So, two gushing accounts of Bear-related adorableness.

~ It is important to note that Count von Count only makes an appearance on Sesame Street about twice a month. However, when my mom gave Chloe a book in which Grover explores colors, she immediately recognized the Count on the “purple” page and laughed in the cutest maniacal laughter ever, “Ah! Ah! Ah!”

M’aawwwwwww…

~ We’ve been showing Chloe these two specific “Disney Sing-Along Songs” videos from 1986 and 1987 because those are the only years that they made VHS tapes that didn’t have pirate protection on them so we could make DVDs of them to watch at our house. Anyway, she goes over to my parents’ house a few nights ago while I’m in town and joining my meditation group and they began to show her some of the other videos from the “Sing-Along Songs” series. Apparently, halfway through one of these less familiar videos, she turned to my dad and started asking, “Hi ho? Hi ho?” It took them a minute but they soon realized that she was requesting the “Heigh Ho” video as per usual instead of this new crap they were pushing on her. When my dad gently said, “No, honey, we’re watching ‘The Bare Necessities’ right now.” her tone turned a bit more demanding, “Hi ho! Hi ho!” Needless to say, they relented.

Pah-recious.

Luckily, there’s more going on in my life than just a weight-loss regiment. Whew.

~ The Bear had the funniest moment the other day that I think is universally funny and not just my-baby’s-better-than-everyone funny. She’s developed all these words for animals and their respective sounds (Refresher: “Kak! Kak!”= duck/bird, “Eeow” = cat, “RAAR!”= bear, “Ar! Ar!”= dog, “oooo”=cow) which she uses at every opportunity. Well, we’re eating and watching some Powerpuff Girls when a commercial comes on for Zoobooks (which I cannot believe they still make) and suddenly Chloe is going nuts trying to keep up with the melange of animals they’re flashing across the screen. She’s pointing and screaming, “Eeow! Ar! RAAR! Kak! Kak!” desperately trying to keep up and really just sounding like a crazy person mimicking a barnyard. I thought I would die with the giggles but didn’t want to interrupt the moment by trying to find the camera.

Chloe’s been picking up a new word every day and it’s getting hard to keep up as she’s still very very loosely pronouncing these things. For example, every night before she goes to bed, we settle down and watch these old Disney sing-alongs my mom bought for me when I was a kid. This one song about a train came on (Casey Jr. from “Dumbo”) and suddenly she perked up, started pointing at the screen and repeating, “Do! Do! Do!” I kind of thought she was just expressing excitement about the song until the one part when they say “Toot! Toot!” and she did it at the exact same time and then started applauding herself. It was pretty cool.

She’s also making these amazing correlations that are pretty advanced. Yesterday we were watching something with butterflies in it (I swear we’re not constantly in front of the TV) and she looked down at her shirt and pointed to the butterflies along the border and looked up at me in recognition. I was stunned, actually, as the butterflies on the screen didn’t look very much like the ones on her shirt and yet she was still able to not only recognize the similarities but remember that she was wearing something with butterflies on it. I dunno, maybe it’s only impressive to me…

Oh and despite last Sunday’s debacle, she still LOVES to be outside. If we’re not outside at least once a day she goes into hysterics, pointing at the door and sobbing, so we’ve made it a habit to go for a post-nap walk, despite the incredible heat. Yesterday we hit another local park and even though we rode the swing for a few minutes and tried the slide a few times, what she really wanted to do is walk on the mini swinging bridge. And so, for the NEXT HOUR she walked back and forth across the bridge, sometimes going down the stairs and then going back up. When the heat finally got to be too much and she was covered in sweat and had rosy cheeks, I picked her up to take her to the car. Needless to say, she screamed and wriggled around frantically the entire way.

I have to admit that ultimately this makes me really happy. She’s not going to be one of those kids who plants herself in front of the television all day (we’re not doing the video games thing unless it’s a handheld thing and we use it exclusively for road trips. That’s what my mom did and she produced four well-rounded children capable of using their imaginations and easily making new friends. That’s example enough for me) and maybe I can get her into camping and hiking when she gets a little older. This is something I know her dad isn’t going to be happy about, but he’ll get over it.

~ After writing that thing about Hunter S. Thompson I sat down and wrote a blog entry about how pissed I am that what we call the 20th century American canon contains so many whiny, privileged white guys who “rebel” against this society that their fathers have created by turning into lush vagabonds and then basically perpetuating the same selfish, racist, sexist morality they were raised in. That’s not revolutionary. The other thing is that you can see this same behavior in today’s society with bands like Limp Biskit (remember them?), and Disturbed and Nickelback and all that noise. They’re just doing the same thing that Salinger and Thompson and Kerouc did but with more profanity and a different wardrobe. Meanwhile, really talented writers are given the shaft and aren’t considered neo-classic lit because the list is dominated by these carbon copies of nothing important. Gross.

