I'm Drug Free, So Put the Crack Up

I’m 10 days off of the juice now. The “juice” being my post partum Rx for Wellbutrin. I’m handling it ok thus far. I haven’t physically harmed anyone or myself. I’m horribly tired and sluggish and I lack a will to get up and move much, but it’s not as bad as I was expecting it would be. I’ve also gained 4 lbs from the sluggishness and the amount of cokes and coffees that I’ve convinced myself that I deserve to help get me through this.

I actually had 3 months left on the Rx and at my visit for my UTI on Thursday last week, my doctor offered to refill the Wellbutrin script if I felt that I needed it, but I figured that now is as good of a time as any.

Since I grew up with a bipolar dad and my husband is bipolar and I have a vagina, I can get a Wellbutrin script easy so I figured that if I needed it, I could easily get it. In fact, my husband’s psychiatrist once told me that being the caretaker of a mentally ill spouse qualifies me for access to all kinds of fabulous mind altering drugs if I wanted them.

But really? I’m sure that the lowest dose of Wellbutrin available was doing little more for me other than acting as a placebo. If it didn’t come with all the nasty side effects, what I’d really like again is some hard core Paxil. Now that stuff doesn’t play around. My life was like running through fields of daisies in a while flouncy gown when I was on that stuff. But I also didn’t have an orgasm for the entire 2 years I was on Paxil…not that I cared at the time, because I didn’t care about anything! I remember attempting orgasm several times and after trying for 15 minutes getting nowhere just being like, “meh, who needs it anyway”.

Wellbutrin did little more than just take the edge off and it did help tremendously with those “oh my god what have I done please someone come and take this baby away because it’s ruined my life” type of feelings that come in the first few post partum weeks.

Other than my Nuvaring, I’m drug free. Woot Woot! Well, no, I lied. I do still have some Ambien in a bottle and I take one of those every other week or so. But for the most part, I’m all natural right now…which is nice and fun and exciting, but scary too. If my husband goes missing…

Pee Hole

When I was 3 going on 4, I had something major wrong with my bladder. To this day I’m not sure what the name of the condition was or what it all involved, but my very first real memories of my life begin with the pain of whatever this condition was.

To the best of my knowledge it involved me having constant Urinary Tract Infections one after the other and not being able to be potty trained because something was wrong with the muscles of my bladder. My mother lived through this without the assistance of Dr. Google, so even interviewing her doesn’t supply much more information. Whatever the issue was, it culminated with me having a Bladder Augmentation wherein my bladder size was manually increased in some kind of way that no one has ever been able to fully explain to me and is probably the reason that in adulthood I can drink all day long and only pee once or twice.

When this was all said and done I was left with a 30% loss of my kidney function. I still wet the bed throughout my childhood and even wet it once while sleeping at a friend’s house. I had to wear absorbent underwear and bring spare underwear with me to school through the 3rd grade. I once peed all over myself on the school bus in what I think was Kindergarten because an 8th grader tickled me.

The purpose of me writing this down is because I wanted to write down the very first memory that I have in my life. I can’t recall anything ever happening in my life before this moment. The memory is of me on the operating table. I was four years old. The sedation began wearing off just a few minutes earlier than what my doctor would have preferred and I was laying face down on the table while my catheters were being taped to my back (I was notorious for ripping out my catheters, so the tubes always had to be hidden from me). And I remember crying for my mom. Not screaming, but just crying softly for my mom and my Urologist telling me that it was almost over and that he would take me to my mom.

After that memory I can see cousins coming to see me in the hospital and a few other things but that one moment is the first memory of this life.

Sometimes I wonder what Luke’s first memory is or will be. I look at Shelby and wonder what hers will be and when it will happen and will I be a part of it. Something tells me that what was wrong with my bladder was more serious than my mother ever let me be aware of.

