My Most Significant Realization As An "Adult"

I remember when I was just starting out on my own. When I was off attending college 3/4 of a continent away from home and family or when I had moved back to Seattle but was living in an apartment, I suffered from repressed separation anxiety. In college, I tried to surround myself with busy-ness, crowds and loud friends. I didn't want to think about how I was managing away from the security of my home and away from the comfort and love of a family.

At home, my family knew when I wasn't feeling right. They knew when something was bothering me or when I was sick and they tried to make it all better. They actively cared about how I was doing. At a far away city, on my own, most people wouldn't even notice if I didn't show up to class, or if I was feeling down, let alone take the time to care. It was a daunting feeling, being physically and emotionally isolated from home. I knew I had to forge my own place and my own home, but the task left me feeling anxious and a little scared. So I repressed it. I tried to forget. I was mostly successful except for those quiet lonely times at night. Right before my head would hit the pillow. The emptiness and loneliness and lack of guidance would threaten to eat me up. What was I to do with my weekend, let alone my LIFE?

I felt this way in law school a little bit too. I even felt this way when I got married. When I got married and I moved in with my husband, it hit me like a brick wall that there was no going back to the comfort of my childhood. The comfort of always having my parents there to guide me and console me. I had officially shut that door. I was a married woman. My parents were only a telephone call away, of course, but I still felt isolated once again. I was no longer a part of my childhood "household." I had grown away from the person I used to be. It was me versus the world. My relationship with my parents had officially changed. While my mom would always be my mom, I didn't see her as the same mom that rocked me to sleep and read me stories and made sure the kids at school were playing nice. She was suddenly the mom of a grown up (me) and I could no longer run to her to hide from the harshness of the world.

The first week in our first home, I felt a little out of sorts. Really? I'm a grown up now? But I still feel vulnerable and I still feel like I need the wings of my parents to warn me about staying out to late, eating right and to leave the front porch lights on for me. Overnight my "family" had turned from a big, loud, nosy and caring family into a quite family of two married adults. It was a great adventure but I felt homesick.

When Jacob was born I struggled a third time. It was hard to accept the fact that I was someone's mother now. I was responsible for another human. Just like my mom had all the answers and the power to make me feel safe, now I was expected to be able to do the same. But I didn't have any answers. Life, the world and the unknown was just as scary to me then as it was back before I became a mom. Now that I was officially someone's mom, I had to fill my mom's shoes. The hardest realization for me was that just as I was living by the seat of my pants and making things up as I went, so had my mom all those years! All the times when I thought she knew everything (obviously not my teen years) and when I thought she could protect me from everything, she actually couldn't.

The realization that my mom was just as human as I was and that becoming a mom DOESN'T automatically give you divine, supernatural powers was both unsettling and comforting. All those years I had been relying on just another human, capable of making mistakes. My childhood "rock" was not infallible. On the flip side, that meant that while my mom likely made mistakes everyday, just like anyone else, that didn't detract from how I felt about her. So, as a mom, I don't need to be perfect in order to make my kid feel loved and safe. It's not about the reality of your capabilities or perfection as a parent at all, it's all about how you make your kid FEEL. How you show them you love them. How you let them know you always will care.

Wow. Parenthood is nothing short of amazing and complicated.

Take Caution Before Revealing Your Innermost Secrets

You all know me as the smart, sophisticated (*cough*) former lawstudent and child herder that I am today. (Doesn't "child herder" make more sense than "mother"- I swear I spend half of my mothering time diverting my toddler from things like: the coffee maker, kitchen knives, the bottle of KY-Jelly (TMI?) by my bed, tile-grout cleaning toothbrushes (which he loves to use to brush his teeth), and overly priced electronics). But there was a time, long, long ago when I was the shiny beacon of nerdiness. What's that? Ok, fine, I'm still a nerd it's just that I can hide it better in public. But sometimes evidence of my past nerdiness leaks out into the community, scarring my reputation for life.

