Wherein I break with all common sense and spill my guts

(Family, this post isn't for you.  Please read this post, too, if you  missed it from a few days ago.  If you choose to read it, keep it to yourself.)

 

Image via Lucynka55.

I'm "home sick" today.  Literally, and for the first time since becoming a mother almost three years ago.  I woke up this morning before dawn and had a 101.5 fever.  I patiently waited until the sane hour of 6:30 am and called my mom.

"Mom," I croaked.  "I'm sick.  I give in.  Can Terry come get Hollis later today??"

So, Hollis went off with Papa for a day (and night) of fun and frolic and I am left in an empty house, an empty city, and with an Ibuprofen-controlled fever.

And I don't know what the fuck to do with myself.

Forget for a minute that my son is gone for the day, but really: I. don't. know. what. the. fuck. to. do. with. myself.

Like, in general.  My marriage is all kinds of fucked (let's be honest here, I am not hopeful and neither is Anthony).  I don't have a job, though I'm perfectly educated for one.  I feel like I have too much time on my hands to think/feel/worry/wonder/fantasize.  I feel adrift, to say the very least.

Even feeling like this confuses me because I know that I'll land on my feet.  I always do.  I may prefer dogs to cats, but I'm very cat-like in my nimbleness.  For instance, I got a $100 check card in the mail the other day during a month that we're particularly hemorrhaging money.  Just more proof that I'll be ok.

I consistently feel like what I really want is out of my reach, too far away, destined never to be in my grasp because I'm not smart enough to figure it all out.  How do I get that fucking holy grail of happiness and contentment?  Why am I compelled to reach for it in the first place?

I hate limbo.  I'm such a shit or get off the pot sort of gal.  You'll never hear me complain about something unless I'm prepared to try to fix it.  Therefore, Anthony and I have decided to take the separation a step further: he'll be moving in to the apartment full time and Hollis will be going back and forth.  It's been too hard on all of us, this weird sharing of space and pre-dawn commutes.

When did my life become a series of moves to disassemble??  I spent so long putting it all together in the first place.

One minute I'm extremely excited about my future and its possibilities for greater happiness and the next I'm disconsolate over my complete inability to make what I have work.  But how can I possibly change who I am at the core??  This isn't a communication issue.  This isn't a behavioral issue.  It's a person issue.  I am the wrong woman for him.  He is the wrong man for me.  It's no one's fault.  It just fucking is.

It's taken me hours to write this, all day in fact.  A friend came by to see me today for a few hours, I chatted online with friends, I perused/sifted/day-dreamed about so many 1s and 0s, then Anthony and I chatted and we discussed official separation papers and "Do we know any family attorneys among our collection of friends?"  I've kept the fever at bay, but not my insidious worrying that I will fail at this transition somehow, that I'm failing now.  

It's interesting that I can at once believe in my abilities and failings so completely at once.  A sign of the times, I suppose.

I want it to be two years from now so badly; to just skip over so much bullshit emotion and pain and be on the other side of this.  Full of piss and vinegar again, ready to tackle anything.  I'm so tired.  So, so tired, and yet, I wish I were busier.  I'm plagued by my free time.  I'm envious of Anthony and his skills at compartmentalizing.  I've never been good at that.  Occasionally I get a whiff of what that's like when I lose track of time writing or talking to a friend or working out, but I can't consume myself with those things all day every day, can I?

I miss Anthony and what he represents, but I don't miss our combined energies.  We're both happier apart.  This is really the right thing to do.  All of it.  Every last drop.

Swirling confusion.  I feel like I've been blindfolded and spun around, then spanked smartly on my behind.  I'm titillated and interested, confused and stumbling; I'm eager to swallow the treat.  So eager.

Just keep rolling with the punches.  I can do this.

Breathe.

[Ed. note: I went to bed last night thinking, "I should probably put a disclaimer on my post reminding people that I'm ok", so, here it is.  If we hung out we'd joke and laugh, and I'd make inappropriate jokes as per my usual, and we'd talk about your house renovations or your PhD program or your son.  I'd answer any questions you had about what's happened with me and Anthony and I might tear up (a little), but I wouldn't cry.  Then I'd tell you all about how Hollis named the underground garage at Wholefoods a "car-house" and how I've fallen back in love with my boobs.  I might even tell you about my new found resolve to most definitely not get another dog.  It's not all doom and gloom over here.  I just had a moment yesterday.  I have them regularly, though not continuously, and once I get it off my chest I feel better.  Thanks for all the love you give me, everyone.  Truly, it's amazing and overwhelming and it's such a wonderful reminder to throw open my front door each and every day and smile into the the world and to keep doing what I do.]

Deliberately vague

When all arrows are pointing you THAT WAY, why, oh why, would you go THE OTHER WAY??

When your heart is telling you to do X? Why would you do Y?

When your gut is telling you you are wrong, why do you let your head tell you you're right? Or vice versa? Whatever??

...

I've been a student of the human condition for most of my life. Why people do what they do drives me; inspires me to press on, challenge myself, grow no matter how painful or difficult. It's my profession. I am both a student and a teacher of it. I intuit what is needed of me and I am there, like a suckling pig on a platter for the taking. Just eat me up. And I thrive on this. I feel strong, smart, and loving by doing whatever it takes to be there for someone I love, or even someone I like who has no one that loves him nearby. I'll fill those shoes if I need to temporarily, and then I'll kick them off and move and with my life.

I am most proud of myself when I am challenged and given two options: Option A sucks shit and fire; Option B is more bearable, much easier, and I choose A. I always choose A because I can breathe with a clear conscience that I did the right thing. Not the easy thing: THE RIGHT THING.

For example, when Dad was dying a miserable, lonely death I was there for him on the phone and then in person in hospice. Arguably, he deserved none of that: he was cruel to me and my sister, he harmed her person out right, he was just plain mean, but I knew that he was also alone in this universe and it would be my final gift to him as his daughter (deservedly or not) to be there for him and I was.

I fielded his demented phone calls, his hallucinations, his tears through fiber optics. And then I held his cold, soft hand in his gurney and watched his massive, cancer-infested chest rise and fall closer and closer to death for days before I had to return to my life whereupon I caught more distraught and terrified calls from him as he continued towards Death and his Maker.

When it was done, I was devastated, but also proud. Proud that I had given him all the love I had for him and sent him off into the afterlife (whatever that may be) with the glow of being loved by someone, anyone. It shattered me to hear his voice, talk to him, see him, touch him and be touched by him, to bring my sister near him, but I prevailed and I have no doubt in my mind that I did the right thing. I absolutely did the right thing.