I got a Urinary Tract Infection this week. It was the first one that I’ve had in years and years and it hurt like a bitch and the physical feelings brought back all of these memories. My Urologist has moved far away, but I plan to contact him and see about getting copies of my medical records so that I can finally know the actual name of whatever was wrong with me back then.

I know this is a random blog entry so just go with it and humor me.

FML

I have some friends all around me who are going through some extremely tough trials in their lives. Their trials are either life threatening or marriage threatening. In comparison, my life is a god damned walk in the park.

Whining makes me feel horribly guilty. It’s worse than the kind of guilt that you feel while jamming a double cheeseburger down your throat and feeding your kids’ chicken nuggets while a Feed the Children commercial is on television.

Thankfully, God has spared me the kind of trials that these friends are facing. For that, I am immensely grateful and blessed. But let me tell you what God is not sparing me from. He’s throwing 16,000 small trials my way – one after the other – occasionally several at a time. None are threatening my life, marriage or livelihood. None are going to kill anyone in my family.

But each one is just large enough to be really fucking annoying and difficult and time consuming and exhausting. Right now I have about 4 at one time and I’m about to start ripping my hair out of my head. I won’t whine or complain or wah wah, but I’d really just like a flipping break.

Easy Breezy Beautiful

I’ve noticed after catching my reflection in mirrors under certain lighting that my makeup was the wrong color for my skin and no matter how long I spend blending, I still have a noticeable orange makeup line on my neck. I don’t use cheap makeup so I went to the department store to have my foundation color checked out.

According to the “specialist” in the little lab coat, my makeup is a perfect match and I suck and would suck less only if I purchase this and that and this and that. So me and my barely breathing self esteem shuffled off. Seeing that I do spend quite a bit on my makeup already, I didn’t want to spend even more, but I did.

I upgraded to the next most expensive makeup at the department store. Fast forward a few months and I’m still having the same issues. My face is oily, I have noticeable makeup lines and by the end of the day my face just always feels dirty and leaves orange marks on my daughter’s clothes when I hug her.

I’ve tried the powders that you have to sit and scrub into your face for an hour with that kubuki brush that leave my face feeling more sandblasted than fresh and free. I don’t like those. I’ve tried it all. From $20 foundations to $100 foundations – I’ve tried them.

Defeated and feeling like I was destined to a life of orange greasiness, I happened upon a commercial on TV where a gorgeous and young and fresh faced Drew Barrymore says that if I go online to this super cheap makeup’s website, they’ll match me to their makeup using my department store brand’s shades. This makeup is what I wore when I was 11 years old because it’s super cheap. But now only Walmartians and 11 year olds still wear that makeup, right?

I ignore the commercial, but I keep seeing it over and over and over. This past weekend, I gave in and went online. I matched my shade to the department store one that the lab coat chic said was my perfect match, grabbed the baby and my purse and headed out to buy the cheap stuff.

Oh. My. God. My whole life has changed. This cheap ass makeup is my dream come true, no lie. I can’t believe it. I am just stunned at how this stuff feels and works and looks. Why did I give this stuff up at some point in my teen years? My face feels clean all day. Not a drop of oil or grease beyond a natural glow. It matches my skin so perfectly that I can’t see it on my neck anywhere or in any lighting. It never rubs off and when it does, it’s barely noticeable. Totally awesome! Plus it’s so cheap! SO CHEAP! SCORE!

Moral of the story – the pricier something is, doesn’t always guarantee its value.

My Morning

This morning Shelby was sitting in the living room very busy busy stirring her toy kitchen pot with her toy spoon. Busy Busy. I walked by and went to make the bed. Then I walked back in and she had food all over her face. And I said, "Luke, what did you feed her?". Luke said, "Nothing, why?"

Then I looked in her pot.

Shelby had somehow sat on her pot...and poo'd. Shelby. Was. Eating. Her. Poo.

It was all over her face.

But, at least she was dainty and used a spoon.

