Ever since I had kids, my bladder and I are NOT friends. It doesn’t matter how many fucking Kegels I do, it’s like my bladder control left the premises when I birthed Cupcake. Just up and walked out. What, you want examples? Well this blog has no purpose if not to sometimes embarrass me and subsequently amuse you, so here we go….
1. If I cough unexpectedly and my bladder is not empty, I will likely pee my pants a little bit. This happens everywhere; car, work, home, in bed, or even during sex. Yes. I know. FUCKING EW. I can’t help it.
2. I went walking around the building parking lot last Wednesday with my coworkers at lunch. I thought it was going to be a leisurely stroll, but I get out there and my CRAZY friend O whips out a pedometer, throws on some running shoes and says “10 laps, GO!” and starts speedwalking like the hounds of hell are at her heels. HOLY HELL. I made it one lap, but I had to pee, and I knew if I kept walking that fast I WOULD. I just couldn’t hold it in and exercise at the same time.
3. As I was driving home on Friday night from my design meeting with @workingmomfence (Kami), I had to pee. Badly. I had consumed most of an iced grande skinny vanilla latte (if I can’t exercise, at least I get them skinny… right?) and I hadn’t thought to pee before I jumped in the car. I stopped at ANOTHER Starbucks to get my husband a coffee and pee, but it was occupado when I got there. I was waiting outside the door, trying desperately not to pee myself or end up in the emergency room from a burst bladder, when the door opens. I turn in relief, prepared to rush inside, but I am confronted by the tallest man I have ever seen, wearing full on rollerblading gear. Rollerblades, helmet, knee & elbow pads, reflectors.. the whole nine yards. I was too shocked to laugh, thank God, or I definitely would have pissed myself, but instead I picked my jaw up off the floor and rushed into the bathroom. I almost didn’t make it.
4. I was in the bathroom a few months ago when the phone started to ring. I was peeing. My husband was at the ER with my sister at the time, so I assumed it was him. I panicked just managed to stop my pee stream in order to run to the phone. Unfortunately as I started to run (pants around my ankles, mind you) I couldn’t keep control and I peed. All over my legs. And my pants. YES. I AM ACTUALLY WRITING THIS ON MY BLOG FOR YOU TO READ. It was my husband calling to say he was on his way home, everything was fine. At that point, I didn’t bother to go back to the bathroom to pee and just jumped in the shower instead. *sigh*
And on that note, I think it’s best I stop, don’t you?
We’ve always had trouble with Cupcake & naps. She’s 3.5 now, and the mistakes that we made over, oh, the last three years are coming back to bit us in the ass, repeatedly, continuously.
A few months ago we finally got to a point where she was falling asleep within 15 minutes or so. We were still sitting in the room with her while she went to sleep, but we could see the light at the end of the tunnel. A time when we could read her a story, give her a kiss and be on our merry way while she put herself to sleep in her bed like a big girl.
Three weeks ago something changed. I don’t know what it was, but something triggered a bad reaction from her, a bad naptime, a bad experience… and now naptime at our house stresses her out to the point that (again) sometime she wakes up, panics, and vomits.
I feel like the worst mother in the world.
I didn’t recognize the signs quickly enough. For the first two weekends after the change, I reacted badly. I threw my own tantrums right alongside hers. I yelled and threatened, I revoked movie privileges and refused ice cream requests. I cried and I told her I was disappointed in her. I reacted badly.
I should have realized that she was in fight or flight mode. I should have recognized the signs of stress. I should have nipped it in the bud. Ultimately my reaction those two weeks just made it worse.
It took two and a half hours yesterday to get her to take her nap. She finally fell asleep after I changed my approach. I resolved to be calm – so calm, in fact, that she asked me why I was acting like a statue. I was determined to simply place her back in the bed when she sat up, stood up, rolled over, wiggled around. I resolved to calmly tell her over and over again that this was naptime, not playtime, and that we needed to sleep so our bodies could get a chance to grow and be strong. So we could have a good afternoon. So Mommy could get rid of her headache. So she could watch a movie/play outside/have ice cream after dinner.
