I knew that I would, now.

So I've been feeling more optimistic, about life in general and about parenting in particular.

I can't say what has helped me turn from a hyperventilating food nazi with a penchant for hating my husband and my breast pump and even my daughter at the drop of a hat, to being...well, more me-like. Just last night, before dropping off to sleep, I thought of all the parenting mistakes Anonyhubby and I would make over the course of Anonybabe's life, and instead of feeling my usual mounting panic, I smiled and rolled over and went to sleep.

I think my parent's "mistakes" were probably the best thing that could have happened to me. They let a little air in & allowed me to learn who I was and what I wanted out of life. I'm not ready to stick a beer in Anonybabe's hand and send her down to the lake to go camping with the boys on spring break, ("not 'til you're 12, hon"). But I am ready to relax into the reality that I don't know what the hell I'm doing, and that it'll probably turn out okay anyway. In fact, if I take a deep breath and don't try to make everything perfect for my baby, things'll probably turn out a lot better for everybody involved.

My marriage might even survive this thing.

Since I'm dedicated to full disclosure, I'll admit here what I admitted to my husband on Friday: I recently ordered a whole book on how to play with your kid. It should feel sad to need to read something that is going to have to be intuited anyway, but the act of ordering it buoyed my mood immediately.

"Why, because now you'll have somebody telling you how to do it?" asked Anonyhubby, with a tone of barely suppressed derision.

"No, because I did what I know to do to try to move closer to my daughter and just the act of doing it made me relax. It made me believe I really can connect with her because I want to."

Anonyhub nodded his head and bunched out his lower lip in thought. "That makes sense."

So maybe ordering the equivalent of the Dummies Guide to Parenting was the tipping point. Whatever. I don't care what did it. I feel good.

Don't stop til you get enough

I did it! I turned in my first assignment for this writing program I'm taking.

Skip-a-dee-do-da, ya'll!

This is vaguely pertinent to the blog because I've wanted to pursue writing seriously since I was a little girl but didn't have the guts to put myself out there. Anonybabe was a big impetus to get my behind in gear because I really want her to follow her own dreams. I can lecture her about that until I'm blue in the face - and probably will - but actions speak louder than words. It is extremely easy to fall into the rut of doing what your parents did when you aren't really sure what actions to take next. I spent a lot of energy circa college being mad at my mom for shelving her dreams completely to raise 3 kids. Once I hit young womanhood I realized that a working model of what I could become other than a stay-at-home mommy would have been really helpful. I've since learned to be more forgiving, but I'd still like to show Anonybabe how to live for herself so she's happy and confident enough that others will enjoy her as well. Might as well leave her some positive ruts along with the bad ones, no?

More on the list of items I'll pursue in order to mash a rut of self-actualization into the dirt road of my daughter's future:

• Front a country and/or swing band


• Start a grrrrl band long enough to put together 10 horrendous & joy-filled songs


• Buy a piano


• Read books in the bathtub


• Swing dance/tango


• Take some sort of fly girl dance/exercise class: something like Jackson-size: recreating the video dance moves of Michael and Janet or Supadupafly: mimicking Missy Elliott videos


• Tap dance class


• Etc, etc.

It's easier to enjoy myself when I can do it in the name of my daughter. And it makes me so much more of a pleasant Anonymom and Anonywife.

I took Anonybabe out for a day of socializing this past weekend. I don't know how much she enjoyed it, but I sure did. And I enjoyed her a lot more than usual at the end of the day, because my tank was full.

So the formula seems to be: me, me me = I love you you you

The doggone girl is mine

For the first time in a long time, Anonyhub and I fought over who got to care for Anonybabe. She has some mystery illness: she has a mild fever and will occasionally squint and cry. Weird. Scary. Upsetting. In between squints and cries she is acting normal. But her fuse seemed short, and at one point she was almost asleep in my arms and when I moved her up on my chest she just started bawling. Anonyhub wanted to hold her; I wanted to hold her...then later I was given the bird for scooping her up before he could get to her.

