Home is where I have a house.

It’s probably been true for some time now, but I don’t think I can call myself a “blogger” anymore. The word implies that the writer blogs on a somewhat regular basis, and I have clearly fallen down on that job if that is what I was supposed to have been doing.

Life has become a full-time job, and I guess it’s time to accept that the women at which I used to scoff, the ones in magazine articles who complained about being stretched too thin, were on to something. Children simply eradicate free time, and in my case they also seem to have eradicated any free brain cells. I have no idea how some women manage to maintain especially intellectual pursuits in their children’s early years, because it turns out I just don’t have it in me. I’ve beat myself up about it for some time now, but I think I am starting to make a temporary peace with it.

And then there’s that other job, the “real” one, the one that pays for food and health insurance and a roof and all that; the one I have been turning up to most days for the last eight years. Well… there’s been a little turmoil here in Corporateland and I’m thinking that to maximize my chances of not ending up on the corner of 6th and Colorado with a sign asking for help and/or informing drivers that Hillary Clinton has a chip in her head, I might want to keep potential excuses to lay me off at a minimum.

And you can bet I don’t go anywhere without my southern accent these days.

A bad habit.

I don't know what's wrong with me, but I've stumbled into this weird and probably unhealthy fascination with "babyloss" blogs - blogs by parents who have lost a child during the late part of pregnancy, or at birth or very soon thereafter. I read them and I tear up and I feel so awful for these moms, mostly, who have lost so much. Their grief is all-encompassing, and it feels like a stone is pressing down on my lungs reading their words. I would like to get back out of this phase of strange voyeurism that I am not sure why I am in. It's not as if I have so much time on my hands that I need to fill it with stories like these.

Maybe it has to do with the way since having children of my own, I feel everything "sad" about the experience of children so much more intensely - whether it's the sadness of the way a certain child lives or an experience he or she has, or now the pain parents can feel from the vulnerability of loving their children. I have to remind myself sometimes that lots of people live long, full lives, including most people in my family. Not everyone has this sort of catastrophic loss.

Having children is all about extreme emotion, it seems. I can watch my children play or in the process of discovering something and my heart feels like it will burst with pride, or love, or plain old bliss, then I'll be wracked with fear that it could all just disappear. Everything was much easier when my only concern was making sure there was enough room on my credit card for my next London shopping trip.

May I ask...

There is a program on the local NPR station called “Colorado Matters.” Sometimes there are interesting topics on the show, but often they are beyond mundane and blow away a bit of the pixie dust I mentally sprinkle on my life in Colorado. For example, a day or two ago, when I turned on the car the host was discussing something about the smell of rancid potatoes with his esteemed guest. I only half-listened, as the topic was something less than scintillating, until I heard the host ask, tentatively:

“May I ask… what kind of potatoes were these?”

It was so bad I had to actually repeat it back into the empty car using his same, breathless tone. Like he was asking her to reveal a deep, heartfelt secret.

Anyway.

I am so frigging relieved that spring is here, even if my allergies are on overdrive. I don’t have any kind off soft spot in my heart for winter, despite the skiing and snowshoeing and apple-pink cheeks. In fact, since I don’t ski, and snowshoeing makes me sweat and grunt and generally get irritated, those are good enough reasons in themselves not to like winter. I will make such a good old person in Florida when the time comes. But the last couple of days here have been lovely, if more than a little windy. I made the mistake yesterday of venturing out in a wrap dress, only to have to walk down the street with one hand clutching my skirt and the other grabbing to keep my hair from whipping across my eyeballs. I am starting to understand why women of a certain age, i.e., mine, start to just say fuck it and dress for comfort. Pants, flats, and early onset general frowsiness.

Things to look forward to:

1. Night booked at local charming hotel for frolicking; fun laced with pressure of not having had night alone in 2 years.

2. Two week trip to the south in June, culminating in week at beach and sister-in-law’s wedding in Hilton Head. Downsides are that all of R., Eeyore and I are in the wedding – Eeyore in a tiny tuxedo. I know some people think that is cute, and I’m sure my baby will look as cute as humanly possible, BUT I think it sounds like a total nightmare. A hot summer night at the beach and a 2-year old in a tux? I don’t think this even needs any explaining on my part.

3. Commencement of work on our house? Who knows. The idea is that we will have our permit and financing and start work the beginning of July, but since I said that about this time last summer I am not holding my breath. If it does happen, however, I’ll have plenty to talk about!

Zzzz.

I look so tired today. I am so tired today. I’m so tired every day.
















When is this nonsense with babies not sleeping through the night going to end? I look like shit and I swear it’s keeping me from losing all the baby weight. Well, that and the anti-depressants. Jesus Christ, I have to laugh. What HAPPENED to me!?

Lunch today didn’t make me feel any more human. I met R. and the kids at Pasquini’s, a pizza place near downtown. We ordered, then after too many ups and down to retrieve crayons, milk, straws, whatever, we took turns walking the baby around the restaurant. While R. was away from the table, Eeyore suddenly looked at me with that patented, strangely pained expression that made his next words to me unnecessary:

“I’m pooping.”

Of course you are!

The bathrooms at Pasquini’s were not meant to accommodate mothers, so I had the pleasure of changing Eeyore in the back of my SUV on a busy road. He’s old enough now that he doesn’t think it’s very cool to have his poopy ass hanging out for all to see, so hopefully this will push him even faster towards finishing up with the potty training.

No, there is nothing else going on, unless you count Sesame Street Live on Saturday. Eeyore has asked me several times if Big Bird and Ernie will be joining us for lunch.