Greetings, Earthlings.

Oh, 2010. How I do bow down to thee. No, seriously. I throw in the towel. YOU WIN.

Hai! You may be aware that I live in the lesser portion of the greater DC area. That is to say, out in the sticks, but if you throw one of those sticks you will have an equal shot to hit DC or Baltimore.

If you paid any attention to the news this weekend, you will understand when I say that I had a nice vantage point of the Snowpocalypse from my perch over the crapper. Where I was vomiting. Repeatedly and in a projectile fashion. My kids love me, so they joined in the festivities. My husband somehow avoided this plague, and now is officially suspect in an attempted family-wide poisoning. (Okay, so actually we picked up a bug at a playgroup on Friday, where several other families were also infected. But still! He could totally have been trying to off us. Just sayin'.)

Now there are 4 feet of snow in my yard and people keep muttering something about another 8-10 inches this week, but I can't hear them very well... mostly because I am sticking my fingers in my ears and screaming "LALALALALALA- I CAN'T HEAR YOUUUUUU!" but it's not really working. And the thought of more snow makes my already tender tummy do a little slow-roll that is highly unpleasant and makes me think that maybe I'm not quite as over this virus as I thought I was.

Which is to say... HI! I am still here, though the posting is sad and sporadic at best. I am vaguely working on the notion that perhaps it is time for a relaunch of the site with a new focus and new energy and MORE COWBELL, but you'll have to bear with me until I get through the Frozen Tundra that is February.

February is never a good month for me. Historically, I find myself in the bottom of a cavernous depression about this time of the year; the icy grasp of winter wraps frosty fingers around my heart and squeeeeezes for all it is worth, making my chest painfully tight until it's nearly impossible to get a good, deep breath of the fresh air that is so abundant in winter. My vision tends to go all dark and blurry, like before a good old-fashioned swoon, but without the security of a ready fainting couch and cushiony bustle.

Which is to say that I'm treading the icy water for now, dear friends. There is an abundance of gratitude in my heart, don't misunderstand me. It just happens to be frozen under a layer of crystalline ice at the moment, or sleeping soundly in the muddy bottom like fish eggs in winter. Give me a short time in which to thaw, and I'll be back to my old self again. For the small but dedicated few who continue to haunt these empty rooms, I promise to fill them again soon with the sounds of cocktail-party chatter over a background of jazz music and gently clinking glassware.

And wine. Lots and lots of wine.
(See! You knew it was still me in here!)

Birds Flyin' High... you know how I feel....

Welcome to a new year! ...

It's a new dawn, it's a new day, and all that jazz.  Or so they tell me.  The beginning of a new year always makes me feel so... somber.  Almost funereal.  It never feels quite real, as though the months from January to March happen in a fog-soaked dream on some other plane.  It's not an entirely unpleasant sensation, but certainly not a good place to be for overlong.  It's a good time for writing, at least for me.  It's the time I can release, at least a little, my kung-fu grip on the illusion of control.  Perfection. Control. My ever-present, invisible frenemies.  They live in my head and run taped loops all day long, critiquing every move. Critiquing every imagined move, as well.

The big boys are both at school, and there are a million things to do this morning.  Which probably explains why I got back from dropping Toby at school and then spent 15 minutes in the car, in the driveway, listening to NPR while perusing November's Vogue and daydreaming about auditioning for a play at the local theater.  

I auditioned for a real play exactly once - when I was in high school.  I was terrible.  Self-conscious and crippled with insecurities, over-conscious of my Rubenesque figure in a room full of anorexically thin California blondes, I knew I was doomed to fail before I started.  Naturally, I was correct.

Such a different woman am I from that emotionally crippled girl.  Some of the scars, however, remain.  So I look at the open audition notices (for a playhouse in our ridiculously small Mayberry town) and daydream about just going in with gusto and having a ball.  My husband encourages these flights of fantasy.  I shrug and say "maybe someday" and go back to my lovely daydreams and try to decide if the blouse on the clothes-hangar of a model in Vogue would hold up over my 38D's.  Then I jot down notes, ideas for a short story.  I head back into the house to finish my cold coffee from this morning.  I sit down to type up a few notes on this long-neglected corner of my digital brain.