Because of that experience my soul has been pulled inside out of me and twisted around my heart, exposed and vulnerable to any man bearing his semblance: a mustache, khaki pants, sunglasses. I fight tears if I see him crossing the street or in the mall. In fact, I just saw "him" yesterday at a festival of 50,000 people. "There's Dad," I told my mother. "Right there... " and I pointed at a tall man wearing a t-shirt and shorts, sporting a paunch, cloth sunglass-holders and a faded khaki hat. "Yes. That does look like him," she responded quietly. He's been dead for 3 1/2 years.

And this Option A would NEVER have been expected of me. No one would have told me, Jessica, you need to see your dad. You need to be nice to him. And yet, I still did it.

So WHY, when none of those things are even at stake would someone given Option A and Option B still choose the easier Option B??? I just don't get it. And it breaks my heart and tears me open to see it happening. I am confounded and confused and angry.

In reality, I know the answer. It's very simple. Option B, is simply, easier. My real confusion stems from why people are willing to take the easy way out over and over when the reward is short-lived and minimal. No one is really proud of this choice. It's like reaching for the chocolate when you know you shouldn't. Mmm, the chocolate tastes so good, but you know the harder choice would have been to deny yourself. And it would feel 1000 times better looking back on it because you've reached your health goals.

I suppose people wouldn't have as many troubles in their lives if they did everything they could to improve themselves given the opportunity. It's when we lose ourselves and divert from who we know we should be that we get into hot water. Self-contempt is poisonous.

So I will slip into those shoes that need filling, because it's what I do and what I love to do. I will power through, I will breathe deeply and fill my cells with love and energy and I will walk through that door for everyone who can't and won't and doesn't think it's that necessary. And when it's all over with I will feel good about how I carried myself, how I behaved and what I did. I'm not sure that everyone will have the benefit of that feeling when all is said and done.

When at a crossroads, what do you do? I'm not perfect, nor am I holier than thou, but I'd like to know what you do when it's safe for you to do so and even when sometimes it isn't safe. Do you lean towards one of these two options consistently? Do you know why? And how do you feel about your decisions?

[Ed. add: I've been thinking about all of this since I posted it. I'm worried I come off as some kind of saint whose shit don't stink, but I'm here to make sure you know it does. I will almost always reach for that piece of chocolate that I talked about and I'm sure there are many real-life friends who might read this and scratch their heads because maybe I wasn't there for them. What I want to really impart here is that whenever I'm at a crossroads, a come to Jesus moment FOR ME, to my recollection, I have always chosen the more difficult path and I am proud of that because I felt in my heart it was truly the right thing to do. People on the OTHER end of that path might not have felt it was the right thing, but I certainly have.]

1734 words to say, "I'm a work in progress"

Boom.

Ok, so I'm sitting here on a random Wednesday afternoon and I feel like my thoughts are clouds in a thunderhead.

The more intense my feeling about something the more remote location I give it in my mental real estate. As in, WAY the fuck OUT THERE. It's not real, it's not that big of a deal, it'll go away, etc. Yeah well, that only ever works for so long before the shit storm hits. And it's here now.

I've written before about the concepts of feminism and motherhood, although not at great length (here and here), but they're always there on my mind. I live and breathe feminist mothering. I can't not. Although, honestly, I'm having a hard time applying it to myself and my own situation.

Let me back up a minute and explain what I believe feminist mothering is. It's all the usual feminist ideas and ideals (women are as capable as men at intellectual pursuits and are righteously due equal opportunities and pay for their skills and work in addition to protection of these rights), but it's also about the lens through which I teach and raise my son. Although I am in a traditional role, my husband and I are equal partners in our relationship and life; I am not subordinate to his work-outside-of-the-house role in our lives. My son will grow up knowing this. He will see me as a powerful force in our family. He will also see me being proud of being a woman, embracing all that comes with it, and believing that partnerships are born out of complementing one another, not dominating. And, maybe most importantly, it's about instilling the belief that mothering and all things associated with it are high in status and equal to work not related to mothering.

It sounds lovely, right? But, despite pretty much living up to my intellectual belief system, I am having an extremely difficult time getting what I need by staying at home with an almost 2 year old.

I am certainly not short on meaning in my life or pride in my work. I'm all full of love and wonder and happiness and [mostly] confidence on that front. However, I am also lonely, uninspired, unstimulated, and a little bored.

All these feelings have been on the horizon of my mental grasp, too difficult to bear, until recently when I had a come to Jesus moment and questioned the very foundation on which all of my current life is based: my marriage. I questioned the logic of relying on one person for everything for the rest of my life and realized what a red herring argument that was. It's not my marriage - no one person can possibly be my everything - it's ME.

I've let myself down completely and now I am virtually stranded alone with a toddler day in and day out. No friends, no support system of peers, nothing. And I love this toddler with every fiber of my being and it breaks my heart to say that caring for him is not enough for me, but there it is. Somehow it's just not. And my imperfect marriage is also not the cause of my unrest, isolation or sadness. It's me and the fact that I've abandoned myself.

My biggest mistake has been my attempt to do everything perfectly all the time at the very high price of losing myself (not a very feminist thing to do, I might add). I am housekeeper (lo, housewife soldier), financier, teacher, social planner, mother, daughter, sister, and wife extraordinaire all the time. Rain or shine, happy or sad, willing or unwilling. No where in all of that have I given myself a moment to reclaim Jessica in any form, past or present.

I have a couple of theories on why this has happened and it's based on not only my experience, but those of my friends as well. First, women, because we must prove we are as good as men and as deserving as men, work twice as hard in all aspects of their life. And second, I'm tired of getting hurt and so have shut myself in.

Every woman I know, working or staying at home, drives herself like a lowly beast to be a better mother, a better cook, a better student, a better partner, a better everything. She sleeps and exercises less. She beats herself up on the rare occasion she goes out with friends or takes a run. And God forbid she nap (although, some women are certainly gifted at taking a nap, I don't know many that feel truly deserving of one and guilt-free when she wakes up).

On the other hand, men, who are raised possessing a self-confidence and acceptance of the validity and stability of good things in their life (as in, no one's going to leave him if he gains 50 lbs or he's not going to lose his job to a younger, better looking woman) are afforded an incredible ability to just let others handle things while they take care of their own needs: they nap, they shower, they eat, they exercise. They retain a strong desire to protect their personal needs from attending to family and work.

Obviously, I'm generalizing on all sides here, but the fact remains that the majority of the population can relate to these caricatures of gender, and you know what they say about stereotypes being a reflection of reality. And I know I'm all over the place, but hang with me...