ANYWAY, I wrote a rather lengthy essay about it and when I was done I realized that, with a little research and editing, it might not be terrible. I might look in to getting it published somewhere notable, which would be new and different from me. It’s scary to know you’re going to start getting rejection letters from nationally-recognized publications as opposed to just little indie ones.

~ Also, I’m having another essay published in next month’s ‘Sasee’. While I’m glad to have the publicity and the opportunity for a broader audience, I’m starting to get sick of submitting these really self-indulgent essays that focus on my overanalyzed feelings about stuff that only pertains to me. I’ve gotta start pushing myself.

~ Which leads me to this Second City writing class I’m taking. Now, before the class started, I wrote the professor and told him to give it to me straight. I’m poor and I want to get my money’s worth, so if something I submit blows, I want to know. I told him not to worry about hurting my feelings because as long as it was objective constructive feedback, I was grateful to have it. And honestly, he’s been great about pointing out my flaws and telling me how to fix them and, even though he doesn’t have to waste time on it, he’s been complimenting my strengths.

However, it seems I’m incapable of writing for stage. After a few weeks of this, everything I’ve submitted has received the message, “Great dialogue but there’s no action or showing of these emotions or events. These could be acted in the dark and have the same effect.” Even when I try to do things bigger and more adventurously, it always comes out the same way. I guess being used to writing for text hasn’t lent itself to creating real activity for people and I always feel limited by dialogue choices in a script because it’s so stripped down. I feel like my mind is just not capable of thinking that way, kind of like how I do in math. When I’m doing/writing the problem/script I think it’s okay but when the professor points out what I’ve done wrong I’m always smacking myself in the forehead and thinking, “Yes! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?” And honestly, I have no idea.

And it’s starting to get a little frustrating, especially considering how long I’ve been involved with theatre, how long I’ve been writing, and the fact that this is just a beginner’s class.

~ I have my first audition in 3 years on Sept. 9. I’m really excited but kind of freaking out as I feel like I’m really really out of practice. I spent years upon years learning techniques and methods and all that and I still feel like they’ve evaporated from my mind over time, even though I did a lot of student scenework in my last few years of undergrad. Plus, as strange as this sounds, my voice has shifted a lot and I’m not sure where it sounds best as far as the “showtunes” sound goes. I used to have a whole repertoire from which to pull audition material but when I was trying it out this week it just sounded awful. That seems kind of weird considering I know exactly what songs I can do at any karaoke bar but I realize I can’t get up and sing “Dream On” if I’m vying for a part in “South Pacific” or “A Christmas Carol.” Although I did think about singing the first part of Green Day’s “Hitchin’ a Ride” for it as it comes across as very showtune-y.
:::sigh::: At this point I just don’t know. But I have a few weeks.

~One of the perks of our new town is that the local cable package includes LOGO! So I can finally watch Rosie’s “Big Gay Sketch Show”! Hooray!

I’ve often heard and have grown to believe that the best way to make God laugh is to make plans. Apparently, I needed a refresher course.

Since the Bear is adamant about spending as much time as possible outdoors, I thought I’d change up the scenery and take her out to a local park while my hubs did some stuff around the house. It was mostly cloudy with a generous amount of breaks which was great because it meant we could spend the middle of the day outside without burning alive.

So we get down to the Kiwanis Family Park, one of our city’s beautiful playgrounds with big fields and running trails and grills and the whole bit.

Chloe is ecstatic and tears off at a dead run (which only translated as an effortless trot for me) and flailing her arms while screaming “WHEEEE!” I decided to take her on one of the trails as she’s not spent much time in wooded areas. She couldn’t have been more excited and, in the first few minutes she’d already picked up the words “creek” and “bridge”.

We’re hiking along and Chloe is loving every minute of it, pointing at birds, scampering down the trail, waving to every person that passes. I try to get her to turn off onto the paths that would lead us back to the starting point, but every time she screamed and cried, pulling my arm to let her take the long route.

Although I knew it was a .75 mile trail, I kind of shrugged and laughed about it thinking, “Well, I guess the worst that could happen is that she gets exhausted and I have to carry her back.” Plus, we were still around people in that I could see houses and major roads through the trees, so if we were bitten by a snake or something awful, we wouldn’t be far from rescue.

We get to the end of the trail and I have to pick Chloe up, screaming and kicking, to get her to turn around and go back the way we came. After a few minutes she gave up the fight and we were off. About five minutes in at Chloe-walking-speed, we started to feel a little bit of light rain but were under a thick canopy of trees, so Chloe really enjoyed it. As we walked, the rain gradually got a tiny bit heavier and I was still chucking to myself, thinking, “Ah man, we’re going to get so wet.” But still, Chloe was enjoying herself and even though I’d picked up the pace and was keeping us toward the edge of the path for more cover, we were having a good time.