It took about 40 more minutes for her to calm down, but she finally did. I saw her relax, and I took my chance. I asked her if she wanted to try napping again. She agreed, and she was out cold in less than 10 minutes.
I’m trying to focus on the final success, the tactic that worked. I’m trying to focus on the fact that I managed to finally step outside her room, take one minute to sob and one minute to collect myself, and walk back in with a better attitude. It’s hard, but I need to stop getting stressed by her. I am the parent, I need to be in control.
I am trying not to remember that when Geeklet woke up from her nap two minutes after Cupcake fell asleep that I cried like a two year old. I am trying not to remember that half an hour later, when I realized DaddyGeek wasn’t coming back after work because he was starting his night class, that I felt like screaming and I stomped around the apartment for a few minutes, irrationally angry at him.
I’m trying to focus on the good and on improving, because nothing else is worthwhile. At this point, my little girl needs me to help her stop being scared. And focusing on anything else is just a waste of time.
There’s something about being – or even just feeling - unique. It’s pretty amazing. Bounce-in-your-step, smile-on-your-face, buy-your-coworkers-coffee-for-no-reason amazing.
I’m back at Company L, where I worked previously for three years, making my from department to department as new opportunities opened up. I’m back, and with my shiny new title of Business Technology Administrator, I feel special. I’m on the Technology team (IT Department), a small group of three. Two other older (than me) dudes, and myself. Young chica.
A woman in a technology department is still relatively unique, and being 25 years old in this position feels especially fabulous.
But here’s the best part: I have power.
I have keys to all the doors. I have access to all the servers. I have the right to make business decisions about the way our company uses our CRM software, our WordPress installations, and anything else related to business & technology.
There’s just something about being the only girl in this department. The feeling is amplified if I dress up. I feel womanly and sexy and geekishly delicious.
I’m hella busy, yo. HELLA BUSY. So, I am enlisting the help of some of my fave (old & new) bloggers to fill up my space and give you interesting, fresh content here while I’m off banging my head against a wall. Or doing WordPress Design. It could be either. Or both.
First up is Kisha, who blogs at In Through the Out Door, a site I just recently discovered (and now subscribe to) via Girl Talk Thursday. She offered me the choice of writing something serious, funny or risque, and OBVIOUSLY I picked risque. Oh, and put down your Diet Coke before you get to the end, your laptop won’t appreciate the spit-take!
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Dudes. I am SO excited to be here, guest posting for my chick Mommy Geekology. I love me some geeks…my hubby is an electrical engineer, and actually has said, out loud, “You can’t spell Geek without EE!” He is so lucky he makes a lot of money, seriously.
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I was a late bloomer. That may be surprising to those who know me, considering what a slut I am how sexually open I am. But I didn’t start messing around with boys until my junior/senior year of high school, and didn’t lose my virginity until I was 19.
The first guy I was with was my first everything…you name the base, he was the first to round it with me. And since I wasn’t much of a porn fan, I had a VERY limited knowledge of the male anatomy. I knew what it did, and how to make it do what it did, but that was about it.
Because of this limited knowledge, I was unaware of what was considered small, and what was considered large. I did know, however, that my boyfriend liked to receive oral and that I was basically a head goddess. I could deep throat that thing until the cows came home. I just figured I was born with a natural talent. Some people are singers, some people are athletes, some people are exceptional at giving head. Whatevs. Whenever we’d be getting really into it, he would always say, “take it all, baby, take it all!” And I would be thinking, “oh yes I will because I am AWESOME!”
