2/23

It's not that I don't want to write in my blog....it's that I'm finding a hard time carving out a chunk of time to write that doesn't involve strategically moving my computer screen so my boss can't see it or juggling a baby that thinks pulling my hair out from the root and putting his ENTIRE mouth on the side of the head is the funnest thing EVER.

It was so much easier when I closed my office door twice a day and twenty minutes of private time. My ability to pump and type only made it that much sweeter for me (and tended to lead to more interesting blog entries). Now, I'm stuck.

Let me do a quick update, Aunt Jen style:

1) Zac is finally better. He lost 10 oz from the whole illness, but no hearing loss. I, however, am thrilled that I'm no longer being vomitted on.

2) Trainer said that he wasn't interested in me. I said that I had invited him to Mardi Gras (in Galveston, TX - I didn't end up going) as a friend, not as a date. He said that maybe we could be friends, then. I told him that we shouldn't push it.

3) Went out on a casual date last night. The guy was such a shmuck that mid-way through a story that he was telling to me and his brother, he stops to stare at a woman walking by. He turns to his brother and says, "Oh, yeah. I'll be seeing her this Saturday," and then they high-five. By the time that he turns back to me, he's forgotten where he was in the story and I have to remind him to finish. I cut my losses half way through the night and started talking to a woman that goes to a church that I'm interested in checking out.

4) Spending most of my time thinking or researching apartments for Zac and I. I've given up my dream of home ownership after finding out that to qualify for down payment assistance you have to agree to live in the house for five years. Five years sounds like a prison sentence to me. So scared and excited about independence that my stomach gets upset whenever I think about it, which I do quite a lot.

2/15

My body has a cruel sense of irony. The day after one of the biggest day of love, flirtation, sexy lingerie, and a day where everyone that could made love with someone special (if not special than at least someone available) did so is the day, where I laid in bed, alone. At 2:30am Zac woke up, took a full bottle and my cat jumped up on my bed. Honey has a love of a particular blanket that sits on the end of my bed. He loves it so much that he starts humping it (I might add that he was neutered almost eighteen months ago and now, instead of humping items all the time, he only humps in front of me - at least, I think so - I mean, I really, really hope so). I was laying there between my raspy son, praying that he wouldn't wake up and vomit on me, and my cat that was getting off on a blanket and just thought, "Happy Valentines Day to me".

That is the day that my body decided to signal that it was ready to have children. It's actually sobering to think that I'm fertile and my uterus could produce another child if I ever got within ten feet of a million or so sperm.

I haven't had my period since early October 2004, right after M's wedding. If emotional baggage could be stored in uterine lining, I would have quite a bit. At least it's finally coming out and I have a prayer that the cramps that have been plaguing me for the last month will finally end.

This might explain two things: 1)my extreme cravings for chocolate and sex and 2) the depressing blog entries lately.

2/13

I guess it is a bad sign when only four people look at your blog in two days. I guess that is a hint that I should update more often. Unfortunately, I've been sick. Zac has been sick. We've been sick together. There is nothing worse than being sick with your progeny except for maybe crawling into a cold, damp cave where no one can come and save you.

Last week, just as my throat was closing up, we noticed that Zac was crying when we held him, and then cry even more when we put him down. Certainly, a clear sign of an ear infection. By the time we got him to the doctor's, he had two ear infections (one in each year) and a raspy, chest cold. The doctor put him on antibiotics and a decongestant, and pronounced him, if not cured, than at least good to go.

Three days later, I've completely given up my diet for chili cheese nachos, cookies, and anything that might be vaguely labeled "comfort food". As Grandma was giving Zac his antibiotic this morning, he exploded all over their bed in an eruption of chalky, white liquid and stomach bile. Scary enough to do, but even scarier when your own vomit hits you head and clogs up your nose. He started crying like no one's business. Grandma cleans him up and takes him to daycare. At 12pm I get a call from the daycare provider, saying: "Zac has had five bowel movements. Just wanted to let you know." Well, that reminded me of the good ol' days at Kindercare where they would call me every couple of hours, to update me on my son's intestinal fortitude. Two hours later I get another call. "Zac just had two more bowel movements and no wet diapers. He's all red in the face. You need to come pick him up."

I jumped out on the freeway and made it to her house in record time. Cherry cheeked and playing on the floor. I got him home and into the Baby Bjorn (also known as the only way to stop him from crying when he's sick). He leaned over the side of the Bjorn and threw up. Whole, stomach heaving, crying, Pedialyte-laden vomit. He fell asleep, only to wake up an hour later, take some more Pedialyte and throw up in my arms. All over me, himself, the blankets, and then shat. Called the doctor again. She said that I needed to give him 1 tsp of Pedialyte every two minutes, whether he liked it or not. Let's just say that he didn't like it.