AND THEN THE EFFING BOTTOM FELL OUT.

Regardless of how long this summer storm was going to last, I knew Chloe would only find heavy raindrops pounding her body for a few minutes, so I scooped her up and began to run while yelling, “Whee!!” Now, I think it’s important to note that, because I was prepared for a leisurely day at the park, I was wearing a skimpy camisole, a flowing hippie skirt, and cheap leather sandals that I’ve had for a few years and have completely worn the tread off of. Also, I’d left the diaper bag back in the car but was hauling around my big leather purse with my wallet, keys, camera, juice boxes, etc. Still, though, we were giggling and I was kind of enrapt with how funny this all was and what a ridiculous story we’d have when we got home.

But about five minutes up the road, the rain somehow increased to the point where we couldn’t see ten feet in front of us and Chloe became hysterical. The fact that I haven’t been exercising recently was already a factor, but add to that the fact that I’m carrying an extra 25 lbs on one arm and trying to run in sandals in such a way that I don’t fall and hurt both of us, and I was working harder than I believe I have in the last ten years.

I was torn between trying to run fast and trying to keep my balance while soothing Chloe’s terrified screams so the .65 mile I was running took literally 10 minutes to cover (I could easily walk a mile in that on a normal day.) And then, just as I breathed a sigh of relief and gratitude upon seeing the clearing up ahead, a bolt of lightning hit a tree less than a mile away (we saw it as we were leaving the park later on) and elevated our level of panic to outright terror. There hadn’t been any signs of lightning before that moment so, even though we were soaking and Chloe was really upset, I was safe in the knowledge that we weren’t in real danger. When that was snatched away, my adrenaline kicked in and I somehow sprinted out of the woods, into the clearing, and another 200 yards to the nearest shelter.

Just as I hit the slick floor of the shelter, my treadless shoes became worthless and I hit my knee harder than I think it’s ever been. However, because of my wildly flying hormones and emotions, I didn’t even notice it until a few hours later. As a few dry families watched, I sat on the floor right at the edge, rocking and soothing Chloe as best as I could while she wailed and shivered.

Even though the shelter was lying elevated on a hill, it began to flood and I realized I was sitting in a slowly spreading puddle. I moved us to one of the picnic tables and kept rocking and clutching the Bear. I was terrified she’d get hypothermia or pneumonia or something and it’s honestly the first time that she’s screamed in public and I did not give a shit what anyone else was thinking, although I hardly think that’s praiseworthy or unnatural given the circumstances.

After about ten minutes, I noticed one of the men in another family come running back from their car, soaking and clutching a bag. He handed it off and his wife and her daughter walked over and handed me a clean, dry set of little boy’s clothes and a new diaper. As I tried to tell her how much I appreciated it, it became obvious that she spoke no English at all and I was reduced to pitiful, broken Spanish and an idiotic redundancy of “Gracias”es. I was overwhelmed with gratitude and, to be honest, as I’m writing this, my eyes are welling up with tears, (although that could be the residual effects of the day messing with my emotions.) While I changed an increasingly chilled and frightened Bear, the woman calmly stabilized Chloe as her daughter spoke softly to her and tried to get her to smile. Realizing that I couldn’t hold the Bear up to my chest to warm her as my clothes were soaking, the woman made a gesture to ask permission and, after I nodded, she picked Chloe up and held her for a few minutes. When Chloe finally settled a bit, we sat her down and I became pathetic with gratitude, probably driving the woman insane with my relentless thanks. She held up a hand to tell me it was no problem but ran back over to her purse and handed me a small bottle of Bio Salud!, a revolutionary Mexican dairy beverage that is loaded with live cultures and nutrients. Suffice to say, I was floored.

After Chloe calmed down, she went back to her normal self, sitting beside me while I wrung out my skirt a few dozen times and babbling and pointing to the rain and smiling at me with wonder. I even took the opportunity to get a few pics, because I’m pathetic and thought I should have evidence of the story when I tell her one day.

The rain died down and the woman and her family stood up to leave. Even though I hated the idea of stripping Chloe of warm clothes, I knew we had some clean ones in the car about 200-ish yards away and could make it work if we had to. I made feeble gestures to tell the woman that she could have her son’s clothes back but she adamantly shook her head and patted me on the back with one of those “knowing mother” smiles.

It took me about an hour after we left the park to settle down and realize how exhausted I was. I just felt deflated after the intensity of the emotions plus the unrehearsed running.

