A year-and-a-half

Dear Michael,

I cannot believe that it has been a year-and-a-half since you were born. I honestly cannot remember what my life was like before having you, though I do vaguely recall reading the entire newspaper in bed on Sunday mornings and having long, leisurely, quiet dinners. A year-and-a-half -- it seems like it was yesterday that you were so tiny and helpless, while at the same time, it seems as if it was decades ago.

You have suddenly become a very independent toddler though I'm not sure when that happened either. One day, you were my sweet baby who needed and wanted help with every little task. Today, you are the spawn of Satan, pushing my hand away when I lean over to help you get something from your plate to your mouth, or stomping your feet in anger if I stop you from falling down the stairs headfirst, or screaming with apparent agony as I brush your teeth. You've learned that hitting is a no-no, and we're working on yelling and screaming, though when I ask you after a screaming fit, "Is it o.k. to yell?" you say, "NOoooooo." But then after that small victory, you yell and scream some more. Usually for no discernible reason.

Another month of teething is now under our belts. You went from having eight teeth to ten, and then suddenly overnight, you've got 16 choppers -- four new molars, and all four of your eyeteeth. You're still a crab, and chewing on your hands all of the time (not sure exactly what your aversion to teething rings is), because the teeth are slowly moving into place. But we're giving you bigger chunks of food now, and you're chewing away, putting all of those new teeth to excellent use. Your teeth also enabled you to express, for the very first time, what was bothering you. As you sat screaming one day for a reason I couldn't quite figure out, I asked what was wrong. And you looked up at me, and just said, "teeth hurt." My poor baby.

This month, we went to the monster truck rally where you were more interested in the trailers the drivers lived in than in the trucks themselves. Your fascination with all things on wheels, from your stroller to grocery carts to semis and backhoes has not waned a bit. In fact, now you know the difference between a backhoe and a front-end loader and a bulldozer. They all look the same to me - big and yellow -- but somehow your little brain, with all of its crazy synapses, has registered the difference between trucks beyond color.

Your fascination with trucks has suddenly extended to almost everything that has an engine, including choo-choo trains and planes and helicopters. You pay amazing attention to almost everything that is happening around you (except when there are large flights of stairs involved). When you're playing outside and seemingly completely engrossed in something else, as a plane flies overhead, you'll either look up and say, "Plane!" and point at the trail in the sky or sit, without even so much as glancing skyward, and make your plane noise, a soft "ssssshhhhhhooooooooossssssshhhhhh." It is barely discernible, this noise, but as I hear you doing your best plane imitation, I can't help but be amazed at your little mind that is apparently working on overdrive 99% of the time.

You're my little smarty-pants. You're now putting words together and making observations, "head hurt" or "dada work?" It used to be that everything was blue or yellow, but now you know all of your colors, and you even announced the other day, after taking my face into your hands, "mama eyes blue!" The roses outside are "orno" for orange and "red" and "yellow" (the last of which you just seem to like to exclaim for some reason -- whether or not there is anything yellow in the room). You're still my sweet little baby, and now seem to be able express empathy, especially for your trucks. After you drive them off the porch and they "ca-rash" on the ground, you'll look at me and ask, "truck hurt?"

Beyond motorized vehicles and things with wheels, your interests are 100% little boy. You can entertain yourself for nearly an hour by playing with dirt, and rocks, and sticks -- all of which you like to load up in your various trucks and dump out in not-too-discrete places, such as the front porch, the living room floor, or in the bathtub. You also discovered bugs this month, and in particular, ants. "Ant!" you'll announce, and crouch down and watch in silent awed amazement as an ant walks across the deck carrying food or another dead ant or whatever else it is that ants carry. Still though, trucks are your favorite, and one way to pass the time is to roll your trucks down the hill we live on, as you watch your mama run after them like a crazy woman so they don't get crushed on the street below. This always results in gales of laughter from you, and you'll rush to grab the truck from my hands and up the hill you'll go -- for maximum velocity, I suppose -- with your arms waving in the air and your little lopsided run that always makes me smile.

We went on a family vacation this month up to Glacier National Park and to Flathead Lake. If there is heaven, I think you were in it. We were surrounded by water, sticks, rocks, and dirt the entire time. You swam like a little trooper in Flathead Lake, and braved your second boat ride -- an odyssey around Flathead Lake and up the river at full speed and hitting the waves so hard that everyone jumped several feet in the air over and over. If I hadn't been clinging to you, I think you would have bounced right out of the boat and into the freezing cold depths of Flathead Lake. You loved it.