I've mentioned it before, but I'm going to say it again: the feminist movement forgot something in their plight for equal recognition, rights, and pay. That the work women do in relation to child rearing and home management is as important as what men do outside the home. Because let's be honest, women bear the brunt of household work in most cases even if they work full-time (and then some). They come home and make dinner, shop, take care of the house, bills, kids, bath time, night time, middle of the night wakings and on and on.

Yeah! we get to slave at a desk job just like our male counterparts, but oh yeah, we also get to come home and KEEP DOING EVERYTHING WE'D BEEN DOING because no one thought to tell men they should be doing them too! Men are typically done when they get home. Women are just beginning their real work. And I've bought into this bullshit somewhere along the line even though I'm not leaving the house to work. I must take care of everything all the time. Do, do, do! Work, work, work! Push, push, push! I must prove to Anthony that I am busting my ass! Wha-?? How the hell did that happen? (And like Anthony even doubts it??)

And now here I am questioning what my life would be like if a) I worked outside the home in order to feel smart, intelligent, pushed, challenged and otherwise embraced as an adult as opposed to just a mother and wife and b) what would it be like if I never even had those aspirations in the first place? If I had been born 200 years ago and mothering and house management was the only role I could fulfill? Would I be happier if either of those things happened? Is the possibility of me doing even more work and being separated from Hollis really the answer? Is the possibility of just ignoring all my emotional and intellectual needs to only mother my son and wife my husband the answer?

No. And what stupid questions! I should be asking myself: How can I get more opportunities to recharge? What can I do to feel connected to people, adults again? Where can I go to find some solace? How can I carve out some balance in my every day life??

My mom bought me a book at Barnes & Noble the other day. It's called, "Stay Home, Stay Happy: 10 Secrets to Loving At-Home Motherhood."

Ugh.

It's not just a little bit embarrassing that my mother bought me this book, but I understand why she did. She knows I'm floundering a bit and wants to help. The thing is, I don't think it's the SAHM thing that I need to get happy with. I'm certain I need to give myself more credit for the work I do, but I really and truly am honored and happy to get to spend this time with Hollis and craft a loving, trusting relationship with him in the exact way I want to. What I really need is a book to tell me how to be a SAHM and still get the kind of stimulation I was used to (and needed!) for 30 years as a non-parent. "Stay Home, Stay Happy, Stay Sane: 10 Secrets to Loving At-Home Motherhood and Still Feeling Relevant as the Human Being You Are."

The other theory I have on why I'm angst-ridden and upset is because I don't want to get hurt by anyone. And by that I mean, "I don't want to put myself out there and get shat on by 'friends'." It's pretty straight forward. I'm a sensitive son-of-a-bitch and over time I've stopped putting myself out there for reasons of self-protection. I think it's time to put the armor back on and get my ass in the game. For my sanity's sake.

After mulling over on this for weeks now I feel confident in my new plan of action. I've joined no less than three Meetup.com groups for moms and parents and even went to my very first last week (it was a quick playdate at a nearby park and it was lovely and exhilarating). I'm at least aware of my feelings now and am questioning my standards of work and giving myself more slack (that's right "at work," as in here at the house). Anthony and I have spent hours talking about my malaise and unhappiness and he is actively changing his at-home trajectory for which I am eternally grateful and now feel more hopeful about our future as a cohabiting pair. And I've begun to open up to other friends and moms about my situation and feelings and have found that I am so far from being alone it's not even funny, and knowing that relieves some of my loneliness and makes me feel much less crazy.

So, there you have it. A lot of words just to say my head's up my ass and I'm painfully aware of it. I'm definitely a work in progress.

Anyone else feel this way??

I feel slightly less dirty

The pretty Rain from those sweet Eaves
Her unintending Eyes
Took her own Heart, including ours,
By innocent Surprise

The wrestle in her simple Throat
To hold the feeling down
That vanquished her -- defeated Feat
Was Fervor's sudden Crown

-- Emily Dickinson

The curse of the historical romance

Ah, yes, the "gypsy embrace."

FAMILY, THIS POST IS NOT FOR YOU. Read if you must, but I'll deny everything if you ever bring it up.

Let me get right to it:

The historical romance (or any romance) novel is as fantastical as Lord of the Rings or The Wheel of Time. Where any young, underdog man can save the world from powers much fiercer than they, in a romance novel a woman is a fine, orgasmic creature who weds a dashing man with vast wealth and then is forever happy.

Yeah, pretty damn fantastical if you ask me.

Also, the woman is unnervingly beautiful, modest, feisty, and a virgin. If she happens to no longer be a virgin, then her previous sexual experiences were due to either rape or grudging obligation, the end result is in all things not directly hymen-related she is as virginal as a any young woman during her first sexual encounters. Or, otherwise clueless. Her cluelessness, however, does not affect her love for all things hot, hard, and male. She is not put off by bodily fluids or squishing sounds or a 250lb man grunting on her in ways she's never known were even possible. No, in fact, she relishes it and welcomes even more.

And why wouldn't she more? Her man is most likely some kind of rebel, outcast, or pioneer. He's incredibly wealthy, either by birth or happenstance, and he knows how to keep it coming. He loves all things female, including shampooing her hair in a giant copper bathtub, and he never climaxes before her. EVER. In fact, he makes it his manly duty to make sure she orgasms as many times as she's humanly capable.

So, yeah, if men the world wide were like this dude, probably named Sir Thrustalot of the Aisle of Longtime, I'm sure couples would be having sex everywhere you looked: on a horse, behind trees, in abandoned hunting lodges, beside that babbling brook, and of course on the giant master bedroom bed with a fire roaring nearby.

Hmmm.

I picked up my first romance novel, a historical one, when I was about 14. It was probably the biggest mistake - of my own doing - in my sexual development. My mother, to my knowledge, had never read one (and still hasn't) and therefore she had no idea what I was sponging up all those years: the messages, the soft-core porn, the ideology. I would devour these books with half-clad girls on the cover being cradled or towered over by burly semi-dressed men by the dozens. I must have read hundreds by the time I finished high school. I was screwed, so to speak, by the way these girls were getting screwed.

From these books I learned that I was to fight a man, but eventually succumb to my own heightened desires. I was to find pleasure in his desire to seduce me whether I wanted it or not. I learned that a man would always know how to pleasure me, regardless of the level of emotional intimacy. I knew that to be considered truly beautiful I was to stop music mid note, lo, snatch the breath from every man in the room and be envied by every woman. I was to reach orgasm in any way a man attempted it in as little time as possible. My man would innately know my feelings, which automatically precluded any kind of dialogue between us. And lastly, a relationship based on lust and sexual satisfaction always parlayed into deep, intimate, lifelong bonds.