I’m sure, though, that this is one of those days I’ll remember. Not to oversentimentalize things but the culmination of the fear that was so easily diffused by one family’s simple generosity made the whole experience remarkable. I know, it’s not like I was a refugee taken in by strangers, but still the lessons here are twofold:

1) ALWAYS prepare for the worst when out with children. Al. Ways.
2) Don’t be so cowardly or cynical as to doubt the existence of real, good people, no matter how much you see evidence to prove otherwise.

My daughter is awesome.

And even though every parent on the planet says that about their kid, I’m lucky enough to have one of those kids who inspires other people around her to say that too, even if they’ve only known her a few minutes.

She’s 19 months old now and just unbelievable. She’s always cheerful (unless I’m redirecting her from something potentially harmful that she wants to do anyway), always elated to meet and be around people, always exploring and interacting. It’s perhaps the best anti-depressant I’ve ever had.

A few days ago she picked up my camera and started taking pictures. The impressive part of this is now that she could mimic my actions but she was actually looking through the viewfinder, setting up a shot, and then taking it as opposed to just randomly hitting the button and pointing the camera at nothing in particular. She got down on her tummy to get a portrait of the cat and then, after taking a couple, she changed positions to get a different angle on him. She even took one of her stuffed animals and put him up on the couch to get a “portrait” of sorts. I was really cool to watch.

We were on vacation last week on a small island in SC and naturally, she loved spending everysinglemoment outside in the sun. She loved pointing at the seagulls and pelicans and screaming “Kak! Kak!” (this is her arbitrary word for any bird because she can’t yet differentiate between the individual types and thinks they’re all ducks) and picking up seashells - “shah-shoo”s - but what she loved most of all was being around dogs. She ran up to literally every dog we saw during the entire week regardless of size. She would always want to engage them individually so often she would come up and sit down in front of them to be on their eye-level. Sometimes it looked like she and the dog were in their own little world, actually. And there was one little dog who was a schnauzer-type mutt that the owner was carrying in her arms and was snarling and growling until the Bear came up and petted her nose. I was starting to wonder if she’s going to inherit Cesar Milan’s gig when he’s ready to retire.

She has a whole arsenal of words and she’s so so excited to be able to communicate with us. When she recognizes something that we have an established word for (”Ar! Ar!” - Dog “Fjooo” - Food “Ah-pay!” - Airplane) she is so so excited to run over and tell someone about it and it’s really cool to see her confidence in herself during those moments.

So, once again, if there was any doubt: Yes. I am one of those pathetically child-obsessed parents.

Q: What’s more fun than croup-y, barking 18-month old who is exhausted from a midnight trip to the ER and two nights of general sleeplessness from pain who won’t let me do anything but sit with her and watch television all day in our individual exhaustion-based dazed stupors?

A: A baby who meets the aforementioned descriptions and is suffering from a bedsore on her hip from recent extensive travel while confined to a carseat and is going to have to spend a few days in cloth diapers.

Wha - fucking - eee.

Last night at about 8:15, Chloe started screaming. Every breath was a literal ear-ringing scream and she would not be consoled, no matter what we tried. She had a runny nose but no fever, so we tried suctioning to no avail. We tried holding her, letting her lie alone, rocking her, walking with her, sitting still with her… nothing was changing her tone at all and we really started to get terrified that there was something wrong. We called all the necessary doctors, who told us we might need to go to the ER if we couldn’t find out what was wrong. And then, after about 45 minutes of incessant screaming, she was done.

Suddenly, abruptly, she was chatty and smiling and playful, running around and giggling. We put her down an hour later, relieved and optimistic that she’d beaten whatever had been troubling her.

At 10:50 we heard her screaming again. This time it was the same thing. She screamed intensely for 45 minutes and we were literally picking up my car keys and walking out the door to go to the ER when she stopped. We can’t figure out if it was massive waves of gas or something completely unconsidered. Maybe she’s just so exhausted from the last week of traveling she’s lost most of her immunities, maybe the negativity we’ve been dealing with has worn on her… whatever the case, we were terrified to say the least.

She woke up two more times during the night screaming but I was able to get her to settle down and go back to sleep within minutes, probably because she was so exhausted.

She woke up at 7:30 this morning as usual and has been runny-nosed and a little fussy but okay for the most part. To be honest, I have no idea what to expect or what I’m dealing with here.

I promised I’d finish this scrapbook, so I’m finally doing so.

Behold, the foyer and Chloe’s room:

I thought I’d include the foyer because I really like the cool faux-stain glass film thing Greg applied to the window alongside our front door:

And the totally awesome milagro sacred heart that my dear friend sent to me from the oldest street in Los Angeles. (It’s actually a mirror in the center but, when reflecting the opposing wall, it looks like it’s red. Cooool!)

And this is the Bear’s room. I’d explain where all the gifts came from but literally everything you’re looking at is a gift of some sort. The crib, the curtains, the shelves, the rocking chair, the changing table, the artwork. Again, literally everything. There is NO WAY we could’ve afforded a baby (let alone such a nice nursery) without the generosity of those around us. We’re unbelievably blessed… stop me if you’ve heard that one.