My husband works for a well known community organization. He is very involved in the community trying to raise money for a campaign. He often takes rich and important people and elected officials on tours of their local facility to solicite donations. Since he drives a suped up, two door, turbo-ized (is that a word?) Ford Probe. He has to use MY car to take people on tours. For some odd reason, important rich people don't like to cram into the back of compact cars, dangling their legs out the passenger window with the sound of a million revved up motorcycle engines buzzing in their ear. Crazy rich peeps.

Often times these rich important people are lawyers (oh, someday!, that could be me!). They see my Seattle University Law and the Loyola University Chicago window stickers and like to make small talk.

Rich Lawyer: "So did you go to school in Chicago?"
Husband: "No. Actually that was my wife."
Rich Lawyer: "Did she grow up there?"
Husband: "No, she really just wanted to go to school in Chicago."
Rich Lawyer: "It's a great city."
Husband: "Yeah. When she was in highschool, her hero was Indiana Jones."
Rich Lawyer: "ok..."
Husband: "The character of Indiana Jones apparently went to school in Chicago. My wife had never been to Chicago before but she really wanted to go to school there because Indiana Jones did." (OMG- HUSBAND- SERIOUSLY?! DID YOU HAVE TO GO THERE!)
Rich Lawyer: "So is the SU Law sticker yours?"
Husband: "No, that's my wife's too. She's studying for the bar exam."
Rich Lawyer: "You mean your wife wanted to be a lawyer instead of an archaeologist like Indiana Jones?"
Husband: "Yeah, I guess. I know, she's weird."

If this keeps up, no reputable law firm in my county will want to hire me. THANKS HUSBAND. At least he didn't tell Rich Important Lawyer that I had the name "Indy" put on my higschool track sweatshirt.

Highschool Hunky Old Man Crush

I probably won't post much in the next 46 days. But during my spare time I have been diligent about reading other blogs, just too lazy to post comments. During the course of my hateful hours spent barprepping, I actually refresh my blog roll, facebook, and my two email accounts constantly hoping there will be some gift just waiting to interrupt me from the tedium of listening to lectures and outlining.

This is my random thought of the day:

Walking down the candy aisle of the grocery store (I consume like five times my normal amount of chocolate when I'm stressed) I passed a wall of magazines. This reminded me of when I was in highschool purchasing a magazine from this very same store.

People magazine had a huge cover photo of Leonardo Dicaprio. I snatched up the magazine and walked to the check out counter. During checkout, the clerk looked at the magazine, looked at my 16 year old self and smiled.

Then she said, "I guess you're buying this magazine for the hunky man on the cover." I returned her smiled and coyly replied, "yes."

Little did she know that the hunky man on the cover that was behind my purchase was NOT Leonardo Dicaprio. I guess a lot of people swooned over that guy when I was in highschool but I never saw the attraction. To me he looked like a squinty-eyed baby. I hated his hair. I hated his eyes. I hated his movies (yes, EVEN Titanic). When I first set eyes on the magazine, my retinas quickly scaned over DiCaprio's face and focused intently on the man in the upper right hand corner photo.

For in the corner of the magazine was a glaringly handsome photo of Harrison Ford. Now THAT was a real hunk. In highschool I was completely in love with Harrison Ford. Maybe I just had a thing for older guys. He was a REAL man. My ideal man. His rugged looks and crooked smile sent me over the edge.

but what is a 16 year old to do? Confess, explain and justify my true love and obsession with a much older man to a grocery store clerk? Or take the easy way out and let her believe the reasonable conclusion of her own thought process? I took the easy way out.

But my discomfort in expressing my hunky old man crush did not stop me from plastering his face all over my school pcoket cover binders. Ahhhh, Harrison Ford..... A part of me still swoons when I think of him.

Re-Convert

You know how when you ask people what kind of music they listen to many will say, "Anything but country....oh and rap."