Outside, the sky is gray and the frosty air burns in my throat like whiskey fire.

Inside, the house is quiet but for the crawling sounds of one tiny explorer and the low hum of the fridge.  Time to begin the day. Time to begin the year.

Hello, my friends.

I Don't Even Know.

Oy.  And Oy again.

When Milo was born, we told ourselves "probably".  Probably this would be our last baby.  3 babies, 3 baby boys, and a whole lotta hell ravaged on my poor body.  2 battles with PPD that were powerful enough to leave us gasping for air and paddling with battle-weary arms for an ever disappearing shoreline.

"We'll give ourselves a year to think it over.  We won't make any decisions until he's a year old."

And that seemed like such a nice, safe, vague time in the future.  We knew it wasn't really vague -- no, it was exactly 365 days.  But we thought maybe by then we'd be able to untangle the web of emotions around it.

The long and the short of it is, I'd be happy with another baby of any gender.... but.  But.  We'd really like to have a girl. Each for different reasons; Trip would have to enumerate his own, though I suspect they would mostly have to do with me.

And me?  My relationships with other women have always been complicated.  When I picture a daughter of mine, I picture a girl like me.. but better.  One who would share my passion for books and art and cooking but not my addiction to junk food.  A daughter who - with a girl child's empathy - would come home at the end of her school day and see that Mommy's had a bad day, and climb in my lap for a snuggle.  

My boys are snugglers, too, mind you.  But they snuggle to make themselves feel better.  I'm okay with that; I know it's my job to make them feel safe and loved when they are scared or upset.  I LOVE that part of the job.  

But some days, I have to admit, I daydream about a daughter.  A little bookworm with red ringlets and big brown eyes who would grow up to be more than a daughter... who would grow up to be a friend.  

Milo celebrated his first birthday last week.  We've made no decisions -- there are no announcements here.  Just me thinking out loud and probably sharing too much.  

Also, I'm totally PMS'ing so.. you know.  Take it all with a grain of salt and please pass the chocolate.

Lady Nerd's Lament

For anyone just joining us, allow me to introduce myself.  Hello, my name is MeL, and I am a nerd.  

I am a nerd who lives in West-By-God-Virginia, in a town with more churches than restaurants.  I love my small town and the people in it, but I have to admit there is something lacking.

This weekend, out in the wilds of Chicago, there is an event happening.  An event I will not be attending this year, even though I swore I was going to attend and even though I went last year and had the time of my life even though I was 74 months pregnant at the time and hi let's continue this sentence on a little longer just for grins.

You see, the Blogher Conference is officially My Happy Place.  It is a place where a girl can admit that she once spent every evening for 2 years playing World of Warcraft and, instead of looking at her askance and attempting to nonchalantly inch away from The Crazy, the other women shake their heads knowingly and clink together their wine glasses.  It's a place where I could totally sport this t-shirt and cause strangers to burst into spontaneous giggles, where the panels are equally passionate whether discussing pop culture, perl scripting, or women's issues.  This is my tribe; these are my people.

So somebody at the People's Party, or the MamaPop Sparklecorn Extravaganza, or any of the other bajillion parties that will all be lacking my attendance this year... spill a few drops of wine for me on the carpet.  It's ceremonial to remember a fallen comrade. (Melodramatic much? Yeah, so what. Besides, plenty of wine is sure to get spilt there anyway, so I'll just pretend it's in my honor.)  (I'm avoiding acknowledgment of the fact that I'm hardly likely to be missed.  This is maybe the one time I wish I wasn't quite so adept at being a wallflower.)

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go sniffle quietly into my coffee.

I'll see you beeshuz next year. 

Picked Up The Phone, Gave You A Call.

You might have noticed I haven't been around much lately.

You wouldn't be the only one to notice.

My husband? He has noticed, too.  And as I've been physically in the room with him, that I haven't been around much is kind of a big deal.

I don't feel terrible.  I'm not moping or staring blankly at walls.

Not yet, anyway.

