup and the two of them have always had an interesting relationship. They really like each other until one of them has something the other one wants to play with, then all hell breaks loose.

On more than one occasion, they have ended up on the floor, wrestling over a toy, with one sitting on top of the other.

We're about an hour and a half into this playdate (at our house) and I've realized an hour seems to be their limit together. For the last 30 minutes, I've been getting up every 5 minutes or so to go resolve some dispute.

Right now, however, they are being very cute. The friend is playing Brendan's toy guitar, Brendan is playing his toy piano, and they're taking turns on the drum, pretending they are a band. Very funny. And noisy. But so much better than screaming.

All I Have to Do Is Dream

Last night I dreamed I made several posts to my blog in one day. They were all witty, timely, and deeply profound comments on life. I was oh-so-pleased with myself.

If only life were the stuff of dreams.

Sounds of loneliness

I'm not sure what it is, what has led to this, but over the course of the last two weeks, I have encountered more anti-child and anti-parent propaganda than I've ever seen before in my life.

From the column linked above wherein the author, Helen Kirwan-Taylor, readily admits that she has no interest in her children, to this Atlanta-Journal Constitution blog, where the author gets attacked for stating that most parents are really trying to do their best, the anti-kid lobby really seems to be pushing its point.

I understand that having kids isn't for everyone, but I think that just because you choose not to have kids doesn't give you the right to belittle anyone who does choose to have kids or anyone who views child-rearing as important to our society.

Helen Kirwan-Taylor's piece is especially obnoxious. As Scott said upon reading the article, "This woman has no soul." Amen, Brother.

She talks about her children as if they were accessories that she can pull out to match a mood or specific outfit. She says she has no interest in them or their activities, doesn't help them with their homework or attend school functions. She speaks with great condescension about mothers who do actually care about their children and take an active role in their children's lives and seems to think she sprang fully-formed from the head of Zeus, as it were.

Sadly, she actually has a few good points to make. However, it's hard to even get to those arguments through her vile and self-absorbed tirade against people who actually love their children.

I agree with her that women who place their children first in life run the risk of losing their own identities and ending up with spoiled, selfish children. But is a mother who is so selfish she begs the nanny to stay to read bedtime stories really healthier or more apt to create children who aren't needy and selfish? I think not.

I do think modern day mommies need to think about what they're doing when they give into every whim of a child's. I do think we need to put our marriages first above our children. Statistics bear out that kids in happy marriages are happier and better adjusted than kids from households where mom and dad lead separate lives with mom attached to the kids. And of course, we need to continue to pursue our own interests so that one day, when the nest is empty, we don't find our souls are too.

Unfortunately, I fear Kirwan-Taylor's soul, if it does exist, is already sadly lacking in fulfillment and will grow even emptier once her children leave and never return.

I wonder how she will feel, all alone in some dark, sad retirement home, when her sons say, "I'm sorry mom. I can't come to see you because you're just too boring."

Deleting Posts

In principle I generally do not believe in deleting posts. I think if you believe it and say it you have to stand by it. However, in the light of day it seems best not to start a war with neighbors and technically, I suppose, my bitching about a neighbor and divulging how much she drank at a party could be considered an act of war. So, I took down my last post. If you missed it, sorry. I'll try to reign in my anger next time so I don't go overboard and offend anyone.

It's a Boy!

We're thrilled! Perhaps I had a twinge of disappointment thinking that this is my last child and I'll never have a daughter, but overall, I'm elated. I really can't imagine Brendan with a sister, but totally see him with a brother. And as I said before, I never saw myself with daughters, but with sons. I'm pretty happy.

Happier still that the doctor said that the baby looks "magnificently healthy!" She examined everything via ultrasound in great detail. I got a little concerned because both the doctor and the ultrasound technician focused in great detail on the heart, looking at it closeup and watching the bloodflow. Freaked me out a bit, but the doctor assured us it looked healthy. No markers for any chromosomal problems that she could see. Measuring almost a week larger than he should be, but not so much they were worried.

Bottom line, we're having another son and I couldn't be happier.

The Waiting is the Hardest Part

In just a few hours I'm going in for a Level II ultrasound. Obviously, we are hopeful that the scan reveals nothing other than a healthy, growing baby. Still, I can't help feeling nervous. We went through the same test with Brendan due to my previous miscarriage that resulted from the baby's chromosomal abnormality, trisomy 8.

So, on pins and needles we sat (or laid, in my case) in the exam room while the ultrasound tech and the perinatologist did their thing until they finally told us we had a very healthy looking baby. Then they told us it was a boy. Of course, we were thrilled. Both by the good news on the health front and by his gender.

I had always seen myself as the mother of boys. I never really imagined having girl children. Obviously, I knew it was a possibility, but when I saw myself as a mom, it was as a mom to boys, doing fun boys stuff like shooting hoops and playing chase and baking cookies endlessly for them and their friends.

