Insatiable

As of late, I've been experiencing an unsatiable lust for blogging - from reading and writing to commenting and even discussing with blogger friends. Want proof? It's not even 6:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, when I usually linger in bed until at least 8:00 or 9:00!

I've recently read posts that not only drew commentary from me, but have stayed with me, haunting me with fears, reminding me of pains I'd forgotten, informed me of trials I've yet to experience. Some women's writing has stuck me as so bold and audacious that I could only wish to express myself as they do - stark and clear and no room for weenies OR misinterpretation.

And, inevitably, I begin to feel a bit of blog envy when I see sites with comments consistently in the double or triple digits. I wish them well, wonder how they did it, realize there's a VERY good reason why their sites have made it to the top of the barrel.

For so long (the years are getting hard to count exactly, but more than a decade's worth have expired) I have wanted to earn my "bread and butter" as a writer. For all that time I've managed to forestall my own success by doing one simple thing: NOT writing. My husband has chided me gently (and sometimes stringently), my parents have nudged and supported me, and my dear, dear friends have always encouraged me.

So here I am, feeling great that I've written more posts in the past six days than in the past six weeks, wondering who my audience is (partly because I've forgotten the password to check my statistics), and hoping that I can find the magical key to keep myself relevant in this ever expanding and contracting blogiverse.

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P.S. Thank the Heavens for Autosave - I thought at one point when I was adding the links that I'd locked the browser up and was going to lose this post. I recalled that Autosave was one the job, took a deep breath, and patiently waited to see whether the page I was trying to load was just taking longer than the expected 2.5 seconds. (So impatient am I before sunrise.) It took just under thirty mind-exploding seconds and finally "DONE" appeared. Phew!

Pregger Dreams

My dreams have always been fairly vivid. I recall a few recurring dreams from childhood that seem to gain new layers of meaning with each year that passes. It's also fairly well established that the fabric of women's dreaming changes while they are pregnant (a quick Google of preganancy dreams yielded over four million forty thousand hits).

So it's not surprising, especially given my experience with the Noodle Dude, that I would have a dream about the new baby not wanting to nurse. Well, it was more than just that, actually. I basically "awoke" (within my dream) to find that my child had been born, I had no recollection of the event, and somehow had NOT needed another C-section (as I had with Noodle, for breech positioning). That's startling enough, but then to be handed my infant, who was at least a few weeks old if not older and who began to suckle hungrily, but became almost immediately uninterested was very unnerving.

As a really weird component, the child was distinctly (and beautifully) mulatto. Though I've never dated anyone other than Caucasian men (for no particular reason) and am married to a Caucasian man, I've always thought that mulatto babies were the most beautiful I've ever seen and wanted one that shared my genes. Especially a boy. I couldn't determine in my dream whether my baby was a boy or a girl (I didn't defrock them), but I think it was a girl.

Since it was the first pregnancy dream this go 'round of which I have more than a vague recollection, I figured I might as well document it. The baby won't be mulatto (unless aliens have swapped out the DNA) and we don't know the baby's sex yet. I do very much hope that I am not "absent" from the delivery and I have sincere hopes that breast feeding will proceed better this time than it did last time!

Perhaps I will enlist Noodles' buddies to assist with keeping the unpleasant dreams at bay - how could the boogeyman fail to be frightened away by these two:

He got SHOT!

The Noodle Dude had his four-year-old check-up yesterday and everything went fine. Of course, it’s a bit embarrassing to admit that your child eats NO fruits or veggies beyond apples (sometimes), grapes (sometimes), and hummus (usually, when he’s not horking it up on me). Unless they’re hidden and I don’t always have that much energy. It’s vitamins for us for the time being.

He weighs 41.5 lbs. and stands 41.25 inches tall. I found the similarity in the numbers amusing, but couldn’t come up with anything humorous to relate it to. It’s not the same as when one has the same height and circumference. (The mental image this always gives me is that of Violet Beauregard once she's stolen Wonka's gum.) That’s my humor devolving to its 8-year-old boy state.

So he did well enough with the exam, I suppose. I mean, the doctor hardly spends any time doing anything except throwing questions out to you and clicking through computer screens. I think maybe I’ll save that rant for another day.