As a die hard country music fan, this totally pisses me off. Ok, so country is just not your thAng, I get it- that's fine. But REALLY? You like every other category in the repertoire of worldly music EXCEPT country? How much more of an insult can you give to a down-hown, line-dancing, wanna-be country gal? It's borderline ridiculous!

I mean seriously? You'd prefer to listen to hours of ear splitting mountain yodeling than country music? You would choose whinny teenage emo music over a couple bars of an acoustic accompanied by a fiddle and some lyrics about pick-ups and bud light? How about hokey polky acccordian music in another language? You'd rather listen to THAT too? Well, at least you disclaimed a distate for rap as well, but notice how it is almost an afterthought as if country music where the ultimate in horribleness.

Am I missing somethere here? Is country music THAT horrible? I mean it's a brother to Rock and Blues. And excuse me, but ELVIS PRESLEY was consideres a country music artist as well. I admit a lot of country is "redneck," but that's because country singers know how to HAVE fun and MAKE fun of themselves. Example lyrics:

"She thinks my tractor's sexy."
"I can hotwire your tractor and plow up your land."
"I can take you for a ride on my big green tractor."
"If you gonna learn to farm you gotta learn to drive a truck"
"We all gotta hillbilly bone deep inside."
"I was sittin' there sellin' turnips on a flatbed truck."

Maybe it's genetic. You are born to like country or not. Maybe I just like it because it brings back memories of riding my bike in my garage as my dad worked on his boat and blasted the local country station. Maybe it just speaks to where I am in life right now. Or maybe I'm just a country girl trapped in the city. Oh, and there IS something beautiful about an accoustic or steel guitar that can't be replicated by a synthesizer.

In highschool I claimed that I hated country along with all of my friends. I think I even believed that myself for a while. From highschool to the age of 25, I refused to listen to it because of it's reputation as being "uncool" and "hick." But then, one day, my mom drove my car and left the radio station blaring. I decided to leave it on that channel for my entire 45 minutes drive home. By the time I got home I was singing along to my old favorites and loving some of the new stuff. I could hide no longer- country found me again and it stuck.

If you just don't like country, I respect that. I'm not trying to convert you. I just want people to respect country as a legitimate expression of the values and experiences of people from all across the country. And not just unsophisticated, toothless people, either. Sure it can be as loud an obnoxious as a dirty pickup with monster wheels. It can be as sexy as a shirtless rodeo bronc in boots and a dirty cowbow hat. But it can also be as sweet, romantic and breathtaking as an endless field of wheat and rolling hills.

And if you STILL refuse to respect country, you can take my shit kickers (aka:boots) up your @$$, you dimwitted gooseberry.

Family Mug Shot

When I was little, I loved to gaze up at our family photos on the wall. I loved one in particular with me and my mom in complimentary outfits (NOT MATCHING) where I am folding my arms in protest, although the photographer managed to sneak a smile out of me. I would love to see how young my mom was and how little I used to be. I would reach back into the farthest part of my mind and try to pull out memories of that day. The older I got, the harder this task became.

As I would shift my gaze across the wall, I'd see our family grow in numbers and in age. These snapshots of our family throughout the years still mean so much to me. They used to just remind me of happy memories and serve as evidence of how young we all once were. But now those pictures also remind me how fast everything goes by. Even so, when I got married, I couldn't wait to have my own family portraits. And the experience was just as I remember- the only difference is the reversal of my role.


The morning of, I tweaked our outfits- trying to make sure we wouldn't clash. We rushed to get clean and purdy and just spent time together getting ready under the bright lights of our bathroom. We sauntered into JCPenneys, smiled for the camera and then went out to eat in our nice clothes. The day was nothing extraordinary, in fact, it was a little hectic and crazy, but it was time spent together and it was wonderful. It felt great making our own family memories and traditions, just like the ones I remember from MY childhood. Isn't that the best part about having kids- reliving childhood from the other side of the fence?

The pictures didn't turn out too shabby either.