But after going 3 days before I remembered I hadn't had a shower, and looking blankly at my husband when I said "Wait, it's DECEMBER already?!!" because, honestly, I was at Thanksgiving and everything and it's not like I suffered "lost time" but I honestly couldn't tell you what I did the last month.  Except watch lots of TV and keep 3 children alive.  Oh, and install a floor, but that might have just been a manic episode.  Or pathological home improvement.  But I have spent the past 2 months getting from beginning of day to end without a hint of anticipation for the next.  I'm going through the motions but, as my husband gently pointed out to me, I'm not really here.  He also gave me a hand squeeze or two and reminded me that it's okay to need help, and that nobody expects me to make this all better on my own.

Which is to say, internets, that I made a phone call today.  I have an appointment Thursday morning.  I'll be shaking hands with my old friend Zoloft.  

Hopefully I will soon remember the feeling that life is full of joy and not just a trial to be muddled through as best I can.  Hopefully I will rediscover an enjoyment of writing, of cooking, of quiet afternoons.  Hopefully I will rediscover what it is like to look forward to... well, anything.  And then, hopefully, I will truly be back... and maybe I'll even find joy in telling you about it.

Wish me luck.

Enjoy the Silence.

This face? This is the face of a 5-year-old.  One who will start Kindergarten tomorrow.  And, not to get all sappy on y'all, but I'm not exactly sure how I'm feeling about that.  At least tomorrow is "Orientation Day" and we'll just be popping in for half an hour to meet his teacher.

Wednesday, though, he gets on the big yellow school bus bright and early... and doesn't come home until just before dinner.  

Adding to my general sense of malaise today is the fact that I got up about 8 times to pee last night - after Tobin finally went to sleep at 11.  And then? And then there's the fact that I have 5 weeks left in this pregnancy and I am sooo ready for this baby to vacate my premises.  

SO let's just say I'm having a petite blue period.  Let's leave it at that.

Ch-ch-ch-changes...

Tonight we drive to the dealership to pick up the new car.  Yes, I said "new".   I know, I'm quelling the panic at the thought of the car payment... but aside from the fact that it appears John Q. Everybody is busy trading in their horrific gas-guzzling SUV's for every compact and sub-compact car in the used market  (Even our beloved Carmax came up with a pitifully sad selection of vehicles to fit the bill in replacing the dearly departed Aquaman) Big Daddy is in critical need of a vehicle with things like.. you know... air conditioning and working windows and locks.  Also a vehicle that doesn't require me to crawl out of bed and come rescue him from a breakdown off the side of some godforsaken stretch of highway between here and civilization in the wee hours of the morning would be lovely.

Rest in peace, AquaMan.

And so it is that Big Daddy will soon be the proud owner of a brand-spanking new Saturn Astra. Because the availability is limited in our area he found that to get the options he wanted his only color choice was... silver.  Like the minivan.  He mentioned that he fully expects to wake up tomorrow to find a troop of gnomes with pickaxes making a muck of the front lawn.  Don't mind him, though, he's just bitter because he has a thing for blue ("da-ba-dee-da-ba-doo").

So that's changing, then.  New car.  That's different, right?

So then we leave in about a week for our family vacation to the Outer Banks.  Sand, surf and, hopefully, quiet hours in the sunshine with a good book.  And then back home just in time to get Jack ready for Kindergarten.  Now, normally this would involve copious quantities of wine and weeping. For me, I mean.  Being pregnant limits my mental health options, though, so I may have to make due with tabloid magazines and frozen limeade.

Once we get into the swingin' routine of regular school (did I mention it's all day kindergarten? ALL. DAY. *sniffle*) I'll have a few hectic weeks to prepare for the arrival of the small being currently percolating in my lady regions.  And by "small" I mean "freakishly huge, just like my previous spawn".  I was hoping to land somewhere in the eight pound range this time but if the size of my exponentially growing belly is any indication this baby will weigh approximately 86 pounds.  So at least there's the fame and free diaper sponsorships to look forward to.

But basically what I'm getting at here (not that you expected a coherent point at this stage in our narrative, did you?) is that my life 8 weeks from now will be unrecognizable as the same life I am currently leading and I'm really not sure exactly how I feel about that.  I'm sure it will all end up just peachy keen, but it's the not knowing that is driving me a little bonkers.