That's Just a Sock in My Pants

When I was a pre-teen I used to wish that I was a boy. I mean that I wished for it INTENSELY and even went so far as to go out into the garage (which was my land of imagination) and pretend speaking like, walking like and acting like a boy. I would stand up to pee. I would stuff a sock down my pants. My desire to be a boy was rather consuming.

I’m not sure if my mother ever noticed this or anything related to it. I’m not sure if she was ever worried or if she was on the phone discussing this with her girlfriends. She’s never mentioned it in all these years so I assume that my secret is safe…until now that I’m sharing it with the Internets, that is.

I’m not a lesbian or transgender or whatever the word would be for a woman who wants to be a man. I don’t wish to be male as an adult. I kissed a girl once and found it to be gross – way too soft and blah. While I do enjoy staring at a nice set of boobs, I seemed to outgrow my desire to actually be a man.

I get all embarrassed when I sit and think of that time now that I’m an adult. What was wrong with me? Was it some kind of obsession of missing having a father in my life? I’ve never asked anyone if it was normal or what the cause could have been or why it didn’t progress into me becoming something different as an adult.

It’s on my mind today for 2 reasons. First, my son will turn 10 next month and the age of 10 is exactly when all of this occurred in my life. I realize now that he is now old enough to be in his room living a life that I know nothing about. It’s not that I think he’s in his room pretending to be a girl. Of course, if he was, I would accept it totally and love him still and take him shoe shopping. It’s that he is hitting an age where I don’t know his every thought or feeling anymore. He’s having curiosities and lessons and fantasies about things that I probably couldn’t imagine nor would I even probably want to imagine.

That is a scary and exciting thought to me. My baby boy is now more of a person and a human being than just my son. When I think on my childhood, 10 years old is really a pivotal age where I go from remembering tidbits of my childhood to really remembering day to day life and events and feelings. So as a parent, if I fuck up now, I can’t just shrug it off and say, “oh he won’t even remember me doing this to him”. He WILL remember it now. This realization has brought a deep sense of responsibility in me on how I speak to him, how I speak to others, my actions and my reactions.

Heavy.

The other reason I’m thinking of my pre-teen male tendencies? My husband has a cold. This naturally means that he may as well have god damn stage 4 lung cancer with how he’s acting and carrying on as if he’s dying. And as he is lying in bed at home right now at 1:58pm on a Thursday actually getting to use a whole sick day for himself because HE is actually ill, I just really hate him for it and I’m jealous and pissed of how cushy most men with wives have it and I really wish for this moment that I was a man.

Almost There

There is a photograph of me in my photo album from my 30th birthday “party”. My birthday was a Thursday that year and I spent the day at work and the evening at my 8 year old son’s football game. My husband left early from the game to set up my obvious surprise party. The party attendants were (including me) only my husband, my mother and my son.

The girl in that photograph is horribly intensely sad and depressed. It’s an embarrassing photo and I’m ashamed of how I looked in that photo. I can’t believe that is what I offered to the world. I can’t believe that was who I’d become.

I had just begun my 6th cycle of Clomid, a low grade fertility drug whose side effects are nothing “low grade”. I had just hit 180 pounds. And I had no idea that I was only 3 months away from finally acheiving conception of my daughter. I felt hopeless and defeated.

The largest side effect that Clomid had on me was weight gain. My normal comfortable weight is about 140/145. That comfortable weight is where I’ve spent about 75% of my adult life with the other 25% accounting for pregnancies, break ups, new relationship gains, savage hurricanes and general out of hand tom foolery moments.

So here I was at 180. In the photo, I’m wearing a frumpy dumpy sweatshirt (because nothing fit me), my face is bloated beyond belief and despite the balloons, candles, presents and happy child sitting on my knee, I’m about 1 nutshell shy of getting full blown suicidal. My eyes are glistening because I was doing everything in my power to not cry and go insane. I had been trying to conceive for 14 months unsuccessfully.