From Reluctant Reciever To Reluctant Non-receiver: Why Birthdays Suck.

I hate having birthdays. And it's not even because I'm that old. I hate birthdays because birthdays are just another day to be let down and disappointed. Perhaps I am being overly dramatic. You'll have to forgive me because it's my birthday and today sucks.

For the past couple years, I have had a string of not so good birthdays. I think it was the hard transition from happy childhood birthday parties that you look forward to each year and the all-too mundane adult birthday. After I turned 18, it seemed too indulgent for me to invite a slew of guests to come bring me gifts in nicely wrapped boxes. So I settled for lunches and dinner with family. I was ok with this compromise for a few years. As long as people would confer upon me as much attention as before while I could play the reluctant receiver of attention (all the while LOVING every minute).

But lately, birthdays have lost all their glamour and it all started the day I turned 21. Do you know how long I had looked forward to 21? Of course you do! That's the age you have your sights set on the second you step foot on a college campus! But the day I turned 21, my friends and roomates completely let me down. All I wanted was to go out to a club and dance - I had been looking forward to it forever! One of my roommates couldn't take any time out of her busy schedule to go out with me. My other roommate was anti-social and wouldn't go out. And my supposed best friend told me that it just wasn't her thing. I understood that it "wasn't her thing" and that she might have been a little uncomfortable but seriously, together we would have had a blast.

So I didn't let them stop me. I boarded the "el" and headed to a bar near DePaul...alone. I didn't know anyone at DePaul and so I entered a room full of strangers. I bought a drink and started dancing. Eventually I met this guy who bought me a drink. I told him it was my 21st birthday and he looked at me in disbelief.

"Yeah right," he said.
"Seriously. It is!"
"You're just saying that to get free drinks. If it's your birthday, where are your friends? People don't go to bar alone on their 21st birthday."

He hit the nail right on the head with that one.

Since then, birthdays have all been the same: uneventful. I get a nice call from my parents and from my brother who shares the same birthday as me (although he is 2 years younger). And I get a "happy birthday" greeting from my husband. And that's it. The problem is, it's my fault. I secretly expect my birthday to be a special day about me just like when I was a kid. And every year I get just an ordinary day. It's not so much the presents I miss, because really I get uncomortable when people buy me things. It's just the attention I miss. I miss people making my birthday a big deal.

So happy mundane birthday to me. Maybe when everyone goes to bed I'll have a glass of wine and think about how old I am. Wait- I'm 25 today so doesn't that entitle me to some kind of quarter-life crisis? When I drink my wine, I will start picking out my quarter life crisis: car?, baby?, new job as a stripper?....hmmmm.....

A Blonde By Any Other Color...

This weekend my hair changed color. Not by itself like the magic rainbow horse in Wizard of Oz, although wouldn't that be cool? I had my hair DID. First let me preface this by saying that I've had the same haircut for years. Medium length with long layers and blonde highlights to accentuate my natural dirty blonde-ish color.

I think I just woke up Saturday morning, looked in the mirror and had a new-mommy life crisis. The kind of life crises where you think, "Omg, I'm someone's mom. I'm someone's mom AND I'm required to feed that someone every three hours for the next eleven months AND I have a mortgage AND I've never been to India AND I'm one step closer to the end AND (as a final straw) I have REALLY BAD HIGHLIGHT GROWOUT!

So I got myself to the Salon faster than a baby can spit up on a newly washed shirt. But somewhere between me asking my hair dresser (that's a funny title because hair doesn't wear clothing!) to dye my hair back to it's original color and me dishing out way too much money, something went horribly wrong. Horribly BRUNETTE wrong.