To say this fucked me up pretty bad is an enormous understatement.

I was all over the place with boys (and no where with girls). I thought boys were supposed to know when I liked them, wanted to go further than 1st base, and when I wanted to be "over-powered". I once took 3+ hours to kiss a boy because he wouldn't just grab me and kiss me and so he moved about a hair-a-minute until he was facing my lips and could get a good angle. And the funny thing was that I really wanted to kiss him! But my exclusive romance novel training had taught me that I was to wait and be told what to do.

It literally took me years to deprogram and then reprogram myself from this ideology of horny victim into horny participant. Lots of thinking about it and working to get out of my fantasy head space and into an intelligent, meaningful, participatory role with my partner.

As an adult, I continue to enjoy romance novels, but I now know the reality of sex and relationships and can digest these steamy tales as fantasy and not as how things are supposed to be. I can use them as spice to my life and not as the rule. And quite frankly, my tastes are discerning. I read novels where everyone is consenting, there's lots of discussion about feelings and the relationship, and where each of the characters are somewhat fallible. No one has silky soft pubic hair, either. I skip the dumbed-down romance novels of the ilk I first read. Yes, the ladies are beautiful, but often only to their men. And yeah, the men are ridiculously wealthy and hunky, but whatever: no bills to worry about so why not have some more lovin'!

At least now I have a filter through which to enjoy it all. As a young girl it damaged my outlook on everything sex- and relationship-related. I thought I fell short, that my young suitors fell short, and that the whole thing was somehow my fault.

I can't lay all the blame at the feet of the books I read, obviously I didn't have any real life role models on which to base my development. I don't really know how other girls do it. And I'm not alone in this: I have a close friend who feels the same way about the romance novels she read as a teenager as I do and feels it greatly altered her outlook on men and sex. In fact, I don't really know any women who weren't somehow affected by the expectations (of both men and women) in a romance novel. I mean, how many of you romance novel readers were ever disappointed that your partner didn't know how to make you orgasm five minutes after he met you?? Weren't they all supposed to just know that? Weren't they pulled aside in high school and taught by the friendly, and disease-free, town madame how to work it? Coached, as it were, into becoming unadulterated sex gods??

So, from one woman to any parent of a young girl out there who might be reading those romance novels, I beg you to open a dialogue with her about what's going on in her pages. To share with her that it's fantasy, not even close to reality, and why. That relationships take an open and honest approach, that no one reads minds. Tell her her imperfections are perfect: things sag and jiggle and it's beautiful and ok. Sexual pleasure in the form of climax takes work and often lots of experience and practice. And most importantly, that a to be a woman - a sexual woman - does not include giving up her power or accepting force, but involves instead a connection between her desires and her full consent. And nothing short of that is ok.

[Ed. note: This is a conversation I've had for years now with my friends. Interestingly enough, my male friends have shared that their fantasy books also screwed with their idea of what it was to be male in this world; that they felt somehow less because they haven't done anything miraculous or heroic in their lifetime. It never occurs to them to feel like a failure because they're not like Duncan Larksthrush. Funny how that works.]

[Ed. note 2: I don't even have a proper tag for this... am I really going to start talking about sex so frequently I need to add a sex tag??]

Surely I'm being tested

OW.

Overcome with exhaustion I had to lay down. Eyes closed, my breathing steady, one ear on Hollis playing with books and climbing on the bed to kiss me I rested.

Fifteen minutes pass this way and I seem to be becoming more exhausted, and paradoxically, more relaxed with each breath.  Until, suddenly, I hear a loud crack and feel an alarming pain on my
left eye socket, near my temple. The pain so sharp I inhale with a hiss and cover my eye.

"Hollis!" I exclaim. He's standing next to the bed, shirtless, clutching his blankie and eyes so wide I could dive right in. "Oh, Hollis, you don't throw things at Mommy."

I groan in pain and take hand away to see a spot of blood. I'm BLEEDING. And my eye throbs and stings with sincerity. When I look in the mirror a deep red trickle is making its way toward my cheekbone.

I take Hollis' hand and lead him to his room, gently place him in his crib and grab a tissue (I wasn't bleeding all that quickly so I took my time).  In the bathroom I see a deep little gouge and some discoloration already, and goddamn it fucking hurts! At that very moment a wave of exhaustion hits me again and I want to lay down on the spot. - I'm so goddamned fucking bone weary tired and my kid just hurled a toy at my head in my desperate and pitiful attempt to recharge in his presence.

I should have known better.

And so I started to cry.

And then, because I think I have a month's worth of tears in me and no time for my driveling I distracted myself by picking up all the books Hollis had strewn about my room, while holding a bloody tissue to my head and listening to a sweet little voice from down the hall call out, "Boo boo! Boo boo!"

This is like the shit cherry on top of a screw-you summer.

I don't know how all you moms out there do this with multiple children and for longer stretches. I feel like such an asshole for even feeling the way I do.


Now excuse me, pity party is over. It's bath time now.

And in other news: I dream about sex

(Let me make this perfectly clear that I am not joking when I give the following warning)
FAMILY, THIS POST IS NOT FOR YOU. Read if you must, but I'll deny everything if you ever bring it up.

Ok, so here's the thing. I'm a housewife, right?? I've been a housewife/SAHM/homemaker/whatever for almost two years. I don't go out. I rarely see my friends. I rarely want to see my friends. I rarely drink. I rarely get dressed up. I rarely meet new people. I rarely feel beautiful - and I mean, really beautiful like, "Damn, girl. You are so fucking sexy I can't keep my hands off of you"-beautiful. I rarely feel worthy of anyone saying that to me even when they do (well, when he does, not "they" - oh, if only!). I rarely feel interesting to anyone. I rarely feel like a prize.

And when I say "rarely," I really mean "never."

Because, you see, being a housewife/SAHM/homemaker/whatever means that I am home-bound. Not just because my office is my house, but because my priorities have changed. I'm married, I have a son, I have a sense of self and purpose outside of trolling Austin for hot guys and a good buzz (or a hot buzz and good guys). I can't wear stilettos to clean the house or a revealing top to hang with my mom. I can't flirt with the most titillating person at the table because I can't: I'm married. And happily married.

And, yet, I am chafing under this self-imposed isolation of self and soul.