When the exam portion was over, he had to get some immunizations. I don’t want to go into the whole “to immunize or not to immunize” argument – I’ll feel morbidly wretched and heartbroken if it’s ever proven that he has gotten autism or any other malady from the shots. Anyway, we told him that he was going to get some shots and I explained to him briefly what shots are because the look on his face (perfectly placid) told me he didn’t have the slightest clue what that word meant. He still seemed unfazed.

Then I told him the nurse would put a Band-Aid over the place where he got the shot.

That elicited a look of sheer terror and even engendered a few tears. Band-Aids. Just plain old Band-Aids and my kid’s horrified, scheming to shoot out of the examination room as soon as the nurse returns.

Well, needless to say, he quickly changed his tune after the shots started. I hate having to hold my baby down on a table while the nurse holds his legs and jams those things in. I am at a loss of what else to do just now, though. I remember getting shots at that age and not be horrified – what did they do differently back then? It hurt me, but it wasn’t awful and nobody held me down. Even when I was given allergy testing at the age of 6 and they gave me 19 shots in my right arm and 25 in the left. (Yes, I distinctly recall that adventure.) Again, it hurt, but I just sat on the nurse’s lap and tried not to cry. While mangling her poor thumb.

Family trauma (hubby was there, too) and a trip to the reward treasure chest later, Noah was actually enjoying the Band-Aids. Some turn around master, that kid. He even called them “Wicked Cool"!

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As an aside, I spoke with some other parents who suggested that I hold Noah on my lap the next time he needs shots so that he can see it coming and not feel so forced. Boy, there are a lot of things to learn about parenting - and there's not even a TRIAL run!

Walk A Mile

As understanding and accommodating as I generally attempt to be, I believe I have been, shall we say, exposed to an individual for whose behavior I cannot find any logical explanation. This person has entered the sphere of a close friend who has no real choice but to accept that the person exists and will continue to exist within their sphere for the foreseeable future.

I'm having a rather hard time keeping tongue in check on this subject - I try not to make snap judgments of people, especially those whom I have not had the "pleasure" of meeting. I don't make a habit of slandering folk nor do I generally entertain those who do. While I truly hope that I do not ever get the "pleasure" of meeting my friend's acquaintance, I will continue to hope that some ray of sunshine falls on this seemingly pitiful soul's damnable ground so that it might illuminate some other path to a more pleasant future.

Sounds like a lot of kerfuffle and wordplay with a side serving of feel-good pseudo-pysch...

Here's what's really boggling my brain: How does a parent come to a point where they feel such vitriol and spite toward their one-time partner in child creation that they will put energy into recreating that incredible negativity within their own lovely offspring? Not to mention the corrosive nature of this type of energy has to the target of the vehemence or within the person themselves.

I confess, it's currently beyond my powers of walking a mile in another's shoes to remove myself so far that I could imagine the situation that would create the special sort of hatred that would bring me to that point. It just wouldn't happen. I would rather walk away and disappear from my dear, sweet hubby's life forever than create the hellish sort of situation this other person has chosen.

That leaves me with only one option: Choose to send out the love that the person so obviously needs and allow the Universe to guide it there if there's ever the tiniest foothold in which for it to grow.

Feeling a Bit Preggers

The worst part is the caffeine headache. I don’t make a habit of overly indulging in this particular addictive substance (or any other, for that matter) regardless of whether I’m pregnant or not. However, I have made a genuine effort to resist having more than one cup of English breakfast tea in any given day since I determined there was a small person on the way. (It’s about the only thing I’ve resisted, given my lack of morning sickness!)

I have a favorite brand that I cling to doggedly but rarely take any to work with me because I also like to have organic cane sugar and organic fat free milk with it, neither of which I can get in the decidedly-Southern cafeteria in the factory where I work. The tea bags are easily transported but the rest is sometimes always too much of a hassle to bring along. Heck, if I’m going to tote all of that in, I might as well bring along my water kettle, too! (An aside: If you’ve ever chewed gum in your life, you’ve likely chewed one of the products our factory manufactures.)

Ooo! Now I want a monkeh!