I apologized later for bogarting the baby, which he thanked me for, but I wanted to take it back when he then got all victim-y and said that I always swoop in on his baby time, taking her away, etc.

Wah. Who's the baby here?

He'd been out with a buddy for burgers beforehand. I wonder if he got a beer? That might've brought out his inner whiney-puss.

Sexual healing

Birth is a sexual thing.





No shit, says you.





But it was in ways that I didn't anticipate at all.





After birth, waiting for my milk to come in, pumping away at my breast with that little hand-pump felt for all the world like a masturbatory endeavor. There was all the anxiety, shame, furtive quick hand motions.



There was just how yummy and luscious I felt during pregnancy and right after. My boobs were gorgeous, and I really enjoyed them; wearing low-cut shirts at every opportunity.



Something has dried up. Not only have I lost interest in sex, I'm generally covering up more. What's happening?

Poop-ku

You know what this blog really needs? Yes! That's just what I was thinking! Bad poetry!

I started killing some of the insipid time I spend pumping at work writing Haikus and limericks. I'm not even sure I know how to write haikus or limericks but that didn't stop me. Or even drive me to double-check my form before posting them.

Part of my inspiration must go to Haiku Mama: (because 17 syllables is all you ever have time to read). It had several haikus about poop, and the intro says that for every poop haiku that made the cut, there were about 100 more behind it, but the editor didn't want a poop-themed haiku book. Anybody that likes saying poop as much as I do is okay by my count.

But I digress. I wrote another couple today and it dawned on my that I should foist them onto the blog. Enjoy. Or not.

P.S. I tried to find a good picture of diaper oragmi to post with no luck, but I did find this.

P.S.S. I'm hoping this incites you to chime in with offerings of your own.

bagged eyes, red all through.
forgot your bright baby blues.
I'm sorry, sick girl

Sad eyes, lip aquiver
Why'd I have to yell at you?
Oh yes, nip biter

There is a young lass of ten months
Who cries so she'll get what she wants
Her momma cried too
When a bout of "fuck you"
Left her nose scratched and hurting in fronts

Do you hate me, munch?
Self-indulgent musings are
Par for the course, no?

Why, oh my pumpkin
did you prefer Dad last night?
Wheedling flirt kicked in

Desperate for love,
but desperate to cook, too.
Ignore you for beans.

There was a wee girl from Chicago
Whose poop was quite kaleidoscopal
She'd grunt and she'd heave
Red-faced, then she'd leave
A pile of some sad-smelling offal

Oh, my pants-a-france
Who says "fuck" to a baby?
This mama, that's who

Oh no you di-int, Mama!

So you know how I directed ya'll to Mamasource the other blog? I get a daily email from them with assorted example topics for the day, and I'm kind of hooked on it. Despite, or maybe because it is kind of like reading a daily gossip rag. I can't put my finger on it, but there is something really trashy and sordid about the thrill I get reading about these other mother's problems. Some of them are so mundane and some of them are just spectacular. And then of course I read and judge the mama's responses. And I weigh in on things I know absolutely nothing about.

Did I already post about my new year's resolution to become a better gossip? I think Mamasource is putting my on the fast track to achieve my goals.

Losing my Mojo

So I've been reading some really good blogs lately (just added links that should be to your right - I am doing the airline stewardess "Here, here, and here" motion) in part so as to avoid doing my homework for this writing class I started. Reading them has the added bonus of intimidating the hell out of me so that I think "I can't write; these people can write; what the hell am I thinking trying to submit stories for publication?" I'm effectively drumming up a big, unnecessary, and stupid drama in my head about whether or not I'm the best writer in the world, just to avoid doing a little homework.

Sigh.

My 11 month old is less childish than me, I swear.

When I can get my inflated ego in check, I'll let you know.

In the mean time, just checking in to let you know that I miss you, blogola.