Trying to conceive my daughter is by far the hardest trial I have ever lived through as an adult. Katrina? That was a breeze compared to 8 cycles of Clomid and 5 additional cycles of temping and peeing on thousands upon thousands of sticks including an additional 4 months crammed into those cycles where my body just didn’t cycle at all.

I am so incredibly sad for that girl in that picture and also for the scared husband who tried so hard that year to make my birthday and fabulous event to get my mind off of failing as a woman at the one thing that I’m biologically supposed to do with my life.

Here I am, close to 3 years later. When I turn 33 in 3 months, I will have a 10 year old son, a 13 month old daughter and I WILL be 140lbs again in those photos (I’m down to 150 now). I will see a different girl in my pictures this year. She’s a happier girl and despite this daughter almost bankrupting us, she has *almost* everything she’s ever asked for in her life.

Now I need to learn to maintain, be grateful and enjoy and not constantly think of everything that I do not have because the majority of those things just don’t matter compared to what I have.

Sleep Training

The official "sleep training" for my beast of a daughter began tonight. Luke and I secretly call her "The Beast" when she wails...it's our little private joke that we'll tell her about in front of her 1st boyfriend when she's 15.

I've taken the best advice from a handful of friends who've been there done that and a few ideas from some articles books and we've developed our own sleep training schedule.

Will it work? Hell if I know. It's only 9:19pm. The fun doesn't normally begin until 2am when Shelby decides that she needs to have loud conversations with her feet.

She's like that crazy drunk friend in college who just doesn't shut the hell up while you're trying to sleep. She talks to herself all night long. I've gotten to the point where I'm wearing ear plugs and have the monitor on the lowest setting to drown out her babbling.

And so a very tired and quickly aging Ziggy and I (mostly I, because he likes to wait and see if it works before he joins in) started sleep training.

Sleeping through the night (meaning myself) would absolutely change my life! I haven't slept througha night in over 7 months if you consider that I had the RLS in my last trimester and never slept.

And my God I love my daughter, but this is yet another time where I look at my sweet wonderful 9 year old self sufficient little man and realize how many wonderful, frustrating and scary years I have ahead of me before I can collapse next to a 9 year old Shelby on the sofa and just exhale for a little while in that glorious age where they aren't needy babies anymore, but they aren't horrible evil tweens yet either.

I hearby declare that 9 is the greatest age of childhood. Here's to Luke!

Wish us luck and a good night's sleep.

Sniff Sniff

I'm sad. Ziggy and I are angry with each other. Very angry with each other. But I really could use a hug, or being held or even just a kind word and I'm not going to get it.

Oh Shut Up Already

This is going to be a rant that some of you may be offended by. If you are offended, I apologize. This rant pertains to SAHM's (Stay At Home Moms). Not all SAHM's are pathetic and whiney. Many are extremely productive, grateful and amazing humans.

I unfortunately am encountering a lot of the opposite though. What is the deal with this new breed of whiney, pathetic, princess pussy SAHM's? I can barely take them and since I have so many of them "friended" lately on Twitter and Facebook, I have to reserve my rant for here.

I work 40 - 45 hours a week. I do homework with my boy. Truck him around to whatever sport he's involved in at the time. Feed the family. Clean the house. Do the laundry. Wash the dishes. Make lunches. Love on the baby. Play board games with the boy. Sex up the husband. And on and on and on and on. I do not think that I am extraordinary in any way. I'm just a working mother and the shit needs to get done. So I do it.

Now, yes, my husband will help out, but he's no model of perfection. In fact, most SAHM's that I know actually have their husbands better trained than I do. My husband will clean the litter, fold some clothes or feed the baby...IF I ask him to. To me, he's a typical male and while I'm interested in one of these pussy men who wait on their women hand and foot, the more I think about it, the more I think that I'd rather have a man for a husband. Yes, he could help out more...but these women who are home all day and then bitch and moan ad nauseum about how their husbands don't help around the house are making it hard for me to choke down the vomit.