I am becoming restless and antsy. I am becoming THAT housewife. The one who pours over her romance novels like they're more than just smut in paperback, as if they might be real...somewhere. The one who can barely stand the raw hotness between a pale ass, teenaged, vampire and his just as pale assed teenage girl obsession. The one who is living in hot, sexy dreams with men she's known (and not known - hey, Bill, drop me a line) and memories of my hedonistic past like Al Bundy and his high school football days.

I have such ardent dreams I wake up feeling guilty. GUILTY! I probably make Anthony an extra egg or give him my last piece of bacon on those mornings. I mean, does he even know the things I'm doing in my dreams to other men?? Seriously. Anne Rice has got nothing on me - well, ok, she's got a lot on me with her sexy-time books, but you get my drift. My dreams are very adult, very explicit, and very nice.

And I'm wondering if all my recent malaise isn't somehow tied up with this stagnant perfume I'm wearing. What do I expect to have happen if what I do each day is summed up by 1300 square feet, lots of cooking, lots of cleaning, and little, to no interaction with real live adults?? I am utterly fulfilled and beyond happy growing my little person - absolutely not one regret there, truly - but I am regretting this hole I've dug for myself.

In the beginning of all of this I felt safer at home with Hollis and Anthony because I didn't have to worry about getting hurt by people or let down. I didn't have to worry about exerting my social muscles. I hung out here, invited people over, cooked for them, imbibed with them. But even that has trickled to an almost full stop. Most of my very favorite people in the entire world have joined the Austin Diaspora, but I'm still here, alone, and with a husband who's gone from the house for roughly 9-10 hours of a 15 hour wakeful day.

Add to this the fact that Anthony and I don't enjoy doing the same things. He doesn't like spending money out. He doesn't talk to strangers and he really doesn't like to go out on the town. He's a jeans and pub kind of guy. The fellow you're comfortable and easy with and who kisses you sweetly and passionately in the car away from watchful eyes.

I absolutely love this about him; I love our differences, the tension it brings and the compliment, but what am I supposed to do to get that old kick back in my life?? I can't go bar hopping to chat people up and be admired for my desirability (something I used to thrive on). And when I try for it with him our date nights are usually anxiety laden because of money issues and coming home to Hollis at a reasonable hour and reasonably sober. And I'm asleep in my coffee.

Am I supposed to exorcise myself of wanting to be wanted by others? to feel that rush and adrenalin of talking to new people? to use hours' worth of witty banter to woo someone to my side?

How do I reconcile all of this?

Gone, utterly, are the days of passion and fun and force and excitement. My life is predictable. Safe. Lovely. Full of strong, warm hugs. It's butterflies and sunbeams and nicely made beds and zerbert kisses. - And oh, God, I feel so guilty for even feeling this way when I can still feel Hollis' sweet little mouth on the tender skin of my arm, see the twinkle in his eye and sense the love emanating from his warm, pulsing body. It's as if I'm saying he's not enough, even though that's the last thing on earth I'm saying.

I just want to know one thing: How do I possibly add to my beautiful world all that raucous, powerful, cat-scratch, tobacco-laden energy from my past without actually sacrificing the present and future? How??

Am I alone in this??

Please, quick, someone tell me before my head fucking explodes and Anthony has to put me back together again...

Only 5 days, 8 hours, 59 minutes and 12 seconds until I get to see my honey and he can make all of this go away and assure me I'm not fucking bat-shit crazy and that I really and truly am everything I remember.

Sleeping in the middle of the bed is 2/3 bullshit

Little sunshine baby.

When Anthony's gone, I sleep well and horribly all at the same time. Mostly, it's falling asleep that I have trouble with (it feels so lonely without him reading next to me or for me to drowse on), but once I do pass out I'm in heaven smack in the middle of the mattress. Usually spread eagle.

And I sorta go spread eagle in my every day life, too, and I feel guilty for liking my space all while missing him terribly. So, basically, my life with Anthony traveling is made up of three parts: loving the freedom to do things my way and my way only and having one less person to worry about, feeling guilty at loving said freedom, and missing my husband. It's two thirds bullshit.

I've written before about how great it is to have ice cream for dinner and to only have myself to clean up after. It wouldn't be great if I had to do it 100% of the time, but it's a real treat. The trick now is to give myself permission to really feel good about thinking it's a treat instead of beating myself up about it. Otherwise, I'm on my way to 100% bullshit.

One voice tells me I'm supposed to miss my husband and time apart from him is only bad and nothing else. The other voice is a lot more relaxed and happy without all my self-imposed duties that are a part of running a family.

Not only am I trying to reconcile loving and hating this time separated from my guy, but Hollis has exploded in terms of development. It's been amazingly fun and exciting. My only regret is that Anthony has been missing all of it. To that end, because so much was happening, I started a list of new things because I was worried I'd forget something and there's nothing that stabs at my heart more than having to tell Anthony, "Oh, I forgot to tell you about that [really awesome new thing your son does now]."

Here's the note:

I always did get Cs in penmanship.

I'm pretty sure you can't read it, so allow me to transcribe it for you and explain them.

• wagging my rump to "Promiscuous Girl" w/Hollis (that is to say, he was laughing hysterically at me as I did this)
• his "love" zerberts (he now zerberts all over me: my arms, my legs, my belly if I let him all in the name of baby lurv)
• dancing (he's started to really get down)
• burying his face in my butt, patting & squeezing it (now this is a mystery to me as to why he does this. I'm fairly certain he's never seen his father do this and Anthony's never really paid my butt nearly as much attention as Hollis does. But Hollis has decided my butt is the best thing ever.)
• finding him pants-less (I went into his room one day to check on him and he'd taken off his overalls)
• tossing everything out of his crib (he cannot stand for one object in his crib that he doesn't want there, which usually just leaves him, his blankie, and a paci)
• rabbit, circle, cow, hot, more, Mimi/Tata, moon, sun, chess, Nana, poo, bubbles, boots, blue, brush, Q-Tip, toothbrush, watermelon, yogurt, cheese (new words)
• shy - then friendly (he's great around strangers. Sizes them up first then goes forward)
• peeing in potty in tub (I catch his pee in the bath tub in the potty. He's skeptical, but goes along with it)
• fave book - Everyone Poops
• climbing on everything, riding his rocket (nothing is off limits or out of his range anymore. I just found him ON TOP of the kitchen table the other day)
• wearing our shoes (I often find him limping around with one of my high heels on, but he's just as happy slopping around in Daddy's slippers)
• stinky feet! bleck! (Mom and Terry taught him this little trick in the car. They smell his feet then make a face. He cracks himself up with this one)
• cheeks jiggle when running
• climbs into carseat (all by himself)
• puts his Crocs on (all by himself)
• rides Mommy like a horse! (the other day I bruised my knees and gave myself rug burn from running up and down the hall between the bedrooms with him on my back. It was the best afternoon ever)
• appropriate responses to movies - "uh-oh!" (when a rocket landed on Wall-E he was yelling "uh oh!!" over and over. I'd say that was pretty appropriate.)