I know I've been in denial about my hair color since I was six when a hair dresser chopped off the last of my bleach blonde baby hair. In first grade my best friend colored a picture of us together and I threw a hissy fit that she colored my hair light brown. "What is that?!" I yelled at her, "My hair is blonde, NOT brown!" Then in second grade when we were coloring self portraits, meany Matt Smith (who always scribbled on my desk) exclaimed to me that my hair was Dirty Dishwater Blonde. I ran up to the art teacher with tears in my eyes in search of a second opinion. According to my diplomatic Art Teacher, my hair was "golden blonde." Then after I graduated from college, I started highlighting my hair as a final act of denial.

To me, being blonde was just who I was as a person. It was as central to my identity as my running habit and my love for chocolate bars.

So when I asked my hair dresser to take me back to my natural color, I was finally accepting the fact that I am who I am. I was accepting that the almost 25 year old me is tied down to student loans, a house, a husband and a son. That I have never travelled the world or explored the jungle or solved a mystery (other than to find the location of missing house keys and work socks) or raided a lost arc in Egypt or flown an airplane. I never became fluent in a foreign language and I've never been on an adventure grander than my middle school trip to Space Camp.

While I was prepared to look reality in the face, I was not prepared to walk out of the salon as a 100% brunette. Either I was REALLY in denial about my hair color before or my hair dresser took come artistic liberties. I'm inclined to blame my hairdresser because she was calling me by the wrong name the entire time. *SIDE NOTE: You know how awkward it is when you don't correct someone the first time? It makes you look bad to correct them later and so they keep on calling you the wrong name for the rest of your life and you have to pretend that's your actual name?*

Anyway, I'm starting to get used to this new look and I'm almost starting to like it. I can't yet say the same for the new perspective on my identity.

Guilty

I hate brushing my teeth. It's only two minutes out of my day but I dread it every single night.

Recurring battle with self:

"Do I really HAVE to brush tonight? I didn't eat THAT much junk."
"But do I really want to sit in the dentist chair with a drill in my mouth?"
"I brushed all week, I can skip ONE night, right?"
"Maybe if I chew gum instead..."

Usually my guilt wins out and I end up with fresh breath and sparkly molars each night. But once in a while, when I feel extra exhausted, I give in to my inner sloth.

On the nights I skip, I use a little trick I learned as a kid to convince my mom that I had in fact brushed my teeth- she used to use a smell test each night- gross, when I'm a parent, do I have to smell my kid's breath too? Anyway, the trick is to rub toothpaste on your tongue. Except now, I don't do it because of an impending parental breath check. I do it so my husband will still make out with me...

Confessions

I have been plagued with the gift of over-active guilt. I call my guilt a gift because, while it tortures and hounds me until my heart feels like it will reverbrate out of my chest and my breath will die trapped in my lungs, it has done a lot of good for me. The guilt I feel over small trangressions is so great, that I will never be able to do anything really bad. This will, hopefully, keep me out of prison from committing bloody murder or grand theft.

I know there must be other benefits that go along with possessing concentrated guilt, but I cannot think of them right now.

So, this leads me to the purpose of my post. There is one thing that I did in tenth grade that I deeply regret and I have never told a single person about it. Every now and then the memory creeps up, gnaws at my soul, and makes me feel as though I have tainted all the beauty and purity of the world around me.

I was a straight A student in highschool, I was always prepared for class, I always completed my homework, and I always paid attention during discussions and lectures. However, when my tenth grade English class was reading "Their Eyes Were Watching God"- I was staying up late to watch Star Trek instead [wincing at the memory of my own nerdiness]. I hated that book. It was dull, I couldn't get into the characters, and I didn't get anything spiritual or intellectual out of it, unlike "Grapes of Wrath", "The Scarlett Letter" or "Lord of the Flies."

One morning we had an unexpected Pop Quiz. I could answer most of the questions from paying attention to class discussions but there were a couple detailed questions you had to read the book to know the answer to. One of those questions happened to be something along the lines of: "What was Character X wearing when Event Y occured." I had no freaking clue! I couldn't even come up with a likely guess. I did the unspeakable, I let my eyes wander to Lizzie G's paper. She wasn't the brightest bulb in the class, in fact, she was a football cheerleader and a very unintelligent one at that. But hers was the only paper I could see. So I copied her answer and wrote "swimming suit," hoping to God that she had read the relevant chapter and had a little sense in that bloated head of hers.