I've had 3 women, THREE SAHM's this week whine and yine on Facebook or Twitter about how "they aren't the maid" or "why do I have to do all of the cooking/cleaning" or "wah wah wah wah the laundry is cutting in to my sofa time".

Oh fucking PUHLEEZE! I've had the good fortune to be a SAHM for 16 weeks of my life. Both of those were during my maternity leaves. My children were cared for, my house was spotless, dinner was cooked every night and I STILL had time to watch 2 hours of Desperate Housewives EVERY SINGLE DAY. So really? You aren't fooling me. Nope. Not at all.

So please, stop the fucking whining. You are a HOUSEWIFE. You're JOB is to care for the children and the home. DO YOUR JOB and stop whining. And stop dumping on
your husbands. Like me, your husbands work 40 - 45 hours a week. When we get home, we are tired. If my husband stayed home all day, I would fully expect...nay, I would fully DEMAND that I come home to a clean house, cared for children and dinner on the table.

This is such a blessing that these women have. There isn't a single working mother on earth who wouldn't sacrifice her left boob to be given the opportunity that SAHM's have. And yet, in my experience, you don't hear working mothers whining half as much as SAHM's...maybe because we're too busy?

For once I'd like to hear SAHM's get real and talk about how blessed they are and stop complaining about having to mop a floor.

And I guess maybe the grass is always greener, and again I have many a SAHM that I truly adore and respect because they do work their ass off, recognize their blessings and take care of their responsibilities. But for the rest of them...I'm just so done with hearing the bitching. Get a job AND do everything you are doing and THEN I'll entertain the whining.

Big Ass Photo

Oops! Sorry for the big ass photo below. My bad. I posted it directly from photobucket. If you want to see it smaller and in full, just click on it and it'll take you to Photobucket. I'm still half dumb ass when it comes to computers.

Hell Froze Over

Growing up in New Orleans automatically makes you special. In fact, I'll go ahead and throw this out there - New Orleans IS THE MOST special city in the country...and dare I say...the world? There is no denying it. People who have grown up here can enjoy another city for a few days, but eventually the bland food and dry air will make them stare longingly out the window and dream of arriving home.

People who have lived here at one time and have moved on will take the city with them through the rest of their lives. No matter where they live or where they call home, they will speak of and write of and dream of New Orleans and miss "home". What other city can be destroyed over and over again...from the same type of natural disaster and the same people, the same families rebuild it over and over again and never once consider leaving it?

There is no other city in the world that sparks as much interest in strangers as saying you are from New Orleans. Stand in a room of 100 people, all from different cities in the world and inevitably when the 100 find out that you are from New Orleans, you will immediately become the topic of conversation.

New Orleans is so much more than stupid poor people standing on roof tops waiting to be saved. It is so much more than Mardi Gras. So much more.

The exaggerated notion you've learned of New Orleans from movies and television is hilarious. Only tourists show their boobs. This is fact. There aren't swamps around every corner and the picture of cypress trees that inevitably starts off any story about New Orleans is untrue...although...I DO have a cypress tree in my backyard.

To be a Saints fan has always meant that you are a loser. You have very low expectations as a Saints fan. You don't hope for much. A win here and there is all we've ever asked for. As losers, the Saints have the most ridiculously faithful fanbase in the nation. The Saints have never earned our devotion. They've never deserved our time or our money. But yet we are eternally devoted and even during the Mike Ditka days (oh the horror), the Saints sold an unusually high number of season tickets for such a suck ass team and sold an unusually high amount of merchandise.

Saints fans are intense. My bipolar father was actually banned from watching the Saints for 5 years by his therapist due the extreme amount of stress/disappointment/depression that it caused being a Saints fan.

How many other teams have fans so dedicated that there are volumes of music created for and created about their football team. If you took every song ever written for and about the Saints, you would need at least 3 full length CD's. What other team has fans like that?