And because I'm feeling bad (OF COURSE) for getting to see all this first hand and Anthony doesn't, here's a little photo log of the past week and a half:

He climbed up here all by himself.

I was sick on Friday and needed some chicken noodle soup, so we went to a Mexican restaurant and Hollis made sure I ate plenty of chips.

Gonna ride his tractor.

Eating bubbles.

Clara reading him a story.

Me, Tuesday night, out with friends.

It rained for hours yesterday.

Panda in the mist.

I'm a mess

I'm a freaking mess. I've been up and down and all around the past three weeks.

I spent a week on the road with a toddler and a grown man whose tendency for grump these days is, let's just say, monumental for him. I mingled at a reunion that wasn't mine. I hung out with in-laws. I got zero sleep. I got sick. I got wrung out by people from every corner. I said goodbye to my husband for SEVENTEEN days. I got sick. I found a dear old friend. I was medically and legally violated by a radiologist, then an obstetrician. I saw my uterus and fallopian tubes. I saw a follicle growing. I live in hell. I hang out with a 22-month old day in and day out all by myself. I find solace in the computer because it's the only adult interaction I get on most days. I am embarrassed about that last sentence. I can't fall asleep before 1 am because, I don't know why, I just can't. I'm reuniting with people. I am thrilled. I am frustrated. I think everyone hates me. I tell myself that simply can't be true, but maybe it is. I want to run away. I want to cuddle. I want to laugh, cry, celebrate, do a jig, and break something.

I want a big fucking hug.

And, I miss Anthony, who today, from Athens, Greece, did this:

"The Sprinkler"

Because I begged him to and because he loves me.

Can I also add a drink to that hug??

He's alive...

I dated a boy once whose heart I treated badly. He was just shy of 6 feet tall, brown haired, brown-eyed. Gentle and sweet. He was smart and kind and noticed that my letters were scented with my perfume not by design, but because my wrist dragged across the page of my letters. He knew I was scared of love and yet he stood by me patiently and steadfastly. He even let go as I persisted to run away.

He's remained connected to me all these years because he is the one person in my life whom I treated unkindly simply because I was so bereft of self and confidence. (Later in life I would cloud my behavior with drugs and alcohol; treating people badly by default, but not deliberately as I did him.) I truly thought there was something wrong with him for caring about me. Couldn't he see what a worthless piece of shit I was?? Couldn't he understand that I did not deserve kindness?

We kept up a correspondence for some time and then, the summer he was to be released from the Navy, in 1996, my first summer here in Texas, I wrote him a letter expressing my glee at having come out of my closet of darkness and confusion; that I was living my life in such a bold and colorful way, hedonistic to the utmost, liberal, and visceral and I was in heaven. I had found my true self! I had probably written. I wanted to share with him all that I had become: a "plus, Jessica," not that I had changed, just that I had fully blossomed. But he must have thought I had changed because I never. heard. from. him. again. EVER. And then it was my turn to have my heart broken.

Off on and on for the last thirteen years or so I have attempted to find him. I had his full name, rarely used, his date of birth marked on my calendar from 1994 (August something). I knew he was a Virgo, was born in Texas, had served on a USS Navy ship. And I had a dozen other little things filed away such as when he was a little boy he once fed their Dalmatian his Chinese food because he didn't like it and there was a clean-plate rule in his house. He thought he'd gotten away with it until the dog barfed up noodles. Then his butt was toast. Or that he had a tattoo of Texas that matched his best friend's. Or that he favored wearing a mustache... just a little.

During one particularly fruitless attempt at finding him via online white pages I called 1-800-SEARCH or some such people finder service. I gave the man on the phone all the info I had. He confirmed that based on DMV records he had found him, but that would be $80, please. I was broke, so I hung up.

Since that day MySpace and Facebook have appeared and again I have trolled the sites looking for him under his different aliases. Again to no avail. He didn't exist, apparently. I've thought many times, What if he's dead?? I mean, it's possible. No one lives forever. No one's immune to car wrecks or cancer.

Today, of all unremarkable days, I have found him by way of Google this time. I punched in his name and the boat name and Classmates.com came through. I was able to piece it all together, spend $15 and actually email him directly.

And then, what seemed like seconds later, as I was writing this he emailed me, said I'd broken his heart with that last letter and now I am crying, relieved and sad, and it turns out I've just missed him. He'd been less than an hour away for the last 3 years, but now he's gone again. And my heart aches for something I don't know...

I'm so relieved to know he's alive and well. Married, lots of babies, still in the military, but in a different branch. His Classmates.com profile reminds me of the young man I knew: concise, witty, funny, not your average Joe.

God, I feel a thousand years old and 18 all over again. I wish I could give him an enormous hug and just let a young Jessica who was about to go through so much be with someone who cared for her as she was - or even, dare I say, loved?

It's so weird to be crying over a man who's not my husband, who was never even close to being my husband, but I am. I'm crying because we were so young and because I was on the edge of a great abyss of bullshit that I wouldn't come out of for years. This boy was the first casualty of blocking off my heart from everyone.

Tears, tears, tears. Why am I crying so??

I think it's regret. I've always told anyone who would listen that I regretted how I treated this man. I wonder how different my life would have been had I been able to open to him, to let him in. It's this regret that stabs at me, this one What If that I have in my life. What if I had loved him back? Anthony knows about him and he wonders at my regret knowing that's not who I am: someone who second guesses her past, but I do in this one instance. I can't help it.

And now I have found him again... and he's alive... and well... and happy... and goddamnit, so am I.

Why do models have to be rail thin?

Marilyn at her biggest was reportedly a size 12. I'd like to see some starlet who tries to emanate her do it for real. I'd kill to look like this, by the way.

I just stumbled across an online Victoria's Secret pictorial and I'm curious: why do the powers that be think that showing their wares on tall, rail-thin women, who arch their backs and stick our their butts to get the illusion of curves, will actually get the average woman to the store? Is it because they think WE think we'll look like that if we buy it? I mean, will I look like this girl if I buy this thong? Will it look like that on my butt?? Will my butt become a perky present and my eyes get big like saucers?



