Ok, let’s try this again

Now that I’ve calmed down, I’ll see if I can remember what I had typed before.

People have been changing their templates. All the blogs I read seem to have gone white and crisp and clean and now I feel far too garish and loud and, well, teal. And I don’t particularly like teal. I do, however, really like the monkey. So, my question for you, dear Internets, is twofold and goes like this: A.) Can I keep the monkey and title and stuff, but change the background colour to white and the text to black? And 2.) Since I bought this template (coding ignoramus that I am), is that ok to do? Is it going to piss off the designer? Do I need to ask her permission or is it mine, since I bought and paid for it?


TCBIM and I talked last night. I don’t know how sucessful it was, since there seems to be a lot of misunderstanding on both our parts, but the lawn did get mowed, and not by me.

We are both unbelievably stressed these days. Money is so tight that he’s taken on side work, which means he’s working weekends and may start working evenings, too. I haven’t found any paying work and at the moment, don’t even see how I’d have time to do it anyway. Plus, I’m not getting much sleep since The Bug is nursing once or twice during the night and The Boo has decided that shrieking is the only method of communication. (and what the fuck is up with that, by the way? Ok, stop. Now. Please.) We’re both about ready to snap.


My friend K is having a birthday today. We’ve known each other since we were five years old but I’m having serious doubts about continuing the friendship. It’s been a one-way street for a couple of years with her. She lives north of Boston and I’ve always been the one to drive to her place. She visited me once in the three years I lived in central Mass. Now that I’m out near the Berkshires, I doubt I’ll see her again, unless I drive the 2+ hours to the North Shore.

When my grandmother died, I called her and left a message letting her know. She didn’t call me back for three weeks. I left her a message when The Bug was born and I have yet to hear from her. This kind of crap is her usual m. o. and I’m really sick of it.

The problem is, how do you end a friendship? Do you say “I don’t want to be friends because of X and Y,” or do you just stop calling? Not calling any more seems very cowardly but I’m not sure that I want to call her and say it’s over. I’m a big, wussy chicken when it comes to confrontation like that. I’d rather just walk away and let it die a natural death and not burn any bridges.


Did anyone watch Anthony Bourdain in Beirut last night on TLC? It was fantastic. I’m not linking to it because TLC and/or the Travel Channel is what made my computer shit the bed last time, but go look it up. Hopefully they’ll re-run it, but if not, check You Tube.

Ok. I think I’ve remembered it all. If not…oh well. It’s lost in the ether.



I fucking HATE this goddamned computer.

I had a huge post typed up and it fucking crashed. AND it erased every fucking bookmark I had. I read a shitload of blogs and every single one of them is gone. All the diabetes sites I had bookmarked are gone. All the school stuff, all the stuff in general – gone. Fan-fucking-tastic.

I swear to god, if I ever meet Steve Jobs, I’m taking this fucking piece of shit he dares to call a computer and I’m shoving it up his ass. Sideways.


Yesterday I had a kick ass post percolating away in my brain, but I never got 3 consecutive minutes to sit at the computer and type it up. And now it’s GONE, goddammit. I have absolutely no clue what I was going to say. None. Fanfuckingtastic, yeah? This is what having a baby does to your brain. So, when all thoughts have vanished, what do you do? A bullet post, which is really just another name for the scrapings from the bottom of my brain.

  • The babies are kicking my ass. One or the other or both of them are always crying. Always. Someone needs to be fed or changed or burped or played with or something. I don’t even have time to pee any more.
  • I’ve lost 26 lbs since having The Bug. That’s what not being able to eat more than two bites of your meal will do to you. See above.
  • My house is still a mess. TCBIM isn’t doing a thing around here. Yesterday morning, he said that he’d be home early last night, implying that he’d be around to help. My answer? “Why bother? You don’t do anything when you’re here anyway.” Which is true. He didn’t even have a comeback for it.
  • My back yard is disgusting. Since it’s finally stopped raining and since my mother and son are coming over today, I’m going out there to clean it up. I’ve asked TCBIM to do it, but that’s like asking a pig to fly. If the rain stays gone until Friday, I may even attempt to mow the lawn. I wonder if I can do that with The Bug in her sling….
  • I’m going to the library tonight. Anyone have any suggestions for some fun but not too fluffy reading? I don’t do romance novels, nor do I do James Patterson and his ilk. I have a list of books that I want to read, but I’m always open to suggestions.
  • I just finished reading The Brief History Of The Dead. Odd book. Really odd. I’m not sure if I liked it, but it did make me think, which is good. I didn’t love it, but it wasn’t awful.

