Everyone who comments on The Manolo's blog, they feel compelled to assume his writing style. Understandable, since it is quite infectious, no?
I’d always contended that things “always happen for a reason” whenever something unexpected and otherwise unexplained happened to me. Getting pregnant with The Governor was one thing. Meeting a certain person who had no other real purpose in my life but to give me a much needed ego boost was another. Finally, not getting that “perfect job” in a small, secluded lakeside town the Midwest town last September was the last significant unexplained happening to leave its indelible mark on these past four years of my life.
Yet, when it comes to actually identifying those reasons, one can never be too sure.
For instance, perhaps The Governor’s existence cemented mine and Conan’s relationship because he gave us a life which required us to dig in and commit ourselves to having something solid to the point of near-tangibility binding us. Or perhaps he came along because I need to grow past who I was five years ago, and to perhaps put my career goals into much needed perspective. Four years after his birth, is still too short of a time to be able to assess his mark on my life.
Now the Southern Gentlemen—I’m still mystified with this one. To be honest, I still think a bit about him, and the memories haven’t necessarily been buried away, and in fact they are still slightly implanted in my brain, much like the stretchmarks I have on my inner thighs from my pregnancy. To be sure, they are quite faint. For what its worth, he bears a certain resemblance to Jesse Brinkley on The Contender.
Which accounts for the very real fascination, on my part and the need to watch NBC on Sunday nights. Such sweet, pathetic fascination-so apparently strong that it has yet to just go away. But one could say that I needed his influence and its effects on my psyche, and allowed me to see that I was just too good to be treated so poorly by my workplace colleagues. Or that I was attractive to some.
I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again, I told him late in our friendship, right before his presence in my life reduced itself to mere memories.
Who really knows what all of these things “mean?” And why do I persist in having them mean something at all? Because I am someone who persists in having faith, but not merely faith in religion or any sort of idiomatic philosophy. I have faith in the general sense: I need to trust in the unseen and unproven. And I need that faith, particularly when it comes to me. I need to have faith many days just to continue working without collapsing at my desk in exasperation at the twentieth thing I did wrong. I need to have faith that I can do this whole mommy-thing, after The Governor has worked his way around my attempts to convince him to please go to bed (his logic is infallible these days). It is a necessary, critical factor in my daily survival.
Probably the only time I’ll truly get to discern the meaning of it may be when I’m old and arthritic and have the benefit of years and years of good old plain living. But for now, I think I’m okay with my little bucket of faith.
I don't get bebe. If there was something unique in the styling of the clothes, or if they was something unusual about signature details or if they were made of extremely wonderful fabrics or prints, I could get into it, but so much of it is blah blah blah. And for the parts that are not so utterly boring, you have either: a) be on the "skinny side" or your size, or b) wear all items sans sous-vêtements.
I think the point of the entire line is for people who are lucky enough to wear the clothes, they have the luxury of saying "look at ME! I can fit into skinny people's clothes." Hence, the tiny baby tee that has the logo emblazoned in rhinestones on it. Or the size 2 jacket that my forearms were almost bulging out of. Or those itty bitty bootcut chocolate brown pants that looked great on the rack and fit pretty well, but that I couldn't fathom wearing to work. Of course, that didn't stop me from buying this cute dusty pink tweed box cut skirt that was 15% of the original retail price. But still!
The boys came back from "'Cago'" and while yesterday was fine, this morning was slightly off, what with The Gov. having probably gotten his every wish for two days. He called me "Mr. Mommy" yesterday, and then he said, "I called you that. It's a joke, mommy." But then he said, "I like this food, I like the food you make at home, mommy"--but I think he was just incentivizing the rapid deployment of chocolate crepes with fresh strawberry filling and made-from-scratch chocolate syrup. Kids these days-they are sure attuned to subtle nuances of every kind and manner.
CN-N's account of octopi birth is terribly clever. They don't know how long the precious tiny hatchlings will last, but kudos to Aurora.
My answer greschya's first question: Never.
I have never really stopped worrying since I learned I was pregnant. That's going on about five years of worry. I worried when Q didn't kick in utero. I worried when his urine turned light pink on his 3rd day, due to urate crystals in his diaper. I worried when we brought him to hospital one cold fall day when he was 11 weeks old because his temperature was so high. I worried when I brought him to the hospital again after he knocked his noggin and needed stitches. And now, I am worrying about a plane trip that he is taking with his dad. But the thing is: you get used to it. Your instincts make you reach above and beyond all of the things that would have been your limit pre-baby. You learn to depend on others for advice, reassurance, and perspective. You learn to take that worry and turn it into protectiveness and parental competence.
Because mothering is ultimately about loss: your mind's eye grasps for images and vestiges of rememberance at every stage, because it could be gone the next day as your child grows and changes. They fine wisps of hair become strong and textured right under your fingertips. The fine tones of baby cries morph into recognizable speech patterns, and all of a sudden, you don't have a baby anymore. And then, that toddler becomes a child whose days are filled with monster trucks and "bad guys" and a complex reasoning system. And it all changes so quickly that you never stop to mourn the loss of that part of your experience as a mother. But that sense of worry keeps you pressing forward, wanting to teach your child and learn from them at the same time. It's what allows you to do both.
On top of everything else, I am having some sort of separation anxiety about The Governor and Conan going up to Chicago this weekend. Per my previous entry, I am feeling panicky about His Honor being on a plane without me twice. It doesn't matter that he is going to be with my capable husband, or that it is a direct flight both ways, I just feel so nervous about it.
I am also in a quandry about what to do with my jewelry. I jointly participated in an in-home jewelry sale that I received 2 weeks notice about, and without going into it, it was discouraging. I feel that the best way to get my things sold is to do it online, but if I did that, I want to do it properly, with my own URL and a pretty site and a tax ID and everything. But to do that either takes time or money, and I'm feeling not that committed to the idea just yet. I was so discouraged that I stopped making things last week (but only to start making a bracelet for myself last night). Not quite sure what to do (but I have a couple of neat pieces that I am unwilling to unload for a very modest price, if anyone's interested drop me a comment).
On my list of things to do is an entry for greschya. But for now, here's sending you some wonderful gestation vibes!!