I was in the Dome on September 25th, 2006 when the Superdome reopened and the Saints hosted their first home game since Hurricane Katrina against the Atlanta Falcons. I get the chills just thinking of it. We cried. We screamed. We hugged strangers in that game. We stood in a dome that no regular citizen had seen since the horrifying images on TV of dead bodies lying on the ground, water raining in, murders occurring over crackers. It was remarkable.

There are men like my father who have been faithful to the Saints for the full 43 years. Myself? I can only claim 32 of those. I was born at 4:51pm on a Sunday in 1977. A football Sunday in October. The Saints played while my dad waited in the waiting room for me to be born. And of course...the Saints? They lost.

And so when in the 4th quarter Porter intercepted that ball and ran over 70 yards to gain a 14 point lead over the Colts, Ziggy and I stared at each other in absolute and total disbelief and I said, "Ziggy, did the Saint just win the mother fucking superbowl?" And we stared at the TV for about 60 very long seconds until it sunk in.

THE SAINTS WON THE MOTHER FUCKING SUPERBOWL!

We threw a jacket on the baby and set off fireworks in the street along with thousands of other people. Cops threw on their sirens. People screamed. Car alarms were purposely set off. Strangers screamed cheers at each other. Unknown neighbors became friends.

It will, hands down, go down as one of the most memorable days of my life. And in the words of my father, in a cracked shaky voice, he said, "Baby girl, it looks like I can die right this second and die a happy man."

Congrats to the New Orleans Saints and to all of her fans - the faithful, the loyal, the steadfast, the believers...this one is for us. Our moment. Our time. It may never happen again and that is fine by us because even at the age of 80, my 9 year old son WILL remember the night that his Saints won the Super Bowl.

RSV? Yeah, You Know Me.

We survived! We survived RSV. Ziggy now has this air of confidence about him. He CAN do this. We CAN do this. Shelby is alive and we did it.

The snot of last week quickly progressed into RSV by Tuesday of this week. A doctor visit, an ER visit and several sleepless nights and we made it.

Shelby is staying home from daycare for another day or two because she still has a cough and isn't back to her full eating schedule, but she's well. I owe her wellness to several things.

First, I cannot sing enough accolades to Graco for inventing the battery operated nasal aspirator. Oh. My. God. GET ONE! GO! NOW! GET ONE! You need this thing. You can't live without it. We spent frustrated hours hurting Shelby with bulb nose aspirators getting nowhere fast. The Graco battery operated one is a godsend. Every baby shower that I go to from now until I die, the woman WILL get one of these from me.

Second, I have to applaud Ziggy. His meticulous OCD nature really helped get me through this. He gave our daughter exceptional care and not once skipped a dose of meds or a nose suck or an attempt at feeding. He took night shifts equally with me as he saw me quickly decline into a state of madness from sleep deprivation and worry. He. Was. Awesome. I'm so proud of him. And he's earned his "badge" now for surviving his first infant illness and you can almost see that he is more confident now with her.

Third, I have to applaud Luke. He stepped up BIG TIME. He emptied dryers. Folded towels. Went without attention. He held my hand while I had a mini nervous breakdown on Wednesday night when we couldn't get her fever down and couldn't get her to stop screaming. He slept through screaming and nervous parents pacing past his door. He ate pizza rolls and Cane's for a week since there was no time to cook. He endured the scent of Lysol for days as his paranoid mother sprayed every inch of the house daily. He was such a trooper.

Lastly, and I can't believe I'm doing this, but I have to applaud my MIL who stepped in and provided us with hours and hours of help so that we could work or get away for a bit to run errands. My mother also stepped in and helped hugely, but that's a given...she always does that.

So, she isn't 100%, but she's close. The light at the end of the RSV tunnel is in sight.

Please Say It'snot Snot!

