Two birthdays, one absurd piñata and a fancy-pants bottle of bubbly. (It pairs well with the Cheezy Puffs!) Cheers!
I never, ever throw photos away. Ever. Even of people I don’t know. It’s all rooted in some superstition that I honestly can’t explain.
My parents are like this. We have countless albums and boxes (and boxes) of photos and roughly one million and a half VHS tapes. We’re going through them and cataloging what we can, but there’s a lot of memories there that will remain unremembered.
You guys, I can’t even bring myself to throw away doubles. I have a whole MESS of doubles from a trip abroad with an ex of mine that I keep saying I’ll get to him one day. Only, we don’t speak at all, so it could very well be that I’ll still have them shoved in a shoebox in a storage unit when I’m 80.
You’d think that the digital age has made this easier. But oh, no.
I haven’t backed up my phone in months because there’s barely any room for me to transfer my photos to my hard drive.
And having a kid? Let’s just say he’ll never forget his childhood because I recorded all of it. And backed it up on dropbox. And Google. And YouTube. And two storage devices. And a time machine. And very likely printed out copies of most of it. (Not to mention the random memory sticks littering the bottom of all my purses.)
With a memory like mine it’s no wonder, but I still think this counts as hoarding.
Throwback Thursday. I won Dolly tickets for this, but I’ll have to live with myself for eternity.
Well, this is embarrassing. I’ve picked this blog up approximately one hundred million times in the last couple of years, wholly intended to turn this into a “Mom Blog,” but it turns out “Mom Blog” fits as well as high-waisted jeans and sneakers. Not a good look here.
I’m attending SXSW Interactive this year, having missed the past two, and I’m determined to get this back off the ground. You probably won’t hear me babble about my potty-training woes (that’s what Babble is for), but I can’t promise I won’t mommy the waters occasionally.
But I promise more photos, more fun, more snark and much, much more vodka.
TRIVIA: Did you know that Wang Chung means Yellow Bell in Chinese?
I went out at night for the first time last weekend. Chicago’s 3033 was headlining Coldtowne and I brought my one beer (go crazy!) with me for the late-night show. Ethan was asleep before I left, woke up once and was back in snoozeland before you could say, “yes, and.”
Okay, so I’m a little rusty. I’ve been out socially away from the baby before, but not at night. My first adventure was to see Magic Mike with a roomful of mostly female improvisors. The second, was to see Magic Mike with my sisters. That’s right, future baby reading this blog, I left you to see a lot of wang. Such proud maternal moments.
Sooooooo, I’m home now all the time. Not just in the, “Oh, I don’t go out much” (obv., except when wang is involved) kinda way, but in the, “I quit my job to be at home full-time with my son.” kinda way. Yeah. That totally happened. I didn’t think it would, honestly. I thought for sure I was heading back to work. Ethan had a daycare lined up and I was actively working on building up my white gold stash in the freezer. (“White Gold” is what lactation fanatics call breastmilk) The closer we got to the end of my leave, the more stressed out about it I got. Like, waaaaaaaaaaaaay stressed out. So stressed out I wasn’t enjoying what time I had left with the baby, stressed out. Now, Daniel was 100% behind me staying with the baby. He Without Raging Hormones was being the logical one. If I had the opportunity to, why wouldn’t I? Baby E was so small and wasn’t on any kind of routine. (Did I say, “was” like I’m not talking about two weeks ago?)
But the guilt, man. I felt so guilty about not going back to work. I’ve worked since I was 14, give or take some super short unemployed stints. That’s 22 years. I don’t know how to not work.
Actually, that’s a lie. This “not working” is flying by in a whirlwind of constant feedings, laundry, diaper changes and games of, “If I throw this on the floor, will you pick it up?” It’s not the imagined world of a peaceful, sleeping baby leaving me loads of time to write and bake lovely desserts and catch up on my correspondence. Nope. It’s crazy. I can’t imagine trying to do all of this and work 40+ hours at the same time. I marvel at all my friends who do it every day. You bitches are rock stars!
So this is where we are now. I’m going to try and make this blog more of an active voice and less of a neglected sad face. I’m always talking to you in my head. (By you, I mean the blog. Not you. It’s be weird if I was always talking to you in my head.) Here’s to trying to get those words out on the page.
And here’s a picture of Ethan wondering who shrunk his father.
If you’ve missed the past few months of sparse blogging, here’s a quick recap.
I was like this:
And then I was all:
BABY! BABY! OMG BABY!
With just a smidge of PPD:
Now I’m going to start a whole new blog to mommy all over so this one can retain some sort of debauchery and ennui. Nah. I’m going to mommy the waters here instead. Essentially, this:
Seat of your pants stuff, kids. I know, I know.
I’m still alive.
Every time I’ve wanted to stop and write about this crazy, amazing life change, I’ve been overwhelmed by the sheer breadth of what I have to say.
It’s been the hardest, most gut-wrenching experience. I’ve scared myself with very dark thoughts and second-guesses, especially in the early days. I didn’t want to share them because I didn’t want to make them real.
It’s also been incredibly magical. Every single cliche about parenting has been 100% right. As nauseating as that is, it’s totally true. I’m in a love stronger than I’ve ever imagined. I’m constantly in awe.
Because both of those viewpoints swung back and forth so fiercely with my hormones, I’ve been hard pressed to jump back into writing about it. But I think I’m back now. I feel better. Stronger. Less likely to drive away in the middle of the night. (Kidding. But now I get why they make new moms wait six weeks to drive anywhere. It’s for the fear you won’t come back!)
Six weeks, tomorrow. Phew.