At some point, prior to that ultrasound, I thought it might be a good idea to not know the child's sex. To fall in love with a human being rather than a boy or girl. But, you get five months to work on that before you find out, I suppose. And for me, everything changed on learning that little babe growing inside me was a boy.

I think part of my nervous anticipation today is in regard to whether I carry a boy or girl child. Of course it is. I have waffled these entire twenty weeks, first wanting a brother for Brendan, then a daughter for myself. Now, I've just settled on healthy. Boy or girl. I still don't have a clue what you're supposed to do with a daughter. Zero interest in Barbie, princesses, brushing someone else's hair, teaching someone to sit with her legs closed, prepubescent and teenage hormones, or slumber parties with a gaggle of giggling girls. I don't know what I will do with a girl, but I guess I'll figure it out. One thing's for sure, I can always pressure her to attend my alma mater.

All I know is that he or she, I will love this little person with all my heart. I've been terrified since before I got pregnant that I could never love another child as much as I love Brendan. I've been surprised (pleasantly, I should add) to find the love in my heart growing. And I'm sure that just as my love for Scott has grown stronger and deeper and more passionate as I have watched him be a father to our son, that my love for Brendan will change and grow as I see him become a big brother.

Now, in these last few hours, I think I will simply enjoy loving this little being with no judgments, no preconceived notions, no desires of my own for what he or she might be some day. Just love him or her for the perfect creation he or she is.

Mean Low Pregnancy Blues

I loved being pregnant with Brendan. My morning sickness was mild. I had just been laid off my job, so all I had to do was keep house and read and relax and enjoy being pregnant.

This pregnancy is so different. The morning sickness was miserable. I had to start wearing maternity clothes at 8 weeks. And now, I'm emotional. Crazy emotional. Clueless. And clumsy. Not in the "your center of gravity has changed so you fall down a lot way," but in the "drop everything you pick up, close your hand in the door" kind of way.

I can't think straight. I'm confused. I'm so moody. I cried today because another kid didn't want to play with Brendan. I cried because I thought about how disappointed Brendan will be if we have a girl and how it would be so sad if he never gets to have a brother. I cried because when I told Scott that I was having round ligament pain he commented that not only was I getting stretched, but that it was happening in a different way than before. Those are just the instances I remember. There were probably others.

I just don't remember being this moody and emotional the last time. I was like this for weeks post-partum, but not during the actual pregnancy. It's damned annoying.

The thing I hate most is when I feel like everything is closing in on me and I lash out in anger. On Sunday I completely lost my temper with Scott and yelled at him. I never yell at my husband. We may have disagreements, but we've always been able to talk without raised voices or anger. And the thing that pushed me over the edge? His cleaning up the mess in our freezer where a Coke exploded after I left it in there too long. I put it in to get cold and totally forgot about it. Came back a few hours later and found the mess, but didn't have time to clean it. When Scott saw it, he immediately started cleaning it up. I yelled at him angrily, asking him what he thought he was doing. His response was, "Cleaning up your mess."

Of course, that's exactly why I was angry. I felt guilty about making the mess and didn't want him to do my dirty work. And it would have been so simple to say that in a nice way. Instead, I told him he was making a bigger mess by getting it on the floor I had just mopped. Of course, he was planning to clean it up, but I was being a bitch for no reason. And I hate that. It's so not who I am.

I hope this emotional roller coaster slows down soon so I can climb off. In the meantime, I guess I need to figure out when to just step away and keep my mouth shut.

Easier said than done, apparently.

Am I Expecting Too Much

For a while I was really judgmental about the use of poor grammar. Now, I've simply come to accept that no one cares. I've even started to allow myself to be amused by common mistakes.

While browsing craigslist.org this weekend in search of a bed for Brendan, I found some amusing examples of folks misusing words. More likely they've been hearing these things incorrectly their whole lives and don't know any better. Still, I thought they were pretty cute.

There was a lady selling a "chester" drawers and if you wanted, there was a man, in my town no less, selling "wingbat" chairs. Crazy!

Just now on a babycenter.com message board I saw someone saying that our job as parents is to teach our children how to be "ladys" and "gentlymen."

I know I make my fair share of typos and occasionally get careless. I even have a few mistakes ingrained in my brain because of poor teaching. My third-grade teacher taught the class that there are two spellings for "separate." She said "separate" was the spelling for the verb meaning to divide things, but if you wanted to use the word as an adjective meaning things that were not together, the spelling was "seperate." I still have to think about how to spell "separate" every single time I want to use it.

So, I don't really blame anyone for their mistakes anymore. But I do find them amusing.

And Now for Something Completely...Weird

This morning I got up and did a few chores like ironing before getting dressed. By then, Brendan was awake and running around. He came into our bedroom while I was changing out of my pjs into yoga pants and asked what I was doing. I told him and then he said, "Mommy! You can't do that. The baby might fall out."

Uh. Okay. Thanks for the warning, weird kid.