Another friend made this wall art out of “Ghetto Slang” flash cards she found at some novelty shop. I think they’re hilarious and quirky enough to fit our irreverent style:

My mom cranks out cross-stitchery and quilts like she’s getting paid for it:

And wouldn’t you know it - the pics of the International Gift Shelf and other stuffs are all blurry. ::sigh:: looks like I’m not totally done with this entry, either, but I think I’ve given enough of a general drift of the house.

Oh, and here’s a crappy picture of our back patio by night. See, by night you can’t see how gross the pond in the backyard really is. However, you also can’t see the swarms of mosquitos that limit outdoor meals to spring and fall. And yes, my mom not only bought and repainted the patio set, but she also made really chic/mod matching cushions, placemats, and napkins. We almost look like something out of a catalog. Almost.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is one of those posts that starts out all redundant and whiny but it has a totally reflective, positive ending. Promise. I’m still riding this whole revelations thing, apparently.

The daily frustrations and insecurities have been slinking back into my daily life. There are so many things I really want to do right now and the constant understimulation of observing of a small child all day have been starting to take a toll on me, my self-esteem, my sense of self-worth again. I start becoming convinced that I’m wasting my 20’s being counterproductive to society and not accomplishing any of the things I genuinely want to do, to start in my life right now. Additionally, all that momentum I was feeling a few weeks ago regarding my handful of major new projects has started dissipating as I’ve found myself unable to get anything completed with the lifestyle I have right now and I’m starting to feel confined and trapped within the restrictions of caring for an active toddler. This is something I’ve been told many mothers experience but that knowledge rarely makes me feel any better when I get these spells of self-pity. And nothing seems to quell the repeated frustration of having the wind taken out of my sails yet again.

Now, look, I’ve been through enough therapy and recovery to know what to do with myself during little typical-human rifts like this. Divert my attention to the things I’m grateful for. Make a game plan that accommodates my needs and still allows me to make progress on my goals. Don’t focus on the negative. Accept that this is normal new-mother behavior and ride the waves of life until this works itself out. Be patient as this, too, will pass and as the Bear grows older, she will become more independent and I will have the time to finish the projects I have planned for myself.
I got it.
I know.

But still, sitting in my therapist’s office, I felt like such a whiny fool for having this same problem that was affecting my mood and powerless as it’s something I have to just accept and live with at the moment. I feel powerless that I can’t provide for my family better, that outside forces have held us back from advancing in our careers and physical location, that even though I start every day with a handful of intentions, rarely are they all completed by the time I go to bed.

Then my therapist asked me something that caused me to immediately burst into tears:
“Is this the life you would have chosen for yourself?”

Obviously, this is a life I did choose for myself. I did have the option to not keep my child, I did have the option to not marry my husband, I did have the option to choose a path much much different than the one I’m on now. But I knew then and know now that these things really weren’t an option for me; my heart wanted to keep my child, my heart wanted to commit myself to my husband. These are choices that I’ve always been proud of and always been happy with. Even now when I’m struggling to find a sense of competence within them.

But when I found out I was pregnant, I was in a really transformative stage. After years of being crippled by depression, addiction, shitty self-esteem and the ensuing lifestyle choices that inevitably follow these sort of criteria, I was finally emerging on my own. I was finally happy being romantically single, I was finally getting out and getting involved within my community, exploring new facets of myself and enjoying things that I really loved doing. I had this great momentum I wanted to ride into my postgraduate years, taking the inner independence I was uncovering and seeing the world, attending graduate school, finally getting out from under my parents’ watchful eye and trying this whole adult lifestyle thing again. These were things I was actively working toward around April 2007 and things I was finding more excitement for than anything else I’d been a part of in many many years. I was high on the relief and joy of finally stepping into my own.

I love my life now. I love my husband and my home and my daughter and I honestly would not give them up for anything in this world. I wouldn’t even take a time machine and delay their arrival if I had the choice. I mean that. I’ve not spent a moment in the last two years resenting or regretting anything about my choices and there’s liberation in that. True, I’m not living where I want to and I’m not able to make the forward movement in my career and education that I want to, but aside from that, I live in a tiny paradise. And I’m thankful that I get to look forward to the rest of my life with these two in tow.

However, my therapist brought to attention that maybe I hadn’t taken the time to think about the loss of hope and optimism I had just before everything changed. I had been banking on a new change, a new start and, while I certainly got one, it might not have been the one I would’ve chosen for myself at the time if given the choice. In fact, if I’m going to be completely honest, it definitely isn’t what I would’ve chosen at the time.

