May 4th - May 10th
Watching My Nakie Prince
Fun With “Chot!”
You Are Getting Very Sleepy….
Reflection In A Curve
Fresh Spring Buds
My O-Face
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I remember when I first started getting armpit hair.
I was mortified.
My mom? Was excited.
I was sitting on her bed, with my hands behind my head, all chilled out, leaning back. I can remember her noticing the armpit hair and pointing it out, smiling and gesturing. The expression on my face had to have been one of complete and total terror. She, on the other hand, was dangerously close to suggesting we should have a parade for my pit hair.
I could see myself on the lead Pit Hair Parade! float, my arms strapped up and to the sides. Large spotlights would aim at my pits and flower adorned arrows would be positioned to point right at the tiny hairs there, in case people were not aware that LOTUS.HAS.PIT.HAIR.NOW!!!
I slapped my arms down, and tried to change the subject, while mentally willing with all my might that time would just stop. Maybe God really did exist and I could pray to him right now to erase this?
Because it was embarassing.
Of course, at that age, at a moment like that, you think nothing could be worse.
But, of course, you are WRONG.
Because then? You have your period. Because that’s what happens to girls. At some point, your cooter’s gonna bleed, and you’re going to have to tell someone so you can take care of that problem before it really gets out of hand.
And it’s NEVER NOT EMBARASSING.
No. Nope. Shut up. Don’t tell me your wonderful story of Not Embarassing First Period Having. Just stick your hands in your pockets and whistle while you tell yourself that you were about to tell me a big, fat, horrible LIE and think about how you’re sorry.
So, um, anyway. Who do you tell? If you’re like me, you tell your mother. And you don’t enjoy it. But you get it over with, and then you expect it to go away.
You don’t expect to be washing the dishes after dinner, minding your own business, and have your mother practically float into the room on her Mommy Pride and gush about it to the two MALE, European houseguests sitting at the kitchen table.
They speak very little English, but you quickly see that they have perfected that Creepy Guy Look Of Knowing And Thinking Ew Things, because they are aiming it right at you. Picture it, right now. If your skin didn’t crawl, you don’t know what I’m talking about.
I.Couldn’t.Believe.She.Had.Done.That.
She CLEARLY hated me. I was SURE of it.
I just wanted to DIE.
And reflecting back upon these things now, I have to tell you that I still *cringe* when I remember this stuff. But now I also get it. I have an idea of how she felt. I feel it every time I see evidence of Braden growing and changing. Each little example of him becoming and experiencing and doing and being? I want to tell everyone! And, well, it’s clear that I overshare. I mean, a large majority of you have seen my kid’s hind quarters. I think it’s safe to say that I’ve already laid the groundwork for putting Braden in situations where he’ll just want to DIE.
But one day, maybe, he’ll get it, too.
I’m just thankful my mom never had a website.
Braden’s in for it. 
Happy Mother’s Day to all you lovely and wonderful mothers out there. Keep being proud - they’ll get over it.
Writer’s block - it sucks.
I avoid my computer,
distracted by life.
I just want to laugh
and play with my son all day,
take pictures, and live.
But even when I
sit here to talk to you I
can’t turn it back on.
The screen is too bright,
the keys are too hard; I just
want to walk away.
I’m missing something.
A light-hearted happiness
once possessed is gone.
Most days are now filled
with more laughter than sorrow.
But still, I’m searching.
I can’t find my Muse.
Always there before, but it
is taking a break.
I think it’s hiding
from the sudden crying spells
that keep creeping in.
I’m sure it will come
home again in time. until
then, I will struggle.
Even now I think,
“This is crap. I should not post.”
But it’s late. I’m tired.
I’m glad I didn’t then.
And, not that I would ever call someone else’s cute little girl of, oh, about 7 or so a immensely annoying little brat, BUT…
The Immensely Annoying Little Brat who lives across and 2 houses up the street from us was literally BEGGING me to come over and apply duct tape to her sweet, adorable little mouth on Thursday evening.
See, Braden and I were in our backyard, hanging out. We had blown bubbles, he had pretended he was driving his car, then we played with chalk together [”chot!” new word!]. In general, we were enjoying some relaxing down time between dinner and bedtime outside.
Cue the Immensely Annoying Little Brat.
“Ellie!” “Ellie!” “Where are you, Ellie?!”
Hm.
“Ellie!!!” “Ellll-liiiiieeee!!!” “ELLLLLLLLLIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEE!!!”
Uh.
“EL-LIE! WHERE ARE YOU, ELLLL-LIEEEEE!?!”
“COME HERE, ELLLLLIIIEEEE, COME HERE!”
She was just standing on her front porch, looking nowhere in general.
I swear to you - her imaginary friend must have run away from her.
“ELLIE…ELLIE… ELLLLLIIIIEEEE!”
Overandoverandoveragain.
“EL-LIE! Fine, Ellie! Fine! Run away then, I never want to see you again!”
I tried to ignore it.
“ELLIE, COME HERE ELLLLIIIIEEE!!!”
It got louder and Louder and LOUDER.
With behavior like that, it’s no wonder her imaginary friend ran away from her, really, you know?
And then? She just started shrieking. Just standing there. Shrieking to hear her own voice.
WTH, man? I was cleaning up chalk and I looked up to see that Braden had climbed up in the hammock and was staring at her.
And suddenly? He screamed back at her.
She shut up.
Braden RULES.
Having been told multiple times in the past few months of the resemblance between Ellen Page and myself, I decided to post this collage, for your amusement.
Or maybe just for mine.
She, however, is quite petite. I’d appreciate it if the rest of my body decided to mimic her appearance.