I heard him poop again (what number was that today? nine?) and I layed him on the floor to change him. Apparently he wasn't done yet (this is for you P!!!). A stream of greeninsh, brown shit shot out of my son's ass and hit my leg, followed by two secondary, smaller streams of liquid poop. I started screaming. I just couldn't help myself. My Dad, already concerned about Zac's health, started getting concerned and yelled, "What's wrong? Is Zac ok? Why are you screaming?" People, I just kept screaming. There really is no appropriate response to being forcefully pooped on, even by someone you love. Finally, I managed to gasp: "He just....pooped....on....me". I changed his diaper, then changed myself, shuddering. That's twice for the vomit and once for the poop during the course of three hours. Mother-of-the-year Award, here I come.

2/06

I knew this point would come, eventually. This is the point where I have to decide whether or not to share with the world (OK- actually only fifteen people that know me) the details of my not-so-romantic life. I figure that since I've already blogged about how many centimeters my cervix dialated to during labor and what it feels like to have my breasts so engorged with milk that I want to cry, that there really isn't any reason to hold back now.

Additionally, I have a kid, so it's not like anyone should be really shocked that I want to have sex. I'm a sexual being, yet that declaration is difficult knowing that my relatives read this blog. It's a bit awkward to say: "You know, I would consider paying someone to go down on me," (not necessarily the truth and if it was the truth I wouldn't admit to it) while knowing that I might have to sit across from the person reading this blog at Thanksgiving some time in the future.

However, I'm emboldened by one of my favorite writers, David Sedaris, and one of my favorite TV shows, "Sex in the City". If you have any problem with me discussing the more lurid parts of my life, I suggest that you stop reading now.

Now for all of you that are wondering what the hell I got myself into recently that would prompt this disclaimer, don't worry, the juicy details will follow.

So, I went out this weekend with my friend Tracy, who is a single-Mom that lives in my neighborhood (Ali: I will e-mail me as soon as I can. Thank you for introducing yourself). We started off at a sports bar that really had nothing going on and we quickly moved to S*, a local chain bar that boasts really loud bands and a wide cross-section of clientele. Tracy and I laugh because everytime we go out in our little part of south Houston, we end up only meeting men that work at Jiffy Lube or the Ford Dealership off Gulf Freeway. I'm not sure why only men in the car industry go to bars around me, but apparently they do and yes, I actually did get the opportunity to tell one enterprising young man, "No, I don't need my oil changed tonight, thank you."

While at S* we met a guy, guy's brother, and guy's brother's girlfriend (follow all of that?) The guy was interested in getting to know me and he was attractive and friendly, two very good qualities for a bar hook-up (Did I mention that I'm not looking for a bar hookup or a one-night stand? This makes, "going to a bar and meeting someone" slightly more difficult) Tracy and I told him that we both have sons, only three weeks apart. People tend to be very confused when Tracy and I start talking. You see, Tracy and I met on the internet while we were pregnant. For some reason, whenever we confess this point to strangers, they assume that we are a hot lesbian couple with two kids and a need for penile intervention. You can see eyes just light up as we start talking, only to diminish with excitement as we explain that if we were a hot, lesbian couple, we wouldn't need male sexual partner and we would most likely be at home, with our kids.

Nevertheless, the guy in question told us that he had two five year-old daughters. Tracy and I looked at each other, the wheels spinning in our heads. "Are they twins?" I asked. He said no. I start to try and imagine a scenario where a woman could get pregnant and give birth twice in the same calendar year, hence both children being the same age for a brief period of time. More wheel spinning. "Exactly what would it take to get two women pregnant at the same time?" I start to wonder. Turns out his incredibly fertile swimmers got two women pregnant six months apart and he now pays almost 70% of his pay check for child support.

Ahh..more stories to come. This one must end short.

2/3

*Note to readers - All comments that use my first name will be removed from public viewing. If you know me outside of this blog, please e-mail me if you would like to make a more personal and confidential comment*

Well, as I was driving to work today, I felt like I was going to jump out of my skin. I wanted to keep driving until I got somewhere without traffic, where I could forget about the person I am, or the life that I'm leading. The only hard part about escaping is that once you are there, well, you turn around and there you are. All of your problems, insecurities, and fears follow you wherever you manage to be. I wouldn't mind being somewhere else, though. At least my neuroses could look at something other than the back of a SUV or yet another concrete road divided by a yellow line. I miss seeing trees and experiencing the thrill of looking forward to something other than crushing disappointment.

One of the comments that I had to remove from a previous entry mentioned my "confidence and strength from afar". My perceived confidence and inner strength has always masked my true fears about myself and my place in the world. I use it as a way to push people away and keep them from seeing how vulnerable I feel. I'm afraid of everything, but instead of letting my fear stop me from making the same mistakes over and over, I ignore it and keep jumping off the bridge, thinking this time, just maybe, I can actually fly.