The next day we got our papers back. I got a big fat C. The swimsuit answer was COMPLETELY off. You know how when two students put the same random wrong answer, there is major grounds for teacher suspicion? Well right after class, I heard the teacher ask Lizzie to stay behind for a little chat...I knew what was going to happen. I was the straight A English student, it made sense that the teacher would suspect her over me.

I felt sharp knives imbed themselves into my flesh and gouge out all respectability and honor that I had. I let Lizzie take the fall. I was a BIG, FAT CHEATER. But I didn't say anything because I had a whole lot to lose. If I confessed, my perfect straight A record could be tarnished by a blot of untruthfulness and disingenuity in academia.

My personal scale of character feels a lot lighter now, even though I'm permanently scared by my actions. But you can bet one thing: since that day I have never cheated. On another English test.

Getting Our Culture On

Somehow, I convinced my husband to see a ballet with me today. I was surprised that he said yes...especially since it was the ballet of Romeo and Juliet. The dancing was pretty amazing. Someone like me who often trips on her own shoes walking down a straight sidewalk will always be amazed at the coordination of the performers. And their grace. And they way they flip and lift each other in the air.

I never really had a thing for ballet dancing. It usually seemed boring to me. Well....there was that one time in first grade when I was convinced I wanted to be a ballerina. My mom enthusiastically signed me up for lessons. On the first day, I saw all the little girls in tutus lined up in a row by the ballet bar (no idea what it's called). Suddenly out of a seemingly innocent plastic bag, my mom pulled out a tutu, a pair of tights and slippers. She handed them to me. I glanced at the bubblegum pink, ruffly tutu and the lacey heart tights in shock and horror as if my mom was handing me the head of dead racoon. From that moment on, my dreams of becoming a ballerina were crushed...and shortly replaced with dreams of being a ninja turte.

Other than that one time, I never even thought of going to a ballet. But this weekend we both gave it a shot. In addition to the dancing, the music was amazing. So were the simple yet creative set designs. The entire time I was holding my breath- that my husband wouldn't hate me for taking him to this. With each romantic dance duet between Romeo and Juliet...they tended to drag on more than necessary, I stole glances at my husband hoping he wasn't asleep.

But at the end, my husband said he enjoyed it, and he sounded sincere. He even told me he wanted to buy the music because he liked it so much. I was pretty shocked. In fact, I almost get the sense that he enjoyed it more than I did (I miss plays with dialogues and song lyrics). Then again, I might have enjoyed it a little more if I wasn't worried about him hating it.

Barack 'n Roll

I grew up in a fairly conservative family-- my grandpa listened religiously to Rush Limbaugh and my mom waits for the Catholic church to publish it's voter's guide (i.e. strongly urged suggestions that will keep you out of hell's fire) before she goes to the polls.

I also grew up in a super liberal city. In fifth grade we had a school wide mock election. I was proud to be among the three students who voted for George Bush- Ross Perot had a bigger turnout. When Bill Clinton won that year, I was super afraid. I was afraid because my mom's "God will rain fire upon the earth" chats with me about Bill Clinton had me convinced that because American had a pro-choice president, the world was coming to an end. I seriously thought I was going to wake up one morning and my life would be over. I was terrified.

I have a special place in my heart for elections. I think it's because of these hilarious childhood memories, but it's also because I majored in Political Science and proclaimed myself an expert on all things political. (I now know that there is so much I do not know or understand).

This year, I can't help it. I have Obama-fever. I was in Chicago and watched with excitement as he won the Senate seat. He had me from the beginning. He's brilliant. He always knows what to say. He is humble yet confident. I find his speeches to be exciting and intelligent. He has good plans for our country's future. He's totally handsome. And it's just a plus that he went to Harvard Law School and can sympathize with the dread that I am going through right now.

