I dreamed last night that Tom Cruise arrived at a get-together I was hosting. He was a paraplegic, in a wheelchair being pushed by his wife. Not Katie Holmes. I whispered in his ear how terribly sorry I was about his accident. Surprisingly, Suri was nowhere to be seen.
I read blogs. I have an almost OCD-like routine in which I go ‘round and ‘round through the web of blogs I frequently visit. I read them and get inspired (Hathor), I read them and feel like an amateur writer in comparison (MB). I read them and am reminded of life’s blissful, simple pleasures (Nino). I read them and wish I had the guts to be so honest and raw about my convictions (Navelgazing Midwife). I read them and want to shout in relief and anger and compassion and honor (The Shape of a Mother). I read them and feel strangely connected by bittersweet love letters (Life as a Mother). I read them and laugh my ass off (Dooce). I read them and get hungry (Brooke). I read them to feel smarter (added after J’s comment: i.e. she helps me view the world in a whole way!) (Jeanette). I read them and cheer in agreement (New Mama Musings). I read them to peek inside other’s lives (Crunchy Domestic Goddess).
Mostly, I read them and say “Whew – so I’m not the only one who says/does/eats/watches/reads/feels/yells/dreams/hopes/ attempts/fails at THAT…”. I find common ground in the most uncommon places. I quite like the adventure.
Why, oh WHY, has my acne reappeared? After over a year in hibernation, my hormones are back with a vengeance and I’m not happy about it. At all. In fact, it makes me borderline depressed. I’m 29 for crying out loud. When I was 18, after a round of Accutane cleared them a bit, I looked in the mirror at my zits and thought “Surely, by 20 they’ll be gone”. At 22, I sat picking and popping them and nodded “No worries, by 25 I’ll have clear skin”. At 27, I gave up. I resigned myself to terrible skin until at least 30. Ppfffttt, 30 is six months away. It looks like I may have to start thinking of my acne as a lifelong, unwelcome houseguest who has decided to permanently rent some space. On my freakin’ face. For the whole world to see. Even my dear Theresa said, mid-sentence during an important story, quite worried: “What is going on with your face”? Since Kaia’s birth, and for the first time since my pre-pubescent years, I felt like I had beautiful skin. Not a zit in sight! I didn’t even talk about it for fear the zits could hear me and were waiting like little demons, hiding behind trees, to just pop out and scare the acne back into me when I least expected it. Well, they did. I don’t know if it’s a combination of stress, my new veggie diet, Kaia’s less frequent nursing, and signs of fertility kicking back in that have done it. All the dreaded feelings of my high school days of trying to artfully apply make up to hide them, of literally not going on dates with my boyfriend until the sun had set (ah, the cover of night time)…of wailing to my Mom “Plllleaase, can I stay home today? I look so awful! I can’t go to school!”…these memories came flooding back, haunting me. Guess it’s time to have another baby…
Kaia awoke numerous times last night due to a runny, sneezey nose. At 3am, I perched her on my hip and began to walk to the kitchen. She looked at me and said “More, More, More”, while signing. She wanted food. At 3am. I fed her applesauce. After each bite, she’d again say and sign “More, More”. While I was tired and worn out, I must say it was endearing. Note: See my Flickr photos to the left for a few photos of her signing in action. Cute.
She points to trees now and blows spit bubbles. She growls like a lion when she awakens during the night.A mega-drama drama ensues upon changing her diaper (she can say the word “diaper” now, too).
I love sitting her in my lap and reading books to her. I steal smells of her warm, soft head and kiss the top of it hundreds of times. She points to pictures and turns pages. Sometimes, she gets angry and throws the book down. Oh, does she love taking showers or baths with me. All day long, she begs to take a bath, rubbing her small hands together gently (our sign for ‘bath’). Last week, during a perfect midday downpour, I opened the sliding glass doors so we could listen to the sound of the rain. She pointed outside and signed “bath”. I told her “Yes! That’s right – it is like a shower!”.
A few nights ago, during her naked time, she climbed around in her wooden wagon. I was in the kitchen, keeping one eye on her as she babbled away. After a few moments of quietness, I looked up and noticed she was standing up and playing with something inside her wagon. Poop. Fresh poop. Mashed into the sides and floor of the wagon. I scooped her up, dangling her body over my free arm, as I used the other to fill up the kitchen sink with water. After plopping her butt into the water, I looked over at the wagon to assess what I’d have to clean and sanitize. Guess what? The poop was gone. Clean gone. My dog walked over to me, licking his lips. I kid you not, he ate all of the poop. The entire, smushy log. I gagged and resisted the urge to throw up a little. We avoided the poop-eating dog the rest of the night.
P.S. Uneloquent is not a word.