Ugh. I just get so upset at the constant barrage of images of thin, thin, thin, toned, toned, toned, smooth, smooth, smooth ALL the flippin' time. When I let my guard down I am exhausted and sad. I try so hard every day to not buy into that bullshit, but it is relentless. If Dove didn't make me break out when I used it, I'd buy stock in the company just to say thanks for their curvy women ads.

Thanks, Dove.

I feel as though I'm in a life long Battle of the Bulge, pun intended. Why can't just one, ONE high end designer introduce a woman that would be considered beautiful before mainstream media existed? A woman who was soft looking, had rounded shoulders, an ample bosom and bottom. No clavicles, no sharp-edged shoulders, no pelvic bones. Think, "More cushion for the pushin'," and go from there.

I'd even say, Ok, go ahead and maker her 5' 11" if you have to, but keep her soft looking and don't call her "plus sized, fat, or overweight" and don't call the clothing she's wearing anything other than your designs. No, "A|X|+", Bagdley Mischka Speciale, or Mike Kors or something to let everyone know that she's wearing a "big girl" size.

That way one chubby little girl who loved fashion might see a realistic image associated with power, art, style, world-travel, and desirability. And she'd see her pudgy arms and round face and think, "Hey, the world thinks I'm beautiful just like my momma says!" and I could think, "Wow, we're making progress after all these years of starvation!"

Is it really necessary to show clothes on women who probably have them all pinned in the back? And I'm not hating on skinny ladies, because I know you are real people with hearts and sometimes get a bad rap from the rest of us with size complexes, but I'm just saying that the reason they're called "Super Models" is because there are only, like 12 of them in the whole world, so why are we seeing them everywhere? Technically, they're more rare than a shark attack and as fleeting as Big Foot. We shouldn't be seeing this as normal.

It makes me so sad that we all buy into this over and over. I know of no woman who loves her body, not even the tall, skinny ones. What has happened to us??

Will pick boogers

Hollis asks me to pick his nose.

And I do it!

I actually touch someone else's BOOGERS?!

Naps: Two were never enough. One is TORTURE.

I'm going to keep this brief.

Some of you may have noticed I've been writing a lot less lately. It's not because I don't have shit to say, it's because I have no time to say it. - Currently, I have stuffed my toddler with fish sticks, veggie soup, and a cookie and locked him (yes LOCKED him) in his "zone" just so I could zip down these thoughts. -

Why don't I have time anymore? you ask. Well, because we've reached that dreaded napping plateau, the weariest of points of no return: Hollis will only take one nap a day.

Now, to be fair, he's not one-napping it every day - he throws me a bone about once or twice a week. But on those one-nappers I don't know how he does it. I'm freaking exhausted by 4 o'clock. I had no idea I relied so heavenly on nap breaks until now.

Yesterday, after butting heads with him all day long (less the blissful, albeit late and short, morning nap time) and feeling like a complete mothering failure because I couldn't figure out how to get him to NOT throw a tantrum I had to tell him, "Hollis, Mommy has a booboo in her head and she needs to lay down to feel better. You're going to hang out in your crib while I do this, ok?"

Thank God he was content with this arrangement and played quietly for about 45 minutes while I stared at the ceiling fan contemplating my tired ass navel.

Today we went to my friend's pool, our first real pool-excursion ever. It didn't tire him out in the least. Mommy required another quick afternoon nap, but he powered through with his Baby Animals book and bouncing on his crib mattress.

Bring it. I could do this alllll day.

I'm jealous, proud and want to cry all at the same time. God help me...

How we roll

The city of Austin sent out notices a couple of months about a free
Eco-friendly toilet program. I signed up for it immediately, of
course, and registered for two toilets.

When the official paperwork came in we had to pick them up within days
and have them installed by a certain date (I'm not sure how they'd
check, but I didn't want to press my luck).

After a bit of a rabbit chase to find the warehouse I secured
approximately 8 boxes - 8! - housing various parts of two toilets and
plied my mom and Terry with two night's worth of food if they'd come
help us - er, Anthony - install them.

(Anthony's in the Dominican Republic and Costa Rica this week, so I
knew I had to act fast to get it all done before the Toilet Police
came knocking to check if they were installed yet.)

I'm happy to report that installation went off without a hitch.
Unfortunately, in Anthony's haste to install toilets, entertain in-
laws, and pack for an international trip he plopped the old toilets
just outside our back door (for the record I don't blame him). Which,
besides their surprising sight from my kitchen, wouldn't ordinarily
bother me, however, imagine my intense embarrassment when I had to
explain their existence to the AT&T guy yesterday; forget the AT&T
guys digging the hole in my backyard (long story) who'd been walking
by them for 4 days.

*sigh*

Maybe I shoulda played it off as extra seating??

Spelling Bee a la Mr. B's class

Have I been out of the loop, or something? Since when was a spelling bee championship, finale, whatever aired on national television? Well, it was (and has been for the past 4 years, apparently). And Tom Bergeron, mc'd it. What the hell?

Ok, whatever I guess, but isn't that even more pressure for those poor, sweet, bookworm-y kids? Can you imagine?? Not only are you studying word origins for hours a day and practicing your stiff-armed, mouth on the mic, spelling bee stance, but now you also have to contend with camera lighting and TV cameras?

Those kids deserve more than just cash and some reference books. They deserve medals of bravery and $1000 gift card to Gap Kids (they have enough social hurdles to endure, I'm sure, so might as well look spiffy, right?).

I remember the only spelling bee I was ever in. It was in Mr. Bernhardt's 5th/6th combination class, it was 1985, and I was a 5th grader, an underdog. I was a good speller, too, by anyone's standards and I was hot. I mean h a w t. I was spelling things like "encyclopedia," and "majesty" and "passed" (not to be confused with "past," mind you). I was the last 5th grader standing.

It was me and some snooty 6th grader, head to head, when Mr. B looks me in the eye as if to say, "Come on, girl! You can do it!!" and sounds out "kuh-lahzh".

I remember thinking, "Did he just make up that word?? What the fuck?"

"Kuh-lahzh" he says again. Ok, ok, dude, I heard you...

I stalled for time and must have looked pained because he began trying to help me out, "It's not "college."

"Well, YEAH, obviously!" I screamed in my brain, "I KNOW how to spell that! C-O-L-L-E-G-E. Ugh! How does that help me?" His little tip only served to confuse me more.

The tension was thick as a knife in our paste-colored classroom. The other students perched, I'm sure, on the edge of their seats, their hopes for Spelling Bee Champion dashed when they misspelled words such as, "justice," and "steak."