Fast forward a few years. We broke up, I was ready to sow some wild oats and basically get my slut on see what else was out there. I went to a bar one night, picked out a dude who was to my liking, let him get me drunk, then took him home. Rawr. We get in the bedroom, clothes start coming off, I unzip his pants and my chin drops to the floor. ”Holy shit, that thing is huge!” I exclaimed. Looking back, it was probably only a bit above average, but compared to what I had been broken in on…wow. Not only did I give him an ego boost he still probably carries around to this day, I gave myself a jaw ache for the ages.
After confiding in some girlfriends, and whoring around some more doing some research with cute boys, I finally had enough data to come up with a baseline. Boyfriend had been tiny. Pitifully tiny. Three inches tiny. Oh man.
Of course when I met Husband, I told him this story. Because nothing makes your current man more secure than telling him how pathetic your previous men had been. He laughed, said he wasn’t surprised, and me and his python effed for hours. Fabulous. And it turns out I am a head goddess even with normal sized men. Yay!
So Husband and I get married, and we came back to my hometown for a visit after the ceremony. We end up at a bar with a bunch of my old friends, including Boyfriend. I think Boyfriend was still a little butthurt over me marrying someone else, and has always been the type to show off. So he comes over and buys the whole table a round of shots, and asks Husband to make the toast. Husband raises his shot glass and says, “Take it all, baby. Take! It! All!”
Thank god he said that before the shot was in my mouth, or there would have been duck fart sprayed all over everyone at my table. And yes, not only does he have a big dick, he’s got the sense of humor to match.
I believe that getting your bitch on is part of the human condition. That’s why I just couldn’t pass up this Girl Talk Thursday topic – Pet Peeves.
Here’s a short (ahem) list of mine:
Breathing Very Loudly: If you didn’t just participate in a foot race, I should not be able to hear you breathing from across the room. Stop it. Stop it now. I would rather see you passed out from lack of oxygen than hear you breathe like that even one. more. time.
Related: Breathing Very Loudly WHILE Eating: This is even worse than just Breathing Very Loudly. Unless you just hunted and killed your meal after nearly starving to death (without stopping to cook it, because that would have given you a chance to catch your damn breath), you need to stop. So unless you are Breathing Very Loudly While Eating With Blood Dripping Down Your Chin, it’s unacceptable.
Almost Putting Things Away: If you got up off your fat, lazy ass long enough to pick up your glass and walk it over to the kitchen, don’t you dare put that next to the sink on the counter. You either put it in the dishwasher, or IN the sink. If the sink is so full of dirty dishes that you cannot fit it into the sink, then guess what? IT’S TIME TO DO SOME FUCKING DISHES ASSWIPE.
Related: Almost Putting Away: groceries, toys, toiletries, laundry, papers to be filed, etc etc. {yes, I am totally guilty of most of this. And it pisses me off when I do it, I don’t need you doing it too, ok buddy?}
Yawning Without Covering Your Mouth: This is not your annual physical. I am not your doctor, nor your dentist, nor your prey. Cover your damn mouth when you yawn, I can see all the way to your tonsils and it’s just indecent!
Arguing About “Over” or “Under” re: Toilet Paper: Who the FUCK cares? Seriously? Is your life SO MUNDANE?! {not YOU, of course. I can understand why YOU care.}
Nicknames When You Don’t Know Me: Don’t nickname me. You don’t know me. And if you continue to call me whatever stupid nickname you’ve chose, you never will. Possibly because you’ll spend the rest of your days in a coma.
Wiggling Your Toes Within My Line of Vision While I Watch TV: Yes I know this one is a little insane. But if you are sitting on the couch next to me, and your legs are crossed such that your foot is next to me, please do not wiggle your toes. It’s all I can see and it’s driving me fucking batty.
Breathing On Me: When you breathe on me it makes my soul shrivel up into a tiny, wrinkly, crushed version of it’s former self, and that allows me to do horrible things to you. Don’t breathe on me.
Related: Breathing On Me While I Am Trying To Sleep: I cannot sleep if you are facing me and if I can feel your breath on my face. It will keep me awake. Please turn the other way, I like to lay facing this side.