Shit, that’s hard to say out loud. Especially to someone else. (Not that I talk to myself… or… or anything ::sheepish laugh:: I mean, I’m not crazy… heh.. anyway.) Even though I’m delighted with how everything in my immediate life has turned out and who I am as a result of choosing it all, I hate that apparent admission that it wasn’t my first choice when it all started. At the time I didn’t hesitate to fling myself into the joy associated with bringing a new life into the world and starting on a whole new journey. I really didn’t take the time for reconsideration or even questioning this new lifestyle; I was scared and uncertain, sure, but I think I was so excited about having found love and the unexpected surprise of a daughter and so eager to hurl myself into change and forward-motion that I didn’t pause to reflect on the diversion my life was taking. Maybe I was so desperate for change that I rode the high of having it handed to me a little blindly. Not that I regret that when I think about it; wasting time questioning myself would’ve only added to my stress during all of the moving-in-together, and preparing-for-baby and all that. Maybe it was a mental defense mechanism…

But when my doctor asked me that one question, I found myself in tears I absolutely wasn’t anticipating and didn’t even know were part of the equation. Admittedly, it was a bit of a luxury to cry over the loss of a self-indulgent, egocentric lifestyle I’d planned for myself (a sad stereotype of being an early-millenium twenty-something it seems.) and I’m trying not to waste time on guilt with that, but apparently it was something that needed to come out, this whole act of taking a little bit of time to recognize and mourn the loss of a projected path, an ideal lifestyle I’d crafted for myself.

Naturally, this doesn’t mean that all hope is lost for my life’s potential or anything ridiculous. I’ll continue to have the same ultimate goals for my life that I’ve always had and I’ll continue to plug away and try to make those a reality, although they may take more time to accomplish than I’d like. (Damn you, Universe, for your tireless lessons on patience!! ::shakes fist::) Inevitably, on any path I would’ve encountered obstacles that would’ve hindered my enthusiasm and progress, so it’s not like this one is any worse or outstanding than the others.

But it kind of felt good to recognize that, while they were totally selfish and self-serving, I did lose something I badly desired for myself and I am allowed to feel pain for the sacrifices I made to have the life I do now. I don’t know why feeling these things required permission from an outside observer; maybe the guilt of seeming ungrateful or hurting someone’s feelings was too much for me to admit this revelation to myself no matter how bad it was eating away at my subconscious. Whatever the case, it was freeing in a way and really started putting my doubt and frustrations in a perspective based on my personal circumstances, even if that’s more than a bit of an indulgence. If nothing else, this whole realization and chance to grieve has served as a sufficient pressing of the “Reset” button on my mentality as to how I’m living right now and the pressure I put on myself to adhere to the same rules and regulations I had before being a parent was my defining job title. It shifts the whole frame of reference to something completely different and there’s a good deal of liberation in that.

And maybe I’m finally starting to emerge from criticizing myself so oppressively based on the standards I assume must apply to everyone and maybe even starting to accept that everyone has their own set of actions that define their “personal best.” Maybe there’s something to that 4th Agreement that I’ve been raving about for a couple years now…

Christ, it takes me a long-ass time to “get” things. My therapist must really be enjoying my [literally] retarded breakthrough process, if only financially.

Also, please go easy on grading the coloring and brightness; I don’t have Photoshop on my new compy just yet so I had to make do with Photo Editor. Not great, but it works.

Also also, please keep in mind that before we moved in there were only bare, white walls and hideous, brass fixtures everywhere. Ergh. It felt nice to put a lot of work into making it a home that was personalized, even if we don’t own it.

We’ll start with the kitchen. It’s laid out weirdly but it’s easily four times larger than the one at the apartment we had before this, so I’m not complaining. There’s a lot you can’t see from the angle this is taken, but the spaces on the walls are decorated with vintage manifesto pubblictario, (better known as artsy painted Italian alcohol ads from the early 20th century that I adore) which I got for $1 each at Target about 5 years ago. Score! (There will be a lot of mention of bargains in this entry because I do like to brag about a good deal. If you’re a female, you may understand this, assuming you’ve ever lived outside of your parents’ house in your undergrad years.) You may notice the paint job in the breakfast nook that extends all the way into the dining area. This was a two-color job that my husband and my best friend did together using a rag to create a rough, Tuscan-stucco-wall effect. I LOVE IT.

Another shot of the breakfast nook. Please note up front that almost all the furniture in the house is on loan from my sister and mother, Greg’s parents, or was bought for us as gifts. This table and the chairs were part of a set that my sister had in her apartment in Charleston and is no longer using at the moment. Luckily, we had a place to store it for her and it matches the room like a dream. Also, the Mac wasn’t a purchase but a freebie that someone at Greg’s office just didn’t want anymore. I only use it for surfing the Net, but it’s great to have in here so I can keep an eye on the Bear without her getting into everything in the office while I answer emails.

