Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Happy 2nd Birthday

Step One: Try to light hand on fire

Step Two: Smash cupcake to face

Fletcher, my fearless boy, you have been with us for two brief, life-altering years. You practically flew out to meet us, and have been bringing adventure to our lives ever since.

You may never comprehend what that means to me, what you've given me just by being you.

By being mine.

It isn't something that can be explained. Saying you'd give your life for someone is just words until you become the parent of a bright, demanding, magical child like you. 

Being immersed in your present and future, I have a hard time remembering what you were like in the beginning, or a year ago. You were walking then, but not as fast. You knew what you wanted, but weren't as independent or stubborn. A lot of the things you control and take ownership of now were out of your reach then.

Your reach continues to grow.

Today you begin your third year. This year, I'm determined, you will learn to speak beyond your four words, become potty trained, move out of your crib, move into a new house, have more time with grandparents or daycare, and God willing become a brother.

Big changes.

Nothing you can't handle.

My little boy, you won't always be little. But you will always have someone who will protect you, stand up for you, and hold your hand. You will always have someone who believes in your ability to learn and stand on your own. Someone who will listen. Someone who will let go when that's what's best for you. Someone who will never let go in her heart.

I will always be at your mercy, little man. There's no place else I'd want to be.

ice cream cake


his first mp3 player

a little too much partying?

a present saved for his actual birthday

 Happy 2nd Birthday, Baby

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

0, 1, 2




Monday, May 21, 2012

It's a good thing I don't wear makeup.

Just when I think I have everything under control, I seem to fall apart.

Having a big sobbing cry the moment upon arriving at work on a Monday morning is not a good thing.

I'm trying to separate myself from this feeling and take a serious look at it, like a scientist would. Put the slide under the microscope, get answers.

Stress. Trying to conceive, trying to sell my home, trying to be a worker, trying to be a wife, trying to be a mother. Getting a speeding ticket I can't afford.

Failure. I'm not getting pregnant. No one's buying our home. I stare at my computer at work like I've forgotten how to use it. I don't think I'm the wife my husband deserves. I'm screwing up our insurance with my speeding ticket.

Guilt. Because of the failing. And I don't want to hurt the people I love with the blinking vacancy sign I carry with me everywhere.

Fatigue. I'm not even sure I should get pregnant if I'm this exhausted all the time. Why? The fatigue is unwarranted. After all, I'm not pregnant, and I get around 7 hours of sleep at night.

I think I could sleep for 12 hours. And if not, I'd have no problem with just laying there if that were possible.

But it feels like there's so much to be done (and really it's just basic stuff, shouldn't be hard). Have to shop. Have to cook. Have to take care of the child, who happens to be my Big Love, my reason for living. Have to. Have to.

Have to open my eyes, move my legs, stop crying.

I have a lot. More than a lot. I have everything. Still, I feel like M'Lynn in Steel Magnolias, except I'm not sure what died. I wish someone would explain it to my heart.

I might talk to a professional, except I have better things to do with that time and money than to find out that I'm being a crybaby. (This is my history with doctors: Hi, my wrists kill me and I can't use my hands. Oh, there's nothing wrong with me? Okay. Hi, I can't get pregnant. Oh, there's nothing wrong with me? Okay. Hi, my back has me in absolute agony 24 hours a day. Oh, I'm just out of shape? Right, thanks, bye. AND I PAY THESE PEOPLE HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS. I'm now tapped out and hate doctors.)

Although I'm tired always, I only feel down like this now and then. PMS is a definite trigger. Maybe this is PMS. Heaven knows, I'm aware of the power of hormones.

Writing it out here helps. I still love to read. I still want to write. It's hard not having the time to do the things I enjoy doing. At least I know I still enjoy them. I need to find my inner strength. Embrace the cry when I need to cry. Be good to the ones who love me. Find a way to move, do things, even though my feet are trapped in sand.

* * *

The essentially selfish nature of people has bothered me for a long time, in the sense that I'm bothered by "the world" and "the way things are." How petulant of me.

Knowing I'm one of those selfish beings is the worst part.

All of my problems stem from my selfishness -- mostly, wanting more. Wanting more never ends well. And my biggest problem, the thing I constantly want more of, is time.

I crave time like a drug. It's why I have a speeding ticket. It's why I get angry and almost physically ill at the necessity of employment. It's why I don't want to bother doing anything or going anywhere or knowing anyone.

It isn't healthy.

But at least I know what I'm looking at in that microscope now.

Friday, May 18, 2012

Growing up

This song makes Fletcher dance. When we dance together, I always wish I could freeze the moment and save it in my pocket for a day when he's out of my reach.

He's growing up on me. There's a lot less cuddling these days, which makes it all the sweeter when he does choose my lap over his designated movie watching bean bag chair. Although he's still a physical creature, craving room to run and climb, movies have become an obsession. The Toy Story movies top the list, along with Tarzan, Shrek, Little Mermaid, Enchanted, Tangled, Cinderella, The Wizard of Oz (funny how that movie stands the test of time).

At the slightest bit of frustration, his instinct is to make a loud whining sound. If the frustration persists for more than a moment, his next instinct is to throw and hit. I'm struggling to figure out how to communicate that feeling frustration is fine and normal and you go ahead and make yourself feel better, but also that there are good and appropriate ways to vent frustration that don't involve hurting anyone or anything, or making my ears bleed.

He babbles and says mom, da, up, out. Possibly hi and down. Everything else is "ut-da." No idea.

I'm still eager for him to talk, but I can't really imagine having a real conversation with him. Even if he were talking, I know him well enough to know he can't be reasoned with. That doesn't mean I won't try, when the time comes. It just means my head will be sore from how much I bang it into the wall.

Ah, growing up.