Exemptions: Breathing On Me While I Am Trying To Sleep If I Gave Birth To You: You are adorable. Breathe where ever you want. But stop kicking me, you little fucker, or I’ll shove you off the bed.
Not Calling When You Said You Would: I understand, life gets in the way. But if I expect you to call and then you don’t, my mind goes bad places and I start to panic and consider calling hospitals and patrolling the dark alleys to find your rotting corpse. So call me when you say you will, OKAY?! ::crazy eyes::
Catty Behavior: Everyone hates high school for a reason. It sucked, everyone acted immature and petty, and you weren’t as cool as you wanted to be. Yes, I understand that the blogosphere brings up all those emotions that you repressed after you got to college because you wanted to be more adult. I don’t care. Repress them again, go to therapy, whatever. Just stop sniping at each other, ok? We’re all human, we all fuck up, we all have our own issues. We get attitudes, we make rude comments… Do Unto Others, y’all. Just be nice.
Touching My Eyebrows: Don’t touch my eyebrows. It’s a thing with me. And don’t touch YOUR eyebrows while I’m looking. That’s a thing with me, too.
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Runners up:judging my list of pet peeves, reading over my shoulder, not saying please and thank you, leaving your shopping cart in the middle of the grocery store which makes me wonder whether I can take it or whether you’ve left it there for a reason, leaving your shopping cart in the middle of the parking lot so I hit it when it’s dark and scratch my car, leaving your shopping cart in the parking lot in an open space which means that a) I can’t park there or b) I can’t pull through YOU WHORE, obvious twitter ads filling up my twitter stream all the time don’t you ever tweet ANYTHING else?, following me on twitter and then not accepting my follow back request because you are protected, MySpace just as a general rule, people who want to purchase something from me on Craigslist as a general rule, overuse of hashtags, using IM/Twitter speak in a real conversation (i.e. SAYING “lol”)
Summer, 1998. I am 14 years old. I dance several times a week at a dance studio in my town. I have long brown hair. I don’t usually wear makeup but I feel confident, and pretty.
My first job was at a local convenience store. The owners were Peruvian, an older married couple. The wife was my boss, and her husband worked the counter with her. He smiled a lot, spoke little English. He had white hair and was affectionate. At first, I liked to think of him a the Grandfather I didn’t really have.
It all started innocently enough. He would comment about how skinny I was, that I should eat more. He offered me tata and snacks for free. His wife was so austere, so stern, so harsh, it was a welcome reprieve when he spoke to me. It was a small store, and it was usually just me and them.
I can’t pinpoint when, but at some point he started to make subtle advances. He would put his hand on my waist as I walked by, murmuring about how tiny I was, about my “beautiful dancer’s body.” He’d come up behind me and put his hands on my waist, my shoulders, touch my hair. I didn’t do anything about it. I was young. I didn’t quite understand what was going on, though I knew I wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. I rationalized that he was just a nice, lonely old man. Like a grandfather. I clung to that thought, using it as a rationale to continue working there, continue talking and joking with him, continue ignoring what was really going on.
He became bolder. He would tickle me, taking the chance to slide his hands under my shirt and touch the soft skin of my belly, the smooth curve of my back. I giggled, I danced away, I pretended it was ok.
Even bolder. He would slide his hand up underneath my shirt, complimenting my beauty, my grace. I tried to ignore it. I joked, I spun away, I stopped rationalizing and went with a full-on mental block. It wasn’t happening.
One Sunday morning at 5am, putting together newspapers, I hit my breaking point. My mother was there with me, helping me put the papers together. While she was in the back and I was carrying papers out to the front of the store, he pushed his hands up beneath my shirt and touched my bra. I ripped away from him. I didn’t speak to him again. I quit my job a week later, and it was a year or more before I told my mother what had happened. Not until my sister wanted to apply for a job there. I couldn’t bear the thought of her going through the same thing.