And here is our lovely dining area. Okay, you probably noticed that the chairs don’t match the table and there’s a perfectly good reason for this. We bought this table with matching chairs at a place called The Junk Barn for $120 total. It was exactly what we needed but had this gross Golden-Girls-Miami-retiree-in-the-80’s finish on it (read: light light beige.) so Greg refinished it with this beautiful mahogany coat, which he’s currently doing with the matching chairs. This is something I’m very very proud of. Also, he installed the totally rad bar lighting suspended over the table, installed a dimmer switch to add to the ambience, and hung the floating shelf on the wall behind the table. All without me asking. This is not the only reason I love him, but it certainly helps. On an unrelated note, the spoons and salt shakers you can baaarely make out on the floating shelf were handmade gifts from my sister’s time in South Africa, although I think she got them in Namibia. (I think the shakers might be made of ivory but, knowing my undying allegiance to the pachyderm species, she opted not to disclose this information and I try not to think about it. Too often.)

Into the living room where we took a risk (and freaked out our landlord) by creating a giant accent wall, which we adore. Somehow, it makes the room seem like it’s in a different space entirely, disconnected from the dining room, even though they’re all in the same 40 ft. The couch was a gift from his parents, the entertainment center and ottoman are all from Target wedding gift cards and the little toy chest/bench was Greg’s when he was little. The art sitting on the DVD/CD shelves was done for me by my best friend many years ago when I was going through the darkest part of addiction, depression, and the beginning of recovery. I hope to have it framed one day but I’m saving up so I can get a bang-up job of it as it’ll best be served in a shadowbox. The giant poster on the white wall next to the couch is a real calendar of events for the Plaza del Toros in Valencia, Spain that Greg got after watching a bullfight while studying abroad. We splurged to have it framed but I thought it was well worth it being that we plan to keep it foreverandever. The floor lamp was one that I got from Wal-Mart my freshman year at college for $10 and looked like crap until Greg spray painted it with a textured finish that makes it look at least 5 times the price. Whee!

THIS IS MY NEW DESK!! (Again, please note that this, too, was a freebie inherited from Greg’s workplace.) Amazing, I’ve only had it a week and it’s already loaded with assorted paper-based crap that somehow spills out onto the kitchen table most of the time. Oh, and naturally, this is the rest of the office where we’ve crammed in a treadmill, a keyboard (I’m teaching Greg to play as an ongoing Christmas present,) an oversized beanbag chair, a bookshelf full of car models, racing trophies, software texbooks and ‘Alien’ action figures, a small chest of drawers, and a little workspace for Greg. (Being a graphic artist apparently doesn’t require so much bulk or need for storage in the workplace.) This is not to mention the cameras, cords, artwork, and other misc crap piled into the closet. Junk; we has it. Also, if you can see them, the pics on the wall are my favorites from my time in Australia. They’re perfect.

Guest bathroom. All the towels and the shower curtain are products of my mom’s end-of-the-semester dorm Dumpster diving, as are most of the towels in my house (Cleaned and used for utilitarian purposes only! We have nice linens for guests and ourselves! Just not for the cat or the car…)

And thiiiis is my little slice of heaven: The Master Bedroom (with live, sleeping Greg!) We just went for the color and have not regretted it for a second. I love the bay windows, I love the French doors going into the bathroom, I love the walk-in closet, I love the massive bathtub, I love the dual sinks, I love the little potty nook, I love the extra linen closet in the bathroom, I love everyeveryeverything about this room.

Little Altar

We went with a weird Pacifica theme that incorporates stuff from our Hawaiian wedding vacation (not really a honeymoon, except for the last three days, I guess) and some Asian touches that we just had lying around. The headboard was a $20 one my mom got from a Habitat for Humanity resale store and had refinished as a birthday present for me and the square lamp next to the hanging shelf was a product of her Dumpster diving as well (I think it’s RAD.) The suitcase is one we purchased on our honeymoon at this tiny old plantation house in Kauai that was renovated into the coolest antiques shop I’ve ever been in. It’s from the mid-1900’s and is covered with authentic, old college and travel stickers, some from transportation companies that haven’t existed in decades. The lei draped across it was handmade and given to Greg by our landlord/host when we first arrived at the bungalow in Kapa’a. Also, I spent a lot of time on the island trying to find an authentic original hula girl figurine that wasn’t $75+. On her last day there, the host’s visiting friend left one in our little apartment as a farewell/wedding gift.

I’m unable to get pics of the Bear’s room at the moment but I promise that’s up next as I love it, as well.

