happy birthday to me

My mother called me to sing Happy Birthday…it was lovely. Then, she made some comment about ‘mid-life’ something or other. Mid-life? I am only 35! Does that mean I only get to live to be 70? I have news for her—I plan on being around a lot longer than that…but, it did get me thinking. There are no guarantees in life. How do I know that I will even get to make it to 70? I don’t. I’d better get a move on here.
Note to self:
• Evaluate life
• Make a plan
• Execute plan
• Appreciate everyday

I am a desperate housewife.

I’ve been a busy little bee lately, packing a little bit everyday. I cleaned my house really well two weeks before my girl was born—partly because I wanted it to be spic and span when my newborn got here and partly because my mom was coming for a visit and I didn’t want her talking shit about me to the rest of the family.

Anywho, I guess I have really let the place go. There is a layer of dust covering my life—at least all of the crap I have managed to accumulate in my life. (Don’t get me started on my shit collection…you know how I get.) I guess I am more than a little embarrassed about it. Dude, how will I ever achieve Bree Van de Camp status if I don’t get a handle on things?

Oh, but I am a new mom and I was so busy with this little person. She only sleeps about 18 hours a day now, where was I supposed to find the time? I had to nap, spend time on my baby boards and my t.v. shows won’t watch themselves you know.

Gaaahh…I am a loser.

What I need is a schedule. I think some structure will do me good. I have been checking out the Flylady.com and I think she’s on to something. I’m not saying I’m going to get all fanatical Flybaby on you, but I do see the value in a routine. Of course, I have said and thought all this before and it lasted a few weeks…then I petered out.

The story of my life.

A new house, a new start. The slate is clean and the house will start out that way. I am almost doubling living and storage space— there is seriously NOOOOOO reason I should revert back to dusty-cluttery-pig-person. I want to have the kind of house where I wouldn’t be mortified if someone stopped by unexpectedly. That’s reasonable, right?

So, it’s on now. I am on a quest to make housework my bitch.

Moving on

I am trying a new approach here—a little CBT. When I have a dark thought or get some anxiety, I go to my girl and I pick her up—she smiles at me. If she is sleeping, I just look at her beautiful little body, trying hard not to overlook even the smallest detail. Almost immediately, she soothes me. I feel calm. I am supposed to be the one taking care of her and yet somehow this tiny person takes care of me without even knowing it. She distracts me and the darkness wanes. I told you she kicks ass.

So, we’re moving in a few weeks. I hate moving, but this one will rock. At least, the end result will rock. Going from a 2br/2ba apartment to a 3br/2.5ba house with 2 car garage and large fenced in yard. It’s so sweet. The sweetest part? It’s almost the same price as we pay now. Yay.

There is something so therapeutic about moving. It forces me to go through all of my shit. I have a lot of shit. It used to be worse. A person like me should have to move every five years if only to keep a handle on my collection of shit. It can get unruly if let go too long.

No garage sale for this move—there is no time and no garage (yet). You never want to have a garage sale at your new location because you don’t want your neighbors thinking—“Who the hell is this pig-person that just moved in next to me?? Why would anyone keep this SHIT?” No, it is only acceptable for the neighbors that you are leaving to see your monstrous shit collection. The ones that like you will think it is funny and try to scam from your yard-sale-shit pile, “Hey, you should let me have that…” The neighbors you don’t like? Fuck them—you’ll probably never see them again anyway.

God bless her, she’s stuck with me

I am new to the mommy thing…a total amateur. Almost daily I remind my daughter that she has drawn the short straw here, but she’ll have to make the best of it. I, however, have won the baby lottery. Of course I am biased, but she really kicks ass as babies go. She’s totally freakin cute, happy 99% of the time and she loves to sleep as much as I do.

So far, I have no complaints. She has declined to comment.

Lately, I find myself ruminating about things. What kind? Morbid, sad, terrible things. I don’t watch the news because I can’t handle it. I purposely take the ostrich approach here. But damn if those fuckers didn’t get me with a commercial. “Tonight at 11, a woman leaves her two year old in her car as she worked for eight hours…blah, blah” That’s it– I can’t un-hear it…the image in my head. The hot car, tear-stained red cheeks, little curls stuck to her sweaty face. How long did she cry? Then I cry. I cry now. Why? If one more person says “everything happens for a reason”– I swear my head might explode.

I look at my girl. She is sleeping. Will I ever leave her in a car? Will I drop her? Will I pick the wrong babysitter and come home to a dead or shaken baby? Will someone abduct her? Will I ever stop worrying about these things?

So what else can I do– I pray. I pray to the same God that let these things happen. It’s all I have. I pray that no harm ever comes to my girl– that’s a reasonable request, right? So much pain in the world, he could let this one sweet little baby go unscathed, right? I pray for those other babies too. I pray for the ones who aren’t so lucky.

For them, I mostly pray that it didn’t hurt.

this was a bust..

About to do my first blog…my big moment….but my girl needs her bunny milk…