You also had your first haircut this month. People would look at your long, blonde curls, and ask if you were a boy or a girl, so I figured that it was time. We took you to your dad's barber, Mark, who put you on a stool right in the barber's chair. You did a great job of being brave, though I was afraid I'd end up losing a few inches of hair in the deal, as you clung to me with all of your might, pulling me precariously close to Mark's scissors and clippers. When it was all over, you got your first sucker -- which you promptly dropped in a pile of hair -- and you looked like such a little boy. Your hair was all combed over, instead of standing up straight on end, and it dawned on me yet again, that you're just not a baby anymore.

Being a parent is such a strange job. You give birth to this helpless little creature and spend 18 years caring for this little being and teaching and demonstrating and leading by example -- all so they can leave you and go off on their own. With every passing month, you are getting bigger and stronger and more independent. It breaks my heart when you push my hand away, while at the same time, I'm so proud of you for all of the things you want to try and do all by yourself.

You have a certain way of saying "mama" now when you're feeling especially lovey-dovey. "Mamaaa," you'll say in that tone and when you look at me, your eyes just sparkle. What an amazing thing to have a child, to be loved by someone the way that only a child can love a parent -- long before the parent is totally uncool and causes extreme embarassment or annoyance -- this is real, true, unfettered love. When you say "mama" in that certain way, I know you'll come running to me, and crawl up on my lap, and give me a big hug and a kiss (still with tongue, my little French kisser), and then you'll rest your head on my shoulder. The whole process takes less than a minute, but it makes my day, my world, my life. If everyone could be somebody's mama, to feel that kind of love, the kind that takes your breath away...if everyone could be so lucky.

I love you. I can't believe how much I love you.

Love,
Mama

Fuck You Horn Honker

Since having a child, I have become EXTREMELY sensitive to noise. Like, if I had the power to stop the world while my son napped so that it would be quiet, I would. But alas, I have no such power. And there are a lot of fucking loud assholes in the world.

For instance, my extremely tired child was just sound asleep in his bed. He has had a pretty rough day because he had his 18 month check up this morning and got a bunch of immunizations. So he was crashed out with his little matching Snoopy band-aids on his fat little thighs. And, best of all, I was enjoying a few rare moments of solitude and quiet, working on my book.

But then, some jackass down the street started honking their horn incessantly. I sat here debating whether I should go shove my fist down the horn honker's throat when I heard my son over the monitor -- AWAKE -- a full hour and a half before he should be. Now, I've got six, count them -- SIX -- hours until bedtime, a crying, overly-tired baby, and only about an hour of activities planned.

Fuck you horn honker. I'm going to get you. Just wait.

This is Who I'm Up Against

I'm feeling pretty lucky today, and when I feel lucky, I play the Powerball.

It's actually a matter of feeling lucky AND desperate.

Today though, I think, it's the day. I've got it all plotted out where I'm going to buy my ticket, how much I'll spend, and about what time of day I will go.

I'm very superstitious about this...

A couple of months ago, the Powerball went over $150 MILLION, or something like that. (At some point, specifics don't matter.) I was positive I was going to win it. Like 125% sure. I played religiously, every Wednesday and Saturday, and every time I lost, I comforted myself with the idea that every time I didn't win just meant more winnings in the long run.

But alas, I didn't win. I didn't even get one number right. A few days later, while I was at the gym, I saw the winner of the zillions of dollars interviewed on CNN. He said that he played Powerball in, like, 19 different states and had certain numbers that he played and, essentially, that he had figured out the system. And I actually thought to myself, "No WONDER I didn't win if this is who I am up against."

That's right -- this guy won the Powerball because he's a god damn statistical genius.

A statistician friend of mine told me once that statistically, you have a better chance of being struck by lightning THREE TIMES while standing in the SAME PLACE as you do of winning the Powerball. But I'm not about to let that stop me.

Braining It

We took a long weekend to spend time together in one of the most beautiful places in the world -- Glacier National Park. We cannot go anywhere that has rocks and water without stopping and spending anywhere from a measly 1/2 hour to 3-4 hours throwing rocks into the water and saying, "SPLASH!" Glacier National Park has a particularly high density of rocks and water, as one might imagine with a name like GLACIER, and so this is what we spent an inordinate amount of time doing over the last several days.

At one point, as I was showing Mikey how to throw a rock really hard so you could do some serious damage -- not just splashing -- I said, "That's how you do it. Now you can brain something."

And my husband looked at me as if my head had just started spinning around and while spewing fire and with a demon voice, I had said, "Brain your father."

"Brain things? That's nice, Sara. Good thing to teach the kid."

"Don't tell me that you never brained anything."

"No. Kids who brain things grow up to be ax murdering sociopaths."

"ACTUALLY, kids that brain things grow up to be your son's MOMMY and the main breadwinner of this family."

I'm pretty sure, that at some point in time, every single kid brains something. I was a toad-brainer, which are only a step above insects. It's not as if I was out braining kittens and puppies, for chrissakes. I mean, I wasn't an every day brainer, and I only did it because I was curious, and, as I pointed out to my husband, I always felt badly after I did it. Really, who doesn't enjoy a good braining every once in awhile?