So I guess what I'm getting at is... Hold me? And maybe send cookies.

  

Et Tu, Tuesday?

Officially, Monday is the Day Of Doom at our house.  Mondays have been known to attack without warning. You need an example?

Yesterday (which was Monday, for those keeping score at home) Toby got an inexplicable bout of digestive badness resulting in explosive diarrhea.  I discovered this when he walked into the family room with a stream of brown running down one leg.  It was lovely.

Even MORE lovely, though, was hearing the dog lapping at something in the next room.  "Something" turned out to be a puddle of diarrhea that had collected on the floor after escaping the diaper.

That dog has kissed me on the mouth, people.  Not that I allow him to do that willingly, but he's 60 pounds of conniving lap-dog and sometimes you just can't dodge fast enough.

So I figured, once all the poopy chaos was cleaned up, we were clear for the rest of the week.

Not so, dear friends.

This morning, on his way to work, Big Daddy got into a car accident.  Fortunately, he walked away without injury.  Not so fortunate was his trusty jalopy, the 1990 Honda Civic, our beloved "Aqua Man Car".  (Jack named the car when Big Daddy first drove its teal gloriousness into the driveway.)

Rest in Peace, Aqua Man.

So if any marketing people from a major auto manufacturer happen by and want to give us a free car for his hour-long commute each way, I'm open to changing our middle name pick to "Chevy" or "Honda".  Okay, maybe not really, but I'll put an ad up for you and generally be your corporate love-muffin.  Totally a win-win, right?

So, yeah, back in reality-type-land, if anyone needs me I'll be busy perusing the local used car dealerships, crunching some numbers, and possibly stuffing my face with leftover birthday cake.  Also possibly calculating the relative street value of my prenatal vitamins.  They won't get you high but your hair and nails will be fabulously healthy! 

As for you, Tuesday... I'll deal with you later.  Maybe you can make it up to me: from now on, any calories consumed on Tuesdays don't count.  That would be a good start.  I mean, there's an awful lot of cake left.

Noto Photo and Feh-Brew-Airy

I know I have been extraordinarily slacking on the posting front lately, and I can only claim Seasonal Exhaustion as an excuse.

February is always a horrendous month for me - a month of moping around the house and generally feeling the gloom of the many, many days without warm sunshine. I checked the camera the other day and realized I haven't taken a decent photo of the kids since Christmas. CHRISTMAS, people!

It's as if, after the long January, by the time February stretches out into the longest-shortest month of the year, all my get-up-and-go of the holiday season finally got up and went. If you see it, please pass along the message that I'd like a little energy back.

The pregnancy is not helping.

Neither is Jack's cold virus, or his double eye infections. And you don't even want to hear about the relative armageddon of attempting to get antibiotic drops into his eyes to combat the green ooze that regularly trickles out of his sockets and down his cheeks.

Of course, it is March now. March! A new month. So why do I still feel so ... well... February?

My solution, of course, is a simple one. I made an appointment to get my hair cut. Also, I suspect a pedicure is in my near future. (Feet sticking to the sheets? Not a good sign, y'all.)

SO, after a few more days of rest and maybe a little pampering, I hope to return to you in all my wry glory. Also, hopefully there will be new photos before the kids go off to college.

Also, also... Friday is our first doctor's appointment with the new OB. I promise a full report once he's done poking and prodding at my lady bits. Cross your fingers there's a nice, steady heartbeat. Also, for my sake, hope that they don't try to tell me I'm less than 10 weeks along because I might have to drown my sorrows in chocolate. With wine and beer totally off the menu, I am left with only chocolate as recourse. Somehow, as good as a lindor truffle tastes, it just can't compete with a nice, soothing glass of good Cabernet Sauvignon.

That, and if I could make it through to October and gain less than 50 pounds? That would be lovely (and unprecedented). So, there goes the chocolate idea.

Any good ideas for other ways to spoil myself a little? Haircut, pedicure... night out with the girls on Thursday (to eat some good barbecue before the reflux and indigestion put the brakes on even remotely spicy foods). That's about all I have come up with. Suggestions? Treats? Invitations to make use of your Tuscan Villa for a weekend?

Ready, steady, GO!