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May, 2009. I am 24. I am working at a corporate office, and I am pregnant and happily married. I love my job.
Nearly 2 years ago, I discovered I was pregnant with Geeklet. We were thrilled, and after a couple of months I decided it was time to tell my boss. He took me out to lunch. He drove. We talked. He was a good friend of mine. We worked in a small department, all sitting together in a large office. Three of us, only three of us — young Greek guy that I was sure was gay, whose attitude often rubbed me the wrong way, and Gustavo. He was from Peru, and he was a true gentleman. He held doors for me. He opened car doors and offered to get me a drink at company functions. He was proper and kind and sensitive.
He was even kind, and gentle, and a gentleman, when he asked me to have sex with him.
He was kind, and sweet, when he told me he’d nearly cheated on his then-fiancee (now wife and mother of his child) while she was still in Peru.
He was gentle when he told me that he wanted to have sex with another woman, but didn’t want to pay for a prostitute. But I seemed nice, and he thought I might have sex with him.
He was sweet when I refused him.
He thanked me for not slapping him.
He drove us back to work, and he was polite throughout the entire afternoon.
He was polite when HR called him in and questioned him about the incident.
He was gentle and remorseful when he admitted to asking me for sex.
He was gentlemanly and polite when I changed departments because I could no longer work next to him.
He was polite when I confronted him months later to tell him that I thought I deserved an apology.
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I’m at a new job now. I work in a department of women. My husband works here. It’s a good arrangement. ‘Nuff said.
I identify strongly with Britney Spears. Not in a show-my-hoochie-cuz-I-don’t-wear-panties way, or a crazy-behavior-for-shock-value way. I identify with her as a singer, a performer, a young girl, who is desperately trying to find her way in this world. I followed, and still follow, news stories about her closely. I read the gossip mags looking for a shred of truth, I listen to the lyrics of her songs, I buy her albums and I wonder, often, what it would be like to live her life.
Let’s lay it out in black & white:
Similarities:
We are both in our late 20s – in fact, we’re about a year apart in age
We are both singers (though, admittedly, she is more of a performer than songstress)
We are both dancers (though, admittedly, I haven’t danced in years and I am nowhere near as good)
We both married early
We both have two children (hers boys, mine girls) around the same ages
We both have divorced parents
We both gained a little weight after having kids (Gasp, normal!)
We both have our belly buttons pierced
Differences:
Clearly, I am not a celebrity, and therefore, I don’t have the stress (and yes, fun) that comes with that
I’m not divorced
My mother or father are not acting as conservator of my affairs, my life
I haven’t been married more than once
No one has taken my children from me
I haven’t been forcibly hospitalized
She had a personal trainer to help her lose weight and look HAWT again
The differences seem so clear until I look more closely. What is that list, really, except a list of chance? The lines get blurred when I wonder if I were somehow catapulted to stardom at a young age, who is to say that I wouldn’t eventually crumble under the pressure, using my behavior and words to desperately reach out for help from someone, anyone? Who can say that I wouldn’t go a little bit crazy from untreated depression? I’ve been there, depressed, horribly depressed. My family helped me. What if my family weren’t so aware of my depression? What if I were surrounded by an environment where it was not OK to be depressed, to have issues, to need help? What if?
When I look at stories of her from two, three years ago or more, I just see a scared little girl. I see someone screaming for help and I see the world capitalizing on it, ignoring the real message, judging. I want to scream at them – what if it was your friend? Your daughter? Your mother? Would you just sit back and watch or would you do something?
I look at her now and I see someone who, having received the help she needed, has gotten back on track. Who has accomplished more in her young life than I will likely ever accomplish. Who has gone through hell and back and who will hopefully be a better person for that experience. I see someone who needed family and friends to lean on.
That’s not so different than I. That’s not so different than any of us.
I’m sure it’s not just me. Who do you identify with?