Aaaand the baby’s crying. So I’m off.

Is this what I’m reduced to? Bullet point posts every 4 or 5 days? How pathetic.

This post has no title

Her Bad Mother put up this post the other day and challenged people to write about the physical love they feel for their kids. It’s a difficult subject, since it’s easy to make it sound…well, just plain wrong.

I wasn’t raised by demonstrative parents. They didn’t snuggle and cuddle and kiss and hug. They were reserved, to the point of coldness. I don’t ever remember my mother or my father spontaneously hugging me. They just didn’t do it. My mother actually discouraged it. She couldn’t handle emotions of any kind – tears or joy would make her tense up and get angry. She’s still that way today.

I can’t say that I felt deprived, since I didn’t know any different, but I was a bit fearful of my parents. I didn’t feel that they were all that interested in my thoughts or interests, so I didn’t talk to them about it. I lived inside my head, mostly, and was slightly jealous of the relationships my friends seemed to have with their mothers.

Then I had children. I couldn’t stop looking at them, touching their soft cheeks as they slept, nibbling on their toes as they lay in my lap, brushing their heads as they nursed. I can’t seem to keep my hands off them. I hug them, I kiss them, I tickle them. I love the feel of their warm little bodies when they sit next to me. I love to feel O’s head on my shoulder when she’s tired. I love to brush her hair and feel the weight of it as it falls thru my fingers. I love to blow raspberries on The Boo’s tummy and listen to her squeals and giggles. I love how she runs to me and throws her arms around me and says “Hugs, mama! Hugs!” I love her slobbery toddler kisses on my face. I love to rub noses with her and stare into her blue eyes until we both start giggling. I love that The Bug has dark hair and I stroke it constantly, amazed that I finally have a child with my hair colour. I love to hold her against my chest as she falls asleep, to feel that skin on skin contact and to breath in her intoxicating baby smell.

I want to envelop them with affection. I want them to feel unconditionally loved, to feel able to give and recieve physical affection without stiffening up or pulling away. Now that I know what I missed as a child, I want to make sure my children don’t have the same experience

I think there’s part of me that wants to keep a piece of them with me, too. I crave their presence when they’re not here. It’s a physical ache when I’m away from them, a desire to get home and hug them, to sweep them into my arms and bury my face in their necks and just inhale them.

I never thought I would feel this way. Most of my friends would tell you that I’m pretty reserved, not given to spontaneous, public displays of affection. But when it comes to my kids, it’s a whole different kettle of ball games.

Now he can divorce me

TCBIM got his unconditional residency today. It’s good for 10 years and can be renewed every 10 years for life – as long as he doesn’t commit an aggravated felony (so, he can divorce me, but if he kills me, they’ll kick his ass back to Canada.)

On the way out of the interview, I asked him if he was going to apply for citizenship. “Yep,” he said, “because then I can vote.”

I am obviously an outstanding influence on the lad. Obviously.


In other news: What the FUCK is up with the Red Sox, man? Can they win against anyone? At all? Swept by the *spit* Yankees, lost to the Angels last night…what the fuck, man? We have no pitching and we have tons of injuries, but still. This sucks.


I have a big, long post that I’m hashing out, on the topic Her Bad Mother covered last week. A day late and a dollar short, that’s me. But hey, I’m trying. And I have been kind of busy. I also have a cool book meme I’m working on.

I hate it when I get blog post ideas and don’t have enough time to flesh them out. They sit there, in draft format, looking at me every time I log on, saying “Dood, what are you doing? Don’t post that, finish me! C’mon! Don’t leave me sitting here, dropping further and further down the page! Have some sympathy. Oh, and there she goes, posting something else. Bitch.”

What? They do.

The Big Red Kit

The OC people know where this is going….

O had a friend sleep over last night. Sam is a girl she met at camp. They were in the same cabin and she lives one town over from us. She’s a very nice girl and I’m thrilled O has found a friend close to home – she’s been pining a bit for our old town and her old friends.