Back to the point – I am left with few options for alleviating an already-in-progress, head-thumping, neck-ache-causing “haddock”. They have some “tea” in the café labeled “English Breakfast” that is more like scented dirt masquerading as a brew-able beverage, which has been my last resort on a few miserable days. More often I turn to pop – that’s a carbonated, high-fructose corn syrupy, heavily-marketed swill for those of you unfamiliar with the colloquialism. It’s not like they stock Jones, Steaz, or Blue Sky – just run-of-the-mill Co-coller and Perpsi. (Not that I didn’t drink GALLONS of that stuff when I was younger, but then again, back then I thought that canned French-style green beans were the only way to go.)

By some marvel of the printed typed word, my impending doom-style aching has receded into a don’t-forget-I’m-here, significantly dulled annoyance. This is good, because I am still a ways away from my kettle. Though not as far, chronologically speaking, as I was when I began composing this post. Miraculous, the power of creation. It manifests in so many unforeseen ways.

I hereby attest to the following: No soda or tea-like comestibles were consumed during the writing of this text… Though a nearby bag of chips is somewhat lighter than it was earlier today. Go figure.

Oh! And I've revived my other blog... Just to entice you to wander over, I give you Cheese Stonehenge. Link city, I know - Enjoy clicking about!

Sleeplessness and Peep

So I dreamed about blogging all night long, waking more than once with title or subject in mind, the post composing itself in my half-consciousness. Darn the Blog Bug! That's my cue that something is bubbling up which needs release. If I don't heed the call now, it will begin to whine then it will start growling. Howling will follow shortly thereafter and finally... well, you've seen Alien, right? The parallel is apropos because a part of me expires each time I ignore or otherwise disregard the creative impulse. Now, woe is me that I didn't at least jot down some of the thoughts I had in those early, dark morning hours!

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On the Noodle Dude front, one of his (and our) favorite shows is a Discovery Kids Channel program called PEEP and the Big Wide World. The characters learn basic priciples of science in a very practical way. The music is great, the show is slow-paced and straightforward, no crazy barrage to the system. You can even watch daily episodes online, commercial-free.

I think Quack is our favorite (he's the one with the hat):

Blogosphere Tripping

Been spendin' a bit too much time in the blogosphere... So I went from here to here and finally ended up here. And wished with all my heart for an endlessly flushing commode. Gotta love scatological humor. Ok, well, maybe I AM an eight-year-old boy trapped in a thirty-three-year old pregnant woman's body. Deal.

Nightwish - "The Islander"

This is a recent - and lovely - video from a band I found a couple years ago through their song "Nemo". The two songs could hardly be more different, but both are compelling. I couldn't remember the band's name when I started hunting for them, only that they were a Nordic goth-metal band with a female lead singer. Not hard task there, right. Pshaw!

All I can say is, "Thank goodness for Google and dogged tenacity!"

Also, please check out Sigur Ros, an Icelandic band I found over at Zoe. Another set of incredibly talented musicians and video-sticians... What the heck do you call people who create videos?!?!

Wasteland

My husband is right. Our house is a mess. Not a gross mess, just a very... er, distracting mess. Want proof? Okay... (Not for the faint of heart or neat freaks - Dad, that's you, just in case you ever happen to read this post.)

And the perpetrator of this portion of the mess (surrounded by his domain):

Yeah, it's hard to be upset, just as it's hard to get up off the couch and do anything about the mess when one is in the first trimester of pregnancy. (Good heavens, what's the THIRD going to be like?!?!) I have a good friend, the one who reminded me it had been a while since my last post, who has three little ones. That means she's been through three third trimesters. Try even SAYING that three times fast! Oy!

So, to say that I'm living in a bit of a wasteland at the moment is the unfortunate truth. My dear, sweet husband has tried to keep the nomadic tribes of wandering toys and mountainous piles of laundry confined to relatively small areas, but I think his patience with me is wearing (read: has worn) a bit thin. From whence do I beg, steal or borrow the energy after a full day of work to come home and clean? My perennial monkey-on-the-back question. I don't have the answer yet, but on my way home from work this afternoon, half falling asleep at the wheel, I thought - as I often have - it doesn't have to be like this.

Any suggestions?!?!