I think America needs Obama. We need someone new and fresh. We need someone idealistic and open minded. I have complete confidence that he can replenish our currently poor reputation around the world. I know where Obama stands and I know he is about bringing people together on issues. The fact that he has no White House experience is all the more reason to vote for him. I want someone who can think like a real person, not like a politician.

I'm an Obama mama for so many reasons. The biggest reason, however, is his enthusiasm. He is sweeping the country with his bright smile, plan for change and his catchy enthusiasm. I have never been so excited about a candidate in my life. I would seriously give my left arm for him to win the Presidential election...

I respect the fact that Obama is married and loves his wife and children...but seriously, I can't control my wild fantasies of Obama, me, a bottle of wine and the President's White House Suit.... :) Someone slap me please, I really need it.

Baby Cuteness Overdose

Today I went shopping for my sister-in-law's baby shower- which is next week. Since I found out that I was pregnant, I have been trying so hard to avoid the baby aisles in every department store. I love baby clothes. Imagining all those tiny outfits on cute tiny baby parts makes me explode from an overdose of warm fuzzies and cuteness. But I was a little afraid that endulging these my baby senses would jinx the entire thing.

Today I had a viable excuse, however, for perusing aisle after aisle of dollsized onesies, hats, bibs, booties, mittens, and those adorable, soft baby towels with the folded corners. I overdosed on baby items of all kinds, breathed them all in, touched the tiny materials and imagined even tinier baby fingers and toes inside them. I have to say that even though newborns look kinda squished and wrinkly, a newborn is my favorite kind of baby. They are so tiny and wobbly. So helpless yet so strong. So incredibly mini in all ways. Even those powerful yet unperfected newborn cries have no comparison. I just want to nurture them to death.

I know there is something seriously wrong with me when it comes to babies. When I was young (like ten or eleven), I would try to fall asleep at night by imaginging me at an animal zoo where all the animals had babies and I would steal the animal babies and take care of them myself. It was a sick fantasy, I know. But this just shows how I have been enamored with babies my entire life.

Newborns are as close to the power/divinity of creation that we will ever get. Living proof that there is some miraculous power behind the design of each human cell, that same power that is orchestrating each step of the complex development process. It's so incredibly amazing that our cells know exactly what to do to shape us into what we become- a self sufficient body of organs and systems with independence, emotions, senses, individuality.

I still can't get myself to buy any baby items for our future baby. I guess I need to know whether it will be a boy or a girl first. Maybe I feel guilty endulging my desire to touch baby clothes and imagine my own baby wearing it. Maybe I still can't fathom the though of having a baby, a baby that is mine to care for.

I think newborns appeal to me so much because opportunities to care for them are so scarce. Moms with newborns do not often let babysitters care for the newborns, especially if they are breastfeeding. Newborns don't stay newborns very long either. It's hard to believe that not only will I be able to hold and love and take care of a newborn- but I will have unlimited access to the baby. Finally, a baby I can guiltlessly smother with my love for hours and hours. I won't even have to share! Do I really have to wait seven more months!?! OMG!

Pregnancy Food Pyramid

I don't remember the last time I ate chocolate. People who know me would be shocked into a coma if they could see what I have been eating lately.

Before I was pregnant, I ate chocolate all the time. I craved chocolate. I dreamed chocolate. I thought chocolate. Chocolate was my favorite food group. I would stock up on Symphany bars everytime Safeway had a 3/99 cents sale, and I would not be ashamed to eat half of my purchase on the ride home. I often would spend 40-60 minutes at the gym to justify my daily chocolate intake. That's commitment right there!

Last month, my obsession for chocolate quit-- cold turkey. I started to pass up the candy aisle at the supermarket. I instinctively found myself reaching for something chocolate, but when I realized what I was doing, I felt a sudden repulsion towards it-- like I had just picked up a handful of rotting broccoli florets. For three weeks, two mega-sized chocolate bars have been hiding on the refrigerator, untouched. I really have no explanation for my abnormal behavior.