I’ve spent a lot of time this past year feeling bitter. I’m tired of the feeling. The aching, gnawing, acidic feeling in my stomach is not welcome in 2010. I’ve spent too much time consumed by bitter, angry thoughts; writing magnificently angry and righteous emails and letters to “friends” and family who have burned me, hurt me.
Just a few weeks ago, I was in the bathroom in the morning, getting ready for work. I was using a round brush to pull my hair back into a ponytail, my typical hairstyle of choice (though with a new haircut, we hope that will change). The bottom layer of my hair is shorter than the rest, from a previous haircut, and it’s hard to get into the ponytail. That day I brushed it down and let it be a little messy. I thought about my friend Sarah K.
Sarah wore ponytails a lot. Except her hair was so short that half of it would fall out the bottom, like mine. I’ve always called her my best friend. Looking back I don’t know why. She wasn’t my best friend. She wasn’t even a good friend. I just wanted her to be my best friend. We’d been best friends a long time ago. Grammar school. Middle school. We were inseparable. We had so much fun … they called us Gasoline & Matches, we were always getting into trouble. We loved every minute of it.
We once stopped riding our bikes near the front of my house and started a fist fight with each other to see who would win.
She once ate so many brownies and popcorn that she couldn’t even remember how much she’d eaten. Then she puked it up everywhere.
We used to sit on the sloping roof overhang outside her bedroom window and wait for the cops to see us and call her parents.
Her room was painted blue. Her middle name is Elaine. I always thought she was so cool. She’s great with children. I always thought she’d be great with my children. And the two times she saw them? She was. She was great with them. {oh god I’m going to cry. This is ridiculous}
I loved her very much, but she spent her entire life forgetting about me.
As I stood there in front of the mirror, tears springing suddenly to my eyes, I felt angry. I felt so angry that I had tried for years, reaching out to her, emailing her, calling her, finding her, reminding her that I was here, I wanted to be her friend. Catching one lunch, one dinner, one coffee every 10-12mos. I believed her when she said she wanted to hang out more. She wanted to see me more. She wanted to talk more. Email more. Share more. Be there for me more.I fell for it last year again, after she came home from a trip to Israel. She blogged about it, and I read every entry. {I am so pathetic}
She started blowing me off between Middle School and High School. She stopped being a tomboy and figured out how to be a girl. She hung out with a faster crowd and she did things I wouldn’t do. She would come back to me every so often and ask for my help. Boyfriend trouble, family trouble, job trouble, house trouble. She wanted my help fixing it. I fixed it and she went off, waving goodbye gaily, already forgetting what I’d done for her. Every time.
Senior year, at prom, she was drunk. She found me in the bathroom. She told me I was the best friend she’d ever had. She told me that she never appreciated how I always put her back together. She told me she wished she had spent more time with me, and listened to me when I told her that doing E at 14 was a bad idea. That dating drug dealers was a bad idea. That smoking pot was a bad idea. That coming to the senior prom drunk was a Bad Idea.
I knew she was drunk but I felt vilified. I felt recognized. I felt important.
We graduated and I saw her about once a year. Once each time I was pregnant. Once after Cupcake was born. Once after Geeklet was born, which was the last time I saw her. I called her and left her a voicemail a few months later. Nothing. A few weeks after that I called and caught her – but she was busy. She said she’d call me in a few days. Nothing. I sent her an email. Nothing.
I sent another email and told her I wouldn’t be calling anymore. That I hoped she was having a good time, but that I couldn’t put any more energy into a relationship she wasn’t willing to put effort into as well. I needed some closure.
She responded and said she couldn’t deal with a “friend break up” right now because her boyfriend had dumped her. She’d call me in a few days.
Say it with me, people! Nothing.
I emailed her again, against the wisdom that is Twitter. I had too much history with her. I needed to get some closure. I told her I wasn’t surprised she hadn’t called – that was exactly why I couldn’t play this pretend friendship game anymore. I wished her happy holidays, a good new year, and signed off. She responded and said she was sorry that I didn’t think she was a good friend, then made a bunch of excuses.