Meth Lab Day Care in a Trailer

Brent is off galavanting around a lodge at beauteous Flathead Lake with his emotionally disturbed monsters all week. This means that I am left here, alone, to work, take care of my own little monster, cook, clean, juggle childcare, water the flowers and veggies, and take care of the gd cats. By MYSELF, I'd like to stress.

Now I may have a state job, but that doesn't mean I'm like other state employees. It actually matters if I show up for work, because I have a lot of important shit going on. So, dutifully, I arranged for a friend to take care of Mikey this morning while I went off and had two very important conference calls that would have been a total bitch to reschedule. So then said friend backed out on me. The gd whore. Has she ever tried to find someone who isn't running a meth lab out of their trailer to take care of her precious child at the last minute? I don't think so.

I called everyone I know, but, like me, they all have jobs, and it's awfully difficult to convince someone to miss work to take care of your son so you don't have to. I ended up leaving him with my unemployed neighbor for a couple of hours, and figured I would return in time to give him his morning snack and put him down for his nap, so I could do my second conference call at home in peace and quiet -- and while wearing a t-shirt. Can you hear sinister laughter in the background? Just wait.

So I buzz into work and get ready for my first conference call and I dial in. And it doesn't work. So I try again. And again. And again. No dice. Then I call the State of Montana who has arranged for this non-working phone call and tell the lady that it's not working. She asks me if I'm dialing the right numbers, because obviously this is my fault the phone isn't working and has nothing to do with technology. Then she tells me she's going to have to call me back.

Meanwhile, I'm fielding phone calls left and right from people that can't get on the conference call and I'm telling them that I don't think it works, but the State is trying to figure out what's going on. The lady finally calls me back -- a half hour later -- and tells me, "It's not working."

Thank YOU, State Employee.

Then she graciously offers not to charge me for it.

So the whole reason I scrambled into work is a BUST, but I don't have time to be irritated, so I scurry around and prepare for my next conference call, blow out of the office, rescue Mikey from my neighbor (who did a really good job, by the way), prepare and give Mikey a nutritious and delicious snack, read him some books, change his pants, rock the squirmy little beast and put him to bed. All in 25 minutes.

At which point, he begins to scream. Bloody murder. I mean, he is screaming as if I filled his crib up with poisonous snakes and the boogie monster really IS under his bed. Loud, ear-piercing screaming.

The conference call is about to begin in about .2 seconds, and so I leave my son screaming in his bed, rush down the stairs, fix myself some more coffee, and sit down at the computer. And I can hear Mikey screaming -- even without the monitor turned on. And Mikey just won't give up. He keeps screaming, SCREAMING, so loudly that the people on the conference call keep asking if I need to go. I need something from these people and I was going to get it, and so I thought perhaps the screaming would wear them down like it was wearing me down, and it did -- I got a nice donation for my marketing campaign. Thank YOU, little Mikey.

What it boils down to is this: I feel that after years of complaining about single mothers who called in sick because their kid was sick or couldn't make it to a meeting because of a child care issue, I'm finally getting mine. I honestly think there are few more stressful things in the world than trying to find someone who is not a child-molesting ax murderer to watch your kid for a few hours. When I was complaining about this situation to a co-worker, she ACTUALLY said to me, "Well, there's a drop off daycare behind Wal-Mart. You could just take him there. You can even leave him there while you shop." And I wanted to say to her, "Are you high on crack cocaine?" Because there is NO MOTHERFUCKING WAY I will ever leave my child, my firstborn son who is the most brilliant, amazing creature ever born, at a god damn DROP OFF DAYCARE BEHIND WAL-MART. Not to mention that I'm not going to go to the fucking Wal-Mart to chill out and have a relaxing time looking at cheaply constructed Made in China crap. I mean, come ON woman, if I'm going to leave my beautiful boy alone to be cared for by some meth-addicted, cigarette-smoking, acid-dropping, pimple-popping teenager who probably uses double negatives and has no investment in the well-being of my child, you can bet your ass I'm going to someplace like Saks, or at the very least Ann Taylor, so I can at least ENJOY my few minutes of solitude. Jesus...

Shove a Pixy Stick in a Vein

While I was pregnant, I got fat. Not pleasantly plump. Not more curvy. Not "filled out." I was fat. Disgustingly obesely fat.

Let me just say, I don't think I've ever been thin. Maybe once. But that didn't last long. I love food. I LOVE to eat. I think eating is number three on the list of things I love in life with my family being number 1 and my friends being number 2. Somedays, actually, eating edges into number one.