Instead of wanting to eat chocolate all the time, or even at all, I have been craving diversity in my food. My hand keeps wandering into the vegetable tray in our fridge, in search of corn, carrots, broccoli, edamame, snow peas or even onions. Along the "diversity" line, I have been craving food that I haven't had in a really long time. This week, I convinced my Husband to go to a Mexican restaruant with me so I could eat tortilla soup. The next day for lunch, I ate fish and chips at Skippers. I hadn't been to Skippers since I was ten. Skippers was the only place my grandpa would go out to eat, so every other Sunday, my family would meet my grandparents at Skippers. The kids would get our own table where we would pretend to be pirates, play with our kid's meal toys and pick on each other. Even though it was a seafood place, I always only ordered chicken strips. I got a lot of flack from my grandparents for that one. Sadly, I had forgotten that only the kid's meal comes with jello...I really wanted to eat fish AND jello.... (it's just not the same when you separate them!).

Last night, I went to the grocery store so I could stock my fridge with edamame and to buy ingredients to make broccoli cheddar soup. So, there I was, in the kitchen at 10pm making broccoli cheddar soup from scratch.

The only bad thing about this "diversity" kick, is that I find it really hard to eat leftovers- my body is like a pouty teenager-- "hmph, I already ate this yesterday!" So, I have a fridge full of left over broccoli soup, a half eaten pizza, and the pulled pork that I made last weekend.

Barbie Secrets

This morning I woke up to a very disturbing dream (more disturbing than my dream of a gerbil running loose in my house, attacking my belongings with indiscriminate defecation). I dreamt that, to my horror, my husband uncovered a box under our bed filled with Barbie dolls and glittery Barbie outfits. The worst part of the dream-- they were mine!

I was so embarrassed at my husband's discovery of my secret indulgence. It was as if a mature (supposedly), married adult playing with Barbies was as unacceptable in dreamland society as child pornography is in ours. I was horrified that he knew the truth and, even worse, I was forced to confront my Barbie problem. I began to feel the weight of a burning Scarlet "B" on my forehead.

I think I know where my subconcious trauma over Barbies comes from. When I was a kid, I didn't really play with Barbies. In fact, I was a hardlined tomboy. I insisted on being a Ninja Turtles when we played make believe. I occassionally dabbled in other characters such as: the Beast from Beauty and the Beast, Sabastian the crab from the Little Mermaid, a cowboy, and a ninja mouse with a sword (I will stop there, this is painful already).

Perhaps, I suppressed all my girly desires and now they are threatening to take me on by force and come out all at once. Or perhaps, when I was little I associated with girly things negatively and thus developed some deep shame over being female? Maybe I wasn't loved as a child.

When I was seven I did have one traumatic run-in with Barbie. A friend (clearly not a close one) or one of my aunts (probably thinking I should act my gender) bought be a Barbie and a Ken for my birthday. At first I wasn't much amused. They lived in the box for a long, long time.

One day I got curious and took them out. I wondered what they looked like without clothes. Then I innocently wondered if they could have babies. My friend had told me that people had babies when they "slept on each other naked." After many attempts, I realized Barbie and Ken could NOT have babies. Then not so innocently, I used Ken and Barbie to enact what I thought "making out" would be . I wish I could remember what a seven year old with very catholic parents believed "making out" to entail.

Although I didn't know exactly what I was doing with Ken and Barbie, this was my first exploration into sexuality. I felt a little guilty at the end (sounds like I'm talking about a one night stand here). I felt guilty for making Barbie and Ken engage in loveless, amateur coitus and guilty for betraying the Ninja Turtles. I took one last look at Barbie, then did soemthing I later blamed on my brother.

I ripped Barbie's head right off!

She was never the same again. So Ken went after Barbie's sister, Stacie.