Anyway. This morning, O came into my room, stood there very calmly and said “Sam’s blood sugar is 41 and I can’t wake her up.” Well. You never saw anyone move from one room to another so fast. I went into O’s room and Sam was lying there, not moving. I grabbed O’s emergency kit out of her diabetes cabinet and pulled out the insta-glucose. When I asked her to open her mouth, she did, but I couldn’t really get her to eat the stuff. Plus, I was afraid she’d choke. So I got out the glucagon. I have never, in nearly 9 years of dealing with diabetes, had to use glucagon (knock wood, turn around three times, go outside and spit). I mixed it up and drew up half of it into a regular syringe – the needle in the kit is friggin’ huge. I’d be pissed if someone injected that into me. I gave her half and checked her again. 31. Not good. So I gave her the other half. During all this drama, The Bug is shrieking, O is pacing back and forth and The Boo is having a meltdown. Made for a very soothing atmosphere. Oy.

Finally, she started to come around. She was still groggy and looking at me like she had no clue who I was, but her eyes were open and she was following commands, like “Give me your finger, so I can check your blood sugar again.” I think I checked her eight times in ten minutes. She ate about ten glucose tabs and then a 13g bowl of applesauce. Thirty minutes later, she was up to 227, but dropped to 140 within 10 minutes, so I had her eat a pb&j sandwich and didn’t give her any insulin for it. On the way home, she checked again and was 290.

The kid was so calm during all this. I wasn’t externally freaking out, but internally, I was all “What the fu-hu-hu-hu-hu-huck? Where’s the glucagon? Where’s the tabs? Where’s the meter? Why can’t I get a test strip in the fucking meter? Oooglybooglyooglyboogly.”

She said she’d only had to use glucagon once before, about a year ago. She just wasn’t fazed. Neither was her grandmother when I dropped her off. If someone had dropped my kid off and told me she’d had to have glucagon, I would have given her the third degree and wanted to know every last detail.

I hope that doesn’t happen again any time soon. My nerves can’t handle it.

In Which I Resemble Bill The Cat

So, um, yeah. Still here. I have to check the computer to see what day it is and I have to book time to have a shower, but I’m here. I actually got the living room Hoovered today. I really feel like I’ve accomplished something, which is sad. When getting the hoovering done is the highlight of your day, something is wrong.

I baked cookies last night. I couldn’t tell you the last time I baked cookies voluntarily. I’m hoping I’m not turning into Donna Reed. If I do, someone come and smack me, ok?

And I went to a mom-and-tot group at the library (where I restrained myself and only took out one book – after a $38 library fine, you’d restrain yourself too). The women were nice enough – not the kind of people I’m going to become bosom buddies with, but nice. I really just wanted The Boo to have some kids to play with and she enjoyed it, so I’ll put up with it.

I have an article to write by the 27th. I hope to god I’m going to get it done. I get half a sentence written and then someone needs to be fed or played with or put down for a nap or something (damn, there’s some needy people in this house). My train of thought keeps jumping the tracks.

TCBIM is on me to find some work to do from home – something I’ll get paid for. I’d love to, but when am I going to do it? I’m looking into freelance writing stuff, but I have next to no experience, so anything I do will be for peanuts. Plus, y’know, when? Snatching five minutes here and there doesn’t make for a very coherent article (as my current editor will probably be more than happy to verify). The other job option is in-bound customer service, but I can’t even begin to tell you how much I don’t want to do that. I am not a people person (no shit, Sherlock) and I can really see me telling some jerk to fuck off without too much provocation. A sleep-deprived new mother probably isn’t the person you want answering phones for you. I may get just a wee bit cranky.

It’s TCBIM’s birthday in another 10 days. I’m not getting him anything. First, he said he didn’t want anything. Second, he just bought a new flat screen monitor for the PC. Third, I’m STILL waiting for my Mother’s Day and my 2005 birthday presents. The last reason is a bit juvenile and snotty, but it pisses me off. I wouldn’t be so upset by this, but when my birthday (and Mother’s Day) rolled around, he said “I haven’t bought anything yet, but we’ll go together this weekend and get it.” This weekend still hasn’t rolled around. Every time I mention it, I get an excuse. I really need new glasses and that’s what I wanted for my birthday – I was trying to kill two birds, since my glasses are usually very expensive – and I’m still walking around with the same scratched up, three-years-out-of-date prescription. I’m a little bit angry about this still, can you tell? It really hurts my feelings when he does this shit, but when I say that, I get the eye-roll and the “Well, I’m not a gift person.” Yeah, but I am a gift person. It doesn’t have to be a big gift – a $5 gift that you put thought into is fine with me. Hell, make me a fucking mixed CD, that’d be great! It’s that he doesn’t think about it at all. It just never occurs to him to make the gesture. That’s what hurts. That’s what has me up at night, second guessing my life.