Baby girl is sounding more and more congested and I'm beginning to worry that my healthy baby luck is running out with this insane weather and dirty people always touching all over her. She's been in day care for 6 weeks and other than the thrush, we've lucked out...I fear my luck is running out. I hear that slight congestion building and worsening and I'm envisioning green snot having to be sucked out, wailing, no sleep, ER running, antibiotic giving HELL.

And it's moments like those where I think, WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE!?!?! I made it through all this crap with Luke already. Who in their right mind would CHOOSE to do this again? Luke is at an age where you throw Triaminic down his throat and send him off to school with a pack of Kleenex. I did this already. Am I on crack rock for willingly choosing to do it again?

And then it all hits me in waves again. The regret. Yes, friends. Regret. And then after the regret is the guilt, the soul bashing heart wrenching guilt over even thinking about the regret. But that's the truth and it is what it is. I've upped my anti depressant Rx and it still is what it is, so I am guessing that these feelings I'm having could possibly be normal and something that I just need to endure and sort through and deal with.

Being the baby of the family, it makes me wonder...did my mom go through this regret over me? Then the guilt? Then the regret? Then the guilt? Maybe I should ask her. Although with her level of perfection, I seriously doubt she ever felt/thought such things.

When baby girl is on the floor giggling and kicking and cooing and when we're snuggling and she falls asleep on my chest, there is NO regret. None. I did this on purpose and I love it. But no matter how incredibly those moments are, the regret still manages to rear it's ugly head.

Especially for Lan, to Entertain Her in Her Recovery

Perhaps my New Year's Resolution should be to blog more often? God knows I've been horrible at it. I see these women who manage to keep up with their blogs daily, have children, husbands and jobs and I wonder HOW? What do they sacrifice in order to be able to keep up? Sleep? Sex? Food?

I haven't figured it out, but I vow to try.

So much has happened. There are so many blogs that I've written in my head. There was the "Why does Aunt Martha seem to have a giant cold sore EVERY Christmas" blog in which I regaled you with tales of family and in laws that would make your own families seem more normal for you as my Christmas gift to you.

There was the "Did you just set a flare off in my backyard and goose me?" blog in which I spoke of the drunk/fighting couple that we invited to our house for New Years who made my own marriage and my bipolar husband seem like an episode of Leave it to Beaver...and who also allowed me to view jealousy in my very un-jealous type husband for the first time, which was kind of cool to be honest.

And who can forget the "Mom, what is an orgasm?" blog where I wrung my hands with worry over my son's recent growth spurt of sexual questioning.

Ah yes, you've missed so much. From Thanksgiving through New Years, there has been one recurring theme to all of my family gatherings and it is this: There are two certifiably nuts men in my life. Both my father and my husband are bipolar; bipolar enough to be able to legally claim it as a disability and yet, those two men are the most sane people in my family. It's them that I go to in order to discuss all of the nuts and wackos.

So you've missed a lot and yet, it's much of the same. I love my son, my daughter and my husband. The majority of the rest of my family, including the in laws can suck me. My job pays the bills and thank gawd for it, but I wish the building would go up in flames. My friends are gems and here we are, pretty much right where we started except that now there is a little pink ball of fluff to share the joy with.

Last year at midnight on 1/1/09, I kissed my husband and desperately wished for a baby. This year at midnight on 1/1/10, I kissed my son and thanked God that we made it through 09 and just desperately wished to make it through the next year. (Side note: I didn't kiss the husband at midnight, because he was busy trying to keep flare guy from setting our house on fire.)

My resolutions are many this year. Whereas last year ALL I resolved to do was get knocked up, this year is tremendously different. I've resolved to be more selfish (which if you know me, is actually going to be unusually hard). I've resolved to be kinder to myself. I've resolved to have more sex with the husband (it's free and it's fun and it brings us closer together, so we should do it more, right?) And I've resolved to spend less money and get a grip on some debt.

So that's that. Sorry I've been away so long. I probably have zero readers left. Oh well, a new year, new topics, new friends to be found.

Happy New Year to you!