I began, "C-O-L-L-" and Mr. B's face was lit up with hope and expectation, but when I finished with , "E-G-E," because nothing else had come to mind his face fell, shoulders slumped. "No, I'm sorry Jessica. It's spelled, C-O-L-L-A-G-E. You may return to your seat."

I was devastated and I hadn't even studied!! And so ended my Spelling Bee career. I can't imagine what it's like for these kids who do the spelling bee "circuit" and get words like "laodicean" (which I can't even pronounce as an adult!).

What's the point, anyway? After a certain level of proficiency, isn't it good enough? I mean, anyone who would use "laodicean" in a sentence invariably will know how to spell it. Understanding its meaning and how to spell it would sort of have to go hand in hand, right?

Anyway, congrats to ol' Kavya Shivashankar. Good for her and her bad 13 year old self. May her life be a collage of memorable events.

::

By the way, here's "laodicean" in a sentence (the winning word for Kavya). See if you can figure out its meaning:

She's never really been all that into Catholicism, instead adopting a laodicean attitude towards its tenets.

I will conquer the gnats

Gnats make me want to claw my skin off my bones. Lucky for me that isn't really possible because we have an infestation in my kitchen and a Raving, Skinless Jessie wouldn't be all too great, me thinks.

I don't know if they came when I was saving compost materials for my neighbor or just because you can't have produce on your counter tops here in Texas, but whatever the reason for their existence in my nice, clean house, they're here. And they make me want to vomit. VOMIT, I say.

I've discovered over the past couple of weeks that they are magnetically pulled to my wine glass - nice, huh? They have good taste; they couldn't be bothered with juice. And it doesn't seem to matter if it's white or red, so I've started leaving out little wine glasses just for them around the house to lure them in. Then I creep up and slam my hand down on the top and drown the little bastards.

Exhibit A: About a dozen dead soldiers in the 3rd Wine Glass Trap of the day

Today, it was a nice Pinot Grigio. It was working wonders until I saw about 20 of them lurking by. The bile rising in my throat told me then it was time to call in the reinforcements. Plus, I don't want to waste all my wine on this shit.

Here's my current set up:

Try and survive, you asshole gnats! I'm the one with a frontal cortex, not you!!

We'll see if the fly tape or the wine will get the most in the end. Wish me luck, people.

And sorry, you nasty, disgusting, hovering gnats, but I'm gonna win this round.

Update: I ended up going with a mixture of wine AND vinegar and within a few days they were dead, dead, DEAD. Incidentally, the fly tape caught some big house flies (another problem I have), but the gnats steered clear of it.

Why am I doing this again??

Every 5 or 6 weeks I wonder, "Why the fuck am I blogging??"

I mean, it's a ridiculously self-serving thing. I'm writing all about me, my life, my thoughts, my anxieties, my whatever.

And who am I?? Some chick in Austin, TX who doesn't get out enough.

Whose real-life friends are all but ghosts, visiting her on occasional late nights when schedules allow, and, she thinks, maybe it's because she sucks?

Whose husband would probably rather she NOT write as much and as honestly as she does, but who recognizes it as a good, solid hobby for her to have anyway.

Whose neuroses are, surely, pretty damn boring to read day in and day out and probably also have the unwanted effect of causing readers to think, "Oh my GAWD, there she goes complaining AGAIN!"

A woman who is embarrassingly insecure, but steadfast in her belief she'll not be some day.

A woman who pours her heart out and then somehow manages to limp along in the following days, hoping someone responds, and cringes all the while at her neediness.

A woman who delights in her baby and who is becoming desperate for another one, but she'll never tell you that for fear of jinxing the whole damned thing.

A woman whose heart is in San Francisco and only wants the rest of her there.

Whose self-depreciation knows know bounds and, she believes, this makes her a little uncouth in good company.

And then I ask, "What do I want this blog to be??" Ideally, it'd be a place where other moms, and friends, could see the wizard behind my curtain. Maybe I seem put together and confident. Maybe I seem to know it all and have it under control. I'd like for this to be a place for honesty and support, for me and for others.

I also want it to be a source of information for new moms. I scoured the internet for information when Hollis was born and I got a lot of crap, but I also found a lot of great stuff, and I've tried to showcase it here in an organized and readable way. I'm not a money-making site, so I'm not trying to be super slick, but I do want it to have rhythm and rhyme, so to speak.

I'd like to become more vocal about my beliefs, but often find myself intimidated by the fierce debates I read elsewhere. I absolutely believe that women need about a thousand times more support breastfeeding. I don't believe formula is "just as good as breastmilk." I don't believe in hitting children. I don't believe in the "cry it out" method. I believe whole-heartedly in attachment parenting, and child-led weaning. I believe the feminists forgot to say that "women's work" is equal to "men's work."

I want to be like Annie of PhD in Parenting. Or a little more like Noble Savage, or Mom-101. Women and parents who write with grace, intelligence and who seem to be fearless in their momentum; their research is flawless. I feel my writings are so little sometimes, so not worthwhile.

And then... (because of course a post like this has an "and then" moment) something miraculous happens because of this blog.

Even though I complain and am confused and often write ridiculous things like about how my son ate his umbilical stump or how my husband gave me tulips once, or I'll be a real downer and write about my dad or losing Levi, people I've never met still read and they comment and they reach out and touch me.

Like Loukia of Loulou's Views who comments on all my posts and emails me when I've been incommunicado. Or Noelle of Baby in Broad who was the very first person to add me to her blogroll, and that little thing somehow made my freakin' day that a total stranger, someone trying to do virtually the same thing as me, thought my site was worth a nod. Or when Noble Savage, a blogger I really admire, tagged me in a meme - again, something so little and insignificant, but still made me think that maybe my blogging attempts really aren't going into a blackhole after all.

And, lastly, of course my real life friends, the ones who are ghosts by virtue of their locale, not their schedules, email me and call me and chat excitedly about my writings. They are so grateful to be able to see into my life and they think I'm so funny and insightful and Thank You for posting about the vaccination thing because I wasn't sure what I was going to do, but now I'm thinking about it in a whole new way!

They see likeness in my stories and theirs and they see solace in our shared experiences. As my friend just told me, "I feel like even though our situations aren't identical, we are still all going through the same things," and it makes her feel less alone in her own experience.

It's exhilarating and wonderful to hear and I feel pride in what I'm doing. Maybe I'll keep blogging after all... reaching even one friend, real or ethereal, is well worth the effort to continue stretching myself publicly. I'm an extrovert, I know this. I won't keep apologizing for this particular decadence. I'll just need to let it feed my soul. Because you can't overfeed your soul. Not even a little bit.