I told her I was sorry too. That was the end. I cried for a long time. I mourned the death of a friendship that wasn’t even a good friendship. I was bitter about how long I’d pursued this friendship to end it like this. I’ve felt angry and bitter many times since then. The moment in the mirror, hair halfway to a ponytail, was just one. It hits me randomly in the car, or at work, and I wonder why she was so dismissive of me. Why I wasn’t important to her when she was so important to me. She was right, it was a friend-break-up.
I’m still sad and angry and bitter about it, but I don’t want to be this way. It’s a waste of energy. A waste of tears, which are rolling down my face right now to beat the band and I can’t stop them. It’s a waste, such a waste.
Here comes my 2010 resolution: I don’t want to waste time on this, or any other useless, bitter, ridiculous situation this year. I want to try and accept things for what they are and if I don’t like it, I don’t like it. Bitterness won’t help me. I need to pick up and move on and stop being so angry, so bitter, particularly about lost friendships. I’ve gained so many new friends in 2009. Sure, only one lives within driving distance. Most I’ll probably never meet face to face. I’m of the iGeneration, I should thrive on this, these computer-screen/social-media/internet community friendships and I DO. Sometimes it’s not enough for me, but I can’t be angry about it. I can’t be bitter. If I want more friends I need to find a way to go out and get them.
So. 2010. Less bitterness. More friends.
Let’s go.
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* Title inspired by the book I just finished reading, Bitter is the New Black, by Jen Lancaster. It’s a light, funny read that is autobiographical, which makes it even funnier, and I really enjoyed it. Laughed out loud quite a bit, which is relatively unusual for me (I read books and watch movies with hardly any emotion on my face, causing people to think I am a) bored b)angry or c)asleep with my eyes open). If it were summer I’d say it’s a good beach read, but since it’s winter I’ll say it’s a good read for when you need something relatively mindless and uncomplicated after a very long and complicated day. I have a lot of those, which is why I love Sophie Kinsella so much.
This is the token end-of-year post. I’m not usually one for the token-whatever post, I read too many other great Christmas, Thanksgiving, Birthday, New Year’s, etc posts.. but I wanted to talk about this year because it’s been a big year for me.
Firsts in 2009
Last year was a year of many firsts for me. I branched out and did things I’ve never done before. I had a lot of great experiences. I learned a lot. I fell in love with this community more than ever. I prayed more than I’ve prayed in my life. A few of the highlights:
I got off Blogger and decided to take blogging, and my internet community, seriously. I recognized and tried to accept that my friendships are scattered across the country, and that not having local friends doesn’t make me a loser behind a computer screen.
I flew in a plane, by myself, to Chicago, IL, adding one more state to my small, small list of travels. I attended BlogHer with some of my favorite people and realized that while I was never shy in high school, being around so many women that I admired and respected caused me to clam up and sit on the sidelines. Regardless, I had a blast and got more than a few thrills when people I loved and admired actually recognized my name.
I walked away from a company I loved because it was clear they were going under. They’re still hanging on, but barely. I’m glad I made the move – I found a stable job at a stable company that is growing, and I get to commute with and work alongside my husband every day. Our relationship has grown and deepened and strengthened as a result. I’ll be sad when this era ends.
I figured out how to handle a 2 year old just in time for my little Cupcake to turn 3. Then I realized I knew nothing about parenting and that I’d never keep up. Then I realized that seems to be the same thing everyone is doing, and that my mother holds me to unrealistic standards. She’s been doing this for over 25 years. I learned to give myself a break even if she won’t. Towards the end of the year I even learned to stand up for some of my parenting decisions. I told her that if she wanted the kids dressed in matching, adorable outfits every day, she would have to do it, because in the grand scheme of life? Cute clothes for the kids, or even outfits that match, are not my priority. If the kids are relatively clean, happy, and well fed I consider that a win, and you won’t change my mind.