When I became pregnant, a very good friend of mine who is sickeningly perfect advised me that during pregnancy I could eat whatever I wanted -- as long as I nursed, all of the pounds would fall right off. So, despite every article I read and the advice of my doctor, I listened to Rebecca. And I ate. And I ate. And I ate. And since the mere mention of a salad made me queasy, I mostly ate sausages, pierogies, and chocolate milkshakes. And I got fat. Grossly fat.

I gained 60 pounds in about 6 months. Then, after I had the baby, I think I re-gained whatever I lost by shooting out Mikey, placenta, and other lovely things during the birth process (not to mention my forearm sized first after-birth poop that could have easily clocked in at 9-10 pounds). Because when I went back for my six-week postpartum check-up, I had 56 pounds to lose to get back to my pre-pregnancy weight. FIFTY-SIX!!! Surely though, because I was nursing, this 56 pounds would just shed off my body while I was sleeping.

HA! I say. Double HA HA!

News for those of you whose pregnancy weight just magically disappeared because you were nursing: I THINK YOU ARE A BUNCH OF GOD DAMN LIARS. My 56 pounds stubbornly stayed on my body. Part of it was because I was so out of it from being up 378 times during the night that I could not even fathom trying to think about denying myself any kind of sustenance, but also because I was RAVENOUS. The hunger pangs I experienced while nursing were akin to the hunger pangs during pregnancy. When I got hungry, I had to EAT. Right NOW. Like someone could have tossed me a three-day old turd, and I would have chewed on it. It was bad.

So finally, I decided to go back to work, and I couldn't fit in any of my work clothes because I was approximately twice my former size. I actually contemplated just gainning 44 more pounds and signing up for gastric bypass but then I decided I needed to buckle down and lose the weight the way nature intended.

By going on a fad diet.

I started the South Beach diet. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this form of torture, I'll give it to you in brief. No sugar. None. Like not one crystal of it. Not from fruit. Not from milk products. Not from carbs -- oh, glorious carbs. Here's what you eat. Lean protein. Salad. Eggs. Low-fat cheese. And low-glycemic vegetables.

On my third day of it, I was ready to shove a pixy stick right into one of my arteries. I needed a sugar fix and bad. I've never gone through withdrawl, but I can honestly say that this is what I imagine it would be like: night sweats, crazy dreams, irritability. I think irritability is a rather mild understatement, actually. For example, one day the cat made the mistake of walking in front of me and I was SO angry that I wanted to swing him around the room by his tail and then draw and quarter him.

But then it got easier. And I lost an obscene amount of weight on it in two weeks. But I couldn't stick with it. It was too hard to deny myself everything I love: bread, fruit, bread, cake, cookies, bread, brownies, and did I mention, bread. In a word -- sugar. Wonderful, perfect, highly processsed sugar.

So then I joined Weight Watchers, or the Cult, as I like to call it. I have been counting points for nearly a year now, and on a good day, I'm anywhere from 5-7 pounds below my pregnancy weight. It took a hell of a lot of commitment, and I'm pretty proud of myself. I didn't want to be one of those fat mommys that sat around complaining about how I couldn't take off the baby weight. Now I'm one of those fat mommy who has ALWAYS been this fat. That's much better.

But I got down to this weight, and I just quit. I started being less careful, and eating things I really liked again. And I haven't lost a god damn ounce in nearly five months. It is highly irritating. I guess to lose weight on Weight Watchers, you actually have to watch what you eat. But at $9.95 a week, I feel like someone should be going to the god damn gym FOR me or at least coming over and cooking me some meals.

So here I sit, at my comfortable weight, the weight my body likes, the weight where I can eat pretty much whatever I want and not gain or lose. And I have been debating if I really want to lose more weight. Because, let's face it: losing weight totally sucks. You can't eat. You have to go to the god damn gym all the time. AND, you're hungry. And there are few things that make me grumpier than being hungry.

But finally, I decided I am going to lose the last bit of weight. The whole Weight Watchers "eating whatever you want" plan wasn't working for me anymore because I was eating whatever I wanted. So I decided to deny myself the things I love the most (and most contribute to my weight problem) in an effort to recommit myself to weight loss.

So now I am eating 1 whole grain carb a day (a 1/2 c of All Bran in the morning). And then I eat two fruits a day. And all of the low-glycemic vegetables (i.e. no carbs) I want along with lean proteins. Essentially, I have voluntarily re-enlisted in the tortorous South Beach, but added a couple of carbs.

Let me just tell you how much my life sucks. And because my life sucks, pretty much so does everyone's around me. I have been a bitch on wheels since starting this. But I weigh in tomorrow. So we'll see.

I better have lost 7-10 pounds this week or the Weight Watcher weigher-inner is going to get clocked in the kisser. And then I'm driving right to Dairy Queen.

Mmmmmm....Dairy Queen. Mmmmmmm....Choco-cherry blizzard.