*gives dirty look to stomach, butt, and thighs*
(And they know I’m talking about them, but are they ashamed? Nooooo! They just sit there, waiting to jiggle when I move and mocking me with their dimples.)
What do you do when your kid gets rashes all the time? When he has diarrhea and cries a lot? When he has a history of food issues/possible allergies/intolerances, and you’re ripping at your hair trying to pin them down?
What do you do when you’ve tried the trials and you came to one conclusion only to do a 180 and come to the opposite conclusion a few months later? And then you still weren’t sure if your brain was working right when things flip on you again?
What do you do when your child has splatter craps, then normal poop, then splatter craps again… and there was no real change in his diet to clue you in on WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON?
What do you do when your kid gets such awful butt rashes that he cries and thrashes about, screaming with every diaper change when an active one is present? What do you do when almost everything you’ve tried in order to stop this has failed?
Seriously. What do you do when you feel like a big, huge, stressed out FAILURE because you can’t properly and safely do one of the cornerstones of good parenting: providing a nutritious and healthy diet that doesn’t make your child ILL?
Answer: You jam a big, fat needle in the brat’s arm.
Serves him right for messing with your emotions, damnit!
Really. We didn’t want to do it. We were LOATHE to do it, in fact. That’s why we tried doing the trials at home. The idea of paying $300 so that we could pin our baby down and stick a needle in his arm for long enough to draw a vial of blood was right up there with eating a turd sandwich. Or threading barbed wire through my intestines manually.
But there’s a new $300 medical bill on its way to us right now.
And we’re happy.
Because ahead of that bill, we have the results. Braden has NO allergies. That means no more worrying about every little thing he wants to eat, no more trying to find breads and other foods that he will actually eat (this ”picky” phase SUCKS) that contain no milk, wheat, or eggs.
We cut out lactose and that stopped the rashes. We reduced his liquid intake (and he wasn’t even drinking juice - apparently excess liquid of any kind can add to that whole “Toddler Diarrhea” thing), and the poops are taking form again.
At lunch today, Braden had wheat bread with peanut butter on it. And his satisfied munching sounds did my heart good.
So, you know, next time you’re stressed out, just jam a sharp object into someone’s arm. Worked for us!
I love Fussy, how about you?
If your answer is yes, then you better head over to her Baby Shower Blog and leave her some love. It’s the next best thing to actually being there!
She’s expecting Baby Boy Number FIVE and the induction is scheduled for May 15th.
Photo By Alli’s MIL
The Mrs. Fussypants Baby Shower blog is a surprise for her, so please go make her feel special while she is still bursting with child.
If your answer was, Fussy? What’s that? Then you are seriously in need of edu-mah-cation here. I’m talkin’ about Mrs. Fussypants, otherwise known as Alli, otherwise known as Super-Amazing, Sweet, Kind, and Funny Nashville Mommy Blogger! (She only has like, what… A Gagillion Successful Blogs? Sheesh!) Go check her out!
And if your answer was no… Well. Come closer. I have a fork I need to stick in your eye.
PS: The contributors for Blissfully Domestic (another of Alli’s successful ventures) are doing a surprise Baby Theme all week in honor of Alli! Head over and see what’s gestating there!
It’s time for a video of Da Feet, containing absolutely no agony.
In fact, this should start your Monday off with a smile. Unless you don’t love baby feet.
And really, if you don’t love baby feet, what the hell is wrong with you?
Enjoy…
April 27th - May 3rd
This week, I found it all too easy for my eye to be drawn to shots like these:
Bearing No Leaves
Torn
Broken
Barren
Malformed
Exposed and Empty
Abandoned
Luckily, there is so much more to see when you keep your eyes open.
So many of you have touched me kindly this past week. I thank you so much.
I am allowing myself to feel every emotion that tears through me. Sadness, grief, fear, doubt, and anger, to name a few.
But I wanted you all to know that I can still see, and feel, the joy out there and in here. And you can add hope, faith, love, and joy to the list of emotions I am still allowing myself to feel.
Thanks for being here for me.
Reaching For Me
They Beckon
Contagious Happiness
Let’s Make It Fly
The Scream To Be Tickled
Always True Emotion
No Bare Cupboards Here!
Gifts Left Behind By Rainfall
Absolute Joy
Thinking of Things That Are Good
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Today, Saturday, marks the one week point. It’s been one week since the bleeding of miscarriage began. One week since I sat on the toilet, with Braden happily splashing in the tub to my left, looking down at the blood in disbelief. Just one week since I began crying hysterically as more blood came. One week since I fumbled the phone, almost dropping it into the toilet, to give my husband the worst news I have ever delivered to anyone.
One week since I laid my face on the floor next to the bathtub crying, begging out loud that this not be what I thought it was. One week since I sobbed uncontrollably there, and Braden giggled in response because he thought I was laughing.
Last Friday night, I took this photo.
I was tired and emotional after watching a movie and thinking of an old hurt.
I attributed much of my emotional response then to pregnancy hormones. You know how they are.
Almost exactly 24 hours after I took this photo, I started bleeding; miscarrying.
Twenty-four hours after that, I was waiting with high anxiety and nervous trepidation to visit my doctor the next morning for blood tests.
Twenty-four hours later yet, I was standing in my kitchen, having not received the test results yet, speaking to my (empty) uterus with fractured, clinging hope.
“Are you still in there? Is it possible? I love you. Please fight; please hold on, little baby.”
That night, I fell asleep while I repeated the same thing over and over again in my head.
“God, please let my baby live. God, please let my baby live. God, please….”
The photo is sad irony.
It is a perfect portrait of how I feel right now.
All I can hope for is for each new 24 hour passage to take me closer to whole again.
I’m scared.