I started, then stopped, then started college again, as a full-time online student taking condensed classes to get a little further along in that BA in Education. I’m struggling to find time and balance it all, but I’m trucking along, and not just because I don’t feel like making student loan payments.
I grieved, truly grieved, the death of several children that I’ve never met. I learned, again, that life is not fair. I realized how strongly social media and the internet community here affects my life. I cried for days. I still cry. I still grieve for those lost lives. I pray for their families. I’ve prayed more this year than I’ve prayed in my entire life.
I started my own small business, taking on new clients and old friends alike who are in need of blog design, help moving from Blogger or WordPress.com to self-hosted WordPress, and graphic design elements like headers and buttons. I learned how to value my work and respect myself. I created things that I am so damn proud of. I helped pay for our Christmas this year with that extra money, and nothing feels so good as doing something you love and knowing you’ve helped your family by doing it.
I went to therapy.
I stopped going to therapy.
I became addicted to Starbucks.
Regrets in 2009
It’s fashionable today to say that we have no regrets and I’ve been known to say it myself. I lied. I have regrets, I have loads of regrets. I wish I didn’t, because that would mean that I’ve lived my life perfectly. I’ve made mistakes and I wish I hadn’t, regardless of how I’ve grown or changed as a person as a result of them… if I hadn’t made them in the first place maybe it would mean I didn’t have a flaw or weakness to overcome in the first place. I don’t know. What I do know is that I have regrets, and rather than shrug them off, I want and need to acknowledge them and remind myself that I am fallible. I make mistakes. I hurt people. I need to own that.
I have made mistakes with my children. Every day. I yell too much. I use an angry tone. I don’t spend enough time just playing with them. I am not always fair. I am not always consistent. I expect too much. I have coddled the baby and expected too much of Big Sister. I forget that Big Sister is still a Little Girl and needs to be treated like a Little Girl not a Small Adult.
I have accidentally (and on purpose) ignored friends and family. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
I have lied to my mother. I have screamed at my husband for nothing in the middle of sleepless nights. I have been a bitch many times.
I have tried to make it all about ME. I have been selfish. I have been uncaring. I have said cruel things.
I have held grudges.
I didn’t even try to lose weight. I bitch about my body but I didn’t even try. I was a hypocrite.
It’s been a long hard year. I’m ready to put it aside. I’m ready to go forth into a new decade and say What’s UP bitches?! I’m HERE! I’m ready to make an impact. I’m ready to be the best mother I’ve ever been. I’m ready for, 2010. I’m ready.
I am burning out. I need to find a balance between home, school, work, other work, kids, cleaning, laundry, relaxation. I can’t find it right now. I can’t find it right now, and I am burning out.
Three times in the past two weeks, I’ve just gone straight to bed as soon as the kids were asleep. Note: that’s unlike me. I like to stay up and do a little something. The problem is that it’s not that I didn’t have anything to do. I have plenty to do, too much to do, and I keep taking on projects. I am hooking a fucking rug as a Christmas present for chrissakes. WHO THE FUCK HAS TIME FOR THAT?!
Part of it is the holidays. Part of it is just the regular ebb and flow of life.
Regardless, I still need to find balance. I need to stop jerking around to each part of my life, trying desperately to complete a task before I am pulled away again. I should be doing other things than blogging right now but I’m exploding. I need to get some of this out.
I need to breathe. I don’t feel like I have time to breathe. And when I find time, I don’t feel like I have the energy.
How do you do it? How do you balance? What do you have going on in your life? Write me a book in the comments, I don’t care. I want it. I need to know how you’re managing. Or not managing. I don’t want to be alone in this struggle.
Oh, and put down your Diet Coke before you get to the end, your laptop won’t appreciate the spit-take!
Just ... no. {Wardrobe malfunction}
Excess