WHEW! If you’ve gotten this far, thank you so much for letting me be self-indulgent and a bit obnoxious in my boasting. I’ve never had a house before and I don’t get to show it off that much to other people, so it’s nice to get to play tour guide, if only through electronic devices. I love that Greg and I were able to collaborate on ideas and come up with decorations and design that we both love and are proud of. Even moreso, I’m so grateful and glowingly happy to have a home filled with love and (albeit superficial) tangible gifts to remind us that we are loved and remembered. I know it’s just a little neo-ranch house and it’s not anything unique or upscale or even bordering on the gauche style of the nouveau riche, but to me it’s an absolute palace that I wouldn’t mind occupying for many many years. In fact, I hope the next home we live in can compare to this one or I may spend a lot of time missing it. Anyway, I’m enjoying the freedom of one’s own space and the chance to express ourselves within it.

There’s a lot of fending off Fear in parenting, I’ve found. There’s the fear that they’re going to get sick or very very sick and there’s nothing you can do about it. There’s the fear that they’re going to hurt themselves beyond repair. There’s the fear that they’re going to leave too many stains on the rug of your rental house to get the deposit back…

But, strangely, the biggest fear I’ve dealt with recently is the horror of trying to find a playgroup to join. It’s far past time for Chloe to start socializing and every time she’s been around other kids, I’ve been so proud of her. She’s gentle and generous, she always gives toys to others instead of being That Brat who snatches them away, and she’s always giggling and friendly without invading anyone’s personal space. It’s been great and I’m the idiot beaming with pride and gushing about it later to anyone who will listen. (Like you, dear reader.)

So what’s all the noise about? I don’t know, I’m usually a pretty sociable person, but this whole socializing thing freaks me out on a couple levels.

 1) Leaving my daughter in a Mother’s Morning Out program for three hours with a bunch of strangers makes my heart hurt a little. What if she gets scared? What if she gets ignored? What if some stupid little brat hits her and she just wants her mommy to hold her for a second and let her know it’s okay? Even now when I think about it, my eyes are welling up with tears like I’m some sort of codependent mother with nothing else going on in her world but her baby… But maybe that’s who I am these days… Anyway, identity crisis aside, I’m just nervous and I’m sure I’ll spend the first few MMO’s sitting outside the building watching through the window the whole time like some creepy mommy-stalker.

2) Every group of moms I’ve come across have been a little too Stepford-Wife-y for my taste. (I’m sorry but I’m just not going to wear a sweater set and pearls to a playdate on a playground and I’m definitely not going to fork out $50 at Baby Gap so my kid can ruin it in 10 minutes, just so she doesn’t look like a vagrant in comparison to the other kids.) All superficiality aside, however, I’ve noticed that a lot of women go to two extremes.

First, there are the moms who have dropped everysinglething in their life to devote all their time and energy to their children. Now, while I respect this a lot and hope to do a little of that myself (selflessness is something I aspire to daily), I find it’s hard to build a real connection with these types of moms because they seem so insipid and devoid of any real personality at all. Plus, there’s the absurd parenting notions I’ve run across and the whole judgment thing when I disagree with a method someone else is trying to push on me. Ugh…

Then there is the other end of the spectrum with the moms who treat their kids like accessories. This is incredibly judgmental of me but I think I have a valid reason so just hear me out. These are the parents I hate most of all. It’s one thing to have to work and not be around your children every second of the day, but those parents who don’t have to work and leave their kids with a nanny all day every day just so they can go get their nails done or meet up with friends every day for lunch make me sick. (I do know some of these.) And then there are those parents who work all the time but, instead of spending their off time with the kids, they’re going out every night or having other adults without kids over for dinner to flaunt their progeny like little trophies of accomplishment. The REASON I can’t stand these parents is because I’ve found that, when I talk to them, they kind of look down on my lifestyle of, y’know, getting to know my child on a personal level and being an active part of her early growth and development. They act like this is a foolish or unimportant way to spend my life and I often walk away feeling like I should be ashamed because I don’t put all my energy into my career or having a social life or other upward mobility. (Which I’m not. At all.) It’s more than a bit defeating to be around that sort of eliticism and those undertones of negativity. I don’t want to be around people who act like it’s the norm to treat other humans like side projects or hobbies and expect me to do the same.

So yeah, I have a couple concerns and reasons for trepidation but I know that if I want a kid with personality and the ability to stand her ground, I’m in for a lifetime of exposing her to all the assholes and bitches of the world and I’m just going to have to learn how to deal with their parents as well.

I’m not totally pessimistic though. I have a lot of friends who are really good parents, who have real personalities and are proud of their family-oriented lifestyle. However, most of these friends live too far for regular get-togethers or their kids are not of the age where they would enjoy being around a 17-month old. So, except for the occasional visit, I’m back at square one where flinging myself into what feels like the deep end [but is really the kiddie pool] is an imperative step to take. Soon.

And next I get to worry about her starting playschool in the fall. Jesus, I’m going to have to start asking for Xanax…