Where on earth did he come up with such a notion? We haven't told him anything more than "there's a baby growing inside mommy's tummy." The end. Certainly we've told him no details about how the baby comes out. That's horrific enough for adult minds to comprehend.

I just think it's kind of strange. No stranger, I guess than the fact that he has named his hands. The left one is BoBo and the right one is Lisa. I sometimes overhear him talking to them. Usually correcting them for touching something they're not supposed to touch. Today it was the dog's water bowl.

I hope these are merely signs of a burgeoning creative mind and not signs of something worrisome.

We'll see I guess.

The Way We Get By

I can't believe it's been a month since I blogged. No wonder I'm blue and out of sorts. It's been a long and busy month.

We took a trip to St. Simons Island where Brendan had his first beach experience and loved it. It was, for lack of a better word, awesome. We all had a wonderful time.

Scott ended his job at the mega-corp and began working for a cool, 75-person company that is growing fast. The company works in SMS technologies and does cool things like Beyoncé promotions, etc. Scott is working on client services stuff and is loving it. He's actually their Senior User Interface guy and has already made an impact. He came home from work at the end of his second week there and said he was disappointed that the work week was over. He's really enjoying his work,feelsl challenged, and is thriving. I'm so happy for him. This is what I've wanted for him for a while. Additionally, he has continued to record and has some excellent demos up on his site. I'll link to them sometime soon.

Brendan's doing better than he was a few weeks ago, but I've gone a little crazy. As a result of what happened with the grandparents, I've become increasingly paranoid about my parenting skills and now second-guess every discipline decision. I'd really begun to push Brendan a little harder to be a "big boy," but after a talk with Scott a few days ago, I've backed off and things are going so much easier. Flies and honey.

Now, I'm on a decorating binge. We've had three rooms painted this last month. The nursery-to-be is a really pretty periwinkle color, kind of dark, like a midnight sky. The guest room, which we moved to the bedroom in our basement, is now lilac. And today, I had Brendan's room painted and it's sky blue. I'm probably going to add clouds to it this weekend. We'll see how creative I'm feeling in a day or two. He wants clouds, but I'm worried he'll change his mind in six months.

As part of my decorating frenzy, I ordered curtains and some cool antique metal wall hangings for Brendan's room. I spent roughly $32 on four 84" panels for B's windows and another $59 on the six wall hangings that are three bi-planes, two trains, and an antique car. Pretty cool. I do love eBay.

I just can't wait to get the room done. Of course, focusing on this the last few days has given me something to think about instead of how depressed I am that Scott gets to go to a cool, new, exciting job and I'm stuck here indefinitely. I love being a mom, but I feel so lonely and isolated sometimes. It sucks. I wish I didn't feel this way, but I do. I feel less like a stunted sub-human when I have something to occupy my mind and time.

I also have my freelance work to keep me occupied, but so much of that work is done in isolation. I do a lot of interviews on the phone or via e-mail and of course, I write alone. Still, I get to think and write and writing is all I've ever really wanted to do. Hopefully, the work will continue to come in.

So, for now, I guess I should just be grateful and quit my belly-achin'. Life is good. Really.

And in case I need a reminder, I just keep telling myself mood swings are normal during pregnancy. This too shall pass.

Still a Bit Hit List

Rather than calming down, my anger continues to grow as I have more time to think about and process what my in-laws have done, and as the ramifications of their insanity continue to manifest.

God, I hate them with every fiber of my being. Really. Would put the heel of my boot directly into my stepmother-in-law's face if I could right now. Of course, I understand that violence is not the answer and would never actually do it because I don't want to give her the pleasure. She already thinks I'm white trash anyway. For years she has referred to my mother as an alcoholic (my mother did not drink at all) and has talked about my smoking habit (she has never seen me smoke because I don't).

But back to my being more pissed off than I have been in years...

My son who was starting to choose his dad over me in the last few weeks is now clinging to me and will not let his dad touch him or help him with anything. He also won't respond to discipline from his dad now and when his dad tries to correct him, he hides. Yesterday when my husband told him not to color on the carpet with his markers, Brendan ran upstairs where I was showering and hid in the bathroom closet in a pile of dirty laundry.

Before the Attack of the Crazy Fundamentalist Grandparents, this was not a problem. Like any three-year old, Brendan resisted being disciplined to some extent, but would ultimately sit in time-out and apologize and be good. Now, when we try to correct him, he freaks out! I am so pissed!

This morning, he cried for 45 minutes and we have no idea why. This is a boy who normally sings and laughs and makes up silly rhymes. He has even come up with his own form of cockney rhyming slang, which I find adorable. The one that comes to mind so quickly is his calling someone billy goat when he means they're silly.

Where is my happy boy? Quashed by that evil witch of a step-grandmother. God! I am so mad. I want to let it go, but I just can't.

The thing is, I'm torn between telling them exactly how pissed I am and that they will never see my son again and just letting it go and letting them figure it out on their own.

I seriously hate these people now. And to think a week ago I was looking naively hoping to encourage my son to have a closer relationship with them.