Anyway. Enough whining. Her Bad Mother had a great entry the other day about the physical love mothers feel for their children. I keep meaning to write something about it (and instead I whined – lovely). Go read hers, though. She always says things so much more eloquently than I ever could. And if you’re not regularly reading her blog, what the hell is wrong with you? It’s only fanTABulous.

24 Hour Party People

You Are Cordially Invited To

The Bug’s

All-Day, All-Night, Dance Party Feed-A-Thon

Location: Floating between the living room and the bed room with special trips to the office, where you can groove and eat by the glow of the 17″ monitor!

Date: On-going, thru November.

Entertainment provided by The Shriek Sisters

Rock out in your best duds or go casual – pyjamas and onesies are welcome. No jacket required. Binkies optional, but you must BYOBoob.

Poopy diapers changed by request.

Crying Room Available – No Reservation Necessary

Come on over and party at The Bug’s. The lights are always on.


Take another little piece of my heart now, baby.

Ugh. I’d forgotten the rollercoaster ride of hormonal emotions that happen right after you have a baby. I am a weepy mess.

This morning, I was in the living room, holding The Bug while The Boo rocked in her little chair. “Light Up My Room” by BNL was playing and we were all swaying back and forth to the music. The sun was streaming thru the windows and for one blissful moment, everything was perfect. Then The Beach Boys “God Only Knows” came on and wham! I looked at my two girls and just lost it.

I remember feeling this way right after my other children were born, too. I’d look at that little sleeping face and my heart would just ache and I could barely breathe. It’s overwhelming, that love for a child. And it hurts. No one ever told me how much it would hurt. No one told me how ferocious I’d feel about these little creatures, how much I’d worry and obsess and fah-ha-ha-reak out over them.

But I do. I constantly check that The Bug is still breathing. That’s my biggest fear right now. I’m such a mess that just the thought of it can make me sob. It’s awful. It’s not very healthy, but for the moment, I’m chalking this freaking out-edness up to hormones.

I never wanted kids. Really, I didn’t. Sounds funny coming from someone with four (holy crap! Four!) kids, but it’s true. I got pregnant with A and was prepared to give him up for adoption. I thought it would be the best thing to do, for him and for me. I wasn’t married, his dad was not really there and I didn’t think I could raise a child by myself. But then he was born and it was like being punched in the gut. I remember the day I was released from the hospital, walking down that hallway with him in his little bassinet and leaving him in the nursery with the social worker. I still don’t know how I managed to walk out of that place. It’s all a blur. I don’t think I’ve ever had to do anything that difficult. I really thought that I was going to die from the pain of it. I went home and cried for three days and then called the social worker and told her I’d changed my mind. The longing I had to keep him was incredible. I just wanted him – I didn’t care that I didn’t have much money, I’d figure it out. I hung up the phone and ran out to buy baby stuff and three days after that phone call, I got to pick him up. It was like someone put back the piece of me that was missing.

It’s never changed, either. Each child finds their own little space in my heart and makes a warm and cozy nest there. Each time, I wonder why I’ve let myself become this way, this raw and exposed to the possibility of pain should something, anything, happen to them. Why I’ve decided to sentence myself to a life time of worry and concern and vulnerability. Don’t get me wrong – they are worth it. So, so worth it. But still, there’s this part of my brain that says “Why? Why would you do that to yourself?” And I can’t really answer it. I wouldn’t trade it for anything, I’d do anything to protect my children, but that person who’s still inside me, that person who never wanted kids, is still there. And she wonders what the hell happened.

Dolly Parton called. She wants her boobs back.

Hoooboy, I forgot how much it hurts to go from a 38 small C cup to a 40 if-I-try-I-can-squeeze-those-puppies-into-a-D cup. Ouch. I’m so engorged that The Bug is having a hard time latching on. I had TCBIM get my breast pump out of the attic, which should help that situation.

He’s gone back to work, so today’s the first test in the Let’s See If Julia Loses Her Mind extravaganza. So far, The Boo is not a happy camper. She wants to sit in my lap. She wants to squeeze the baby. She just wants. The poor kid. I hope that the stuff I bought for her will help a little with this and that O can entertain her for the next couple of weeks, while she adjusts to this big change.

I’m driving all three girls to the doctor’s today so The Bug can get checked out. This ought to be loads of fun. Good thing I got that anti-depressant refilled yesterday, huh?

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