Wet Feet

Felled

Last night, while listening to Candy Cane Crawl for the 50th time, I noticed that it was quieter and slower, even than it's supposed to be. I switched to headphones. Same thing. Warbly, now, too. Switched back to regular speakers. Even worse. Dude, Greg Dulli is so hot he fried my sound card. Sexy beast.

Later last night, a peaceful baby nursing and drowsing suddenly sat up and gave a quadruple hurk that covered the whole world in milky puke. This morning we've all puked at least once and are running fevers. I'm glad, actually. Everyone getting sick at once means we can all sip juice and watch TV together, instead of the usual illness tag-team of one then the other, and as soon as the last one is better and I think I might have escaped it, it hits me full force and I'm dealing with two very cooped up newly energized children while I'm the walking dead. So I'm about as happy as a person can be whilst covered in puke.

Head on over to Jo's today to see her review of BabyProofing Your Marriage. I got the same book to review, and I wanted to read it thoroughly and give it a full drubbing, I couldn't get past the blind incoherent rage that would settle in front my my eyes whenever I started reading. But...I read enough to find out why my marriage failed: because I never learned the art of the five minute blow job. I'll have to work on that.

Whigging Out

Oh internet, I've been hiding from you.

I swear, the boob post is coming soon. I went to work on it just now, and I found that my 80% completed post, with photos and all already uploaded, and way more text than I planned at first, is gone. Where did it go? Fuck. That was a lot of work.

And I still have to show you my WHOYC presents. I would tell you about the gifts I sent, but I forgot to take pictures of them in the haze of procrastination and the resulting scramble to get it mailed. Plus, after getting my gift, I'm feeling a little inadequate about the one I sent.

Since I've been known to like music and talk about it on my blog, I'll tell you that I am in shock that I have managed to be unaware of Greg Dulli until, basically, last week. Not like people haven't been telling me about him for all this time, expressing shock that I was not up on my Afghan Whigs, considering my taste.

So I trucked it down to Barb's on Saturday, "66" and most of Twilight Singers Powder Burns playing much of the way. At Barb's I heard Black Love for the first time. Also, the Afghan Whig's live cover of New Order's Regret, which is one my favorite songs ever. And she lent me this DVD (making me sign in blood that I'd bring it back safely), which I haven't watched yet, but will soon. She has emailed me parts of 1965, Gentlemen, and Black Love. I am eating it up, lyrics007 at my side.

There's something to be said for a late discovery of an artist. I have years worth of songs, EP's, and rare live tracks to discover. Sure, I didn't see it all happen along the way. But, damn, what a banquet.

So that's what I've been doing instead of blogging. Greg Dulli-thon, 2007. Dulli-cious.

Vintage 2004

Thanks to an adapter, I am back online, typing on my old desktop keyboard. Yay. The boob post is coming next, once I find the picutres I know I took of Naomi nursing about a week before I weaned her. They are both indiscreet and of a child old enough to negotiate. Scandalous!

I found an old diary, one I'd filled, put away, and forgotten about. Naomi was six months to eighteen motnhs as I was keepingthis diary- it is filled with analyses of her sleep habits. Among the jabbering about sleep and dieting that I went on and on with, I found this entry about adoption, and decided to type it up and share it with you. It marks an important moment; I was realizing that I wasn't incapable of mothering at 19 years old, I was seeing for the first time the unseen forces at work in my relinquishment of motherhood.

And, it was written three years ago today. A year before I started blogging, for those keeping score at home.

January 16, 2004

I hate the world. We are so sick. The earth is sick and humanity is the cause. Mothers beat their babies, make their children suffer. Adoption is necessary in such a sick world.

I flirt with the idea of shutting myself off from the world by joining an isolated commune, freestanding and independant, living like humanity was meant to live. But it wouldn't do any good to run away, it would not feel right to abandon the world, even though  there's nothing I can do.

By giving up E, I capitualted to this sick and backward society. What is so wrong and unnatural about a pregnant 19 year old that she can only come to one conclusion: she is incapable of raising her own child?

While making sure I was not pressured in any way by any specific person, I underestimated the coercive effects of cultural truths we take for granted. 'Teenagers are too immature to love and raise children, teenagers are inherently selfish. I never questioned this or other "truths": If you don't finish college now, you never will; motherhood will be the end of all your dreams; you need to find yourself before you have children. That last one is funny- I "found myself" in motherhood more than anything else I've ever done. My life before motherhood lacked a sharp focal point.

[I think of women lke Ariel Gore and Beverly Donofrio, who've written about teenage motherhood and how it gave them the guts, the drive, and the stability to go after their dreams. I wonder if things would have been different if I had found Ariel Gore's Hip Mama's Survival Guide when I was pregnant with E. It would have been a revelation; growth, change, drive, new horizons, intense experiences because of motherhood, not in spite of it or by relinquishing it. Motherhoood as a beginning, not an ending.]

I am so angry at my 19 year old self- that I was such a demure handmaiden to society.

I saw the relinquishment as my redemption; the idea that I could be redeemed by a single act appealed to me. I was motivated by the guilt over being a rebellious, unmanagable teenager, for treating my own mother so horribly for the previous five yers.

I am embarrassed and ashamed for being so blind to the inner workings of society. I was so spineless in my eagerness to please and be the perfect birthmother to make up for being the nightmarish daughter. Because a person who had caused so much pain could not possibly love a child.

Now that I have Naomi I know this is not true. There is healing in being a mother. If I had focused my energy toward preparing for motherhood instead of birthmotherhood I would ahve been fine. Now that I have Naomi I know I would have been a good mother to E. If I could only have believed I was capable. If I could only  have seen myself as deserving her.

It's good to have a techie friend

The boob post will have to wait: my f-ing computer broke again. In an attempt to treat my computer (and thus my work) with more respect, I got a good, protective bag to carry it in. Of course, not zipping the bag properly nullifies these protective qualities.  Apparently, a singular beer severely reduces my zipping acumen.

The damage resulting from the sickening clatter of laptop-meets-concrete appears to be a relatively easy fix:  everything works except the keyboard, if I didn't have the damn things under password, I could surf to my heart's content, but not type at all. Also, the connection to the cd burner appears also to be broken, but this is a preexisted problem,  leading to weeks of frustration at my inability to make mix cds for my friends.

Jul tells me things could be much worse.  Having already done battle with the guts of my computer, she is confident she will be victorious again. I'm hoping to be up again, with access to my more rebellious nursing pics, by midweek. Stay tuned.

Because it's been too long since I've shown you my boobs

In the bleakness of Janurary, where if I write one more adoption post I might off myself, where the best thing I can think of is to link you to this so you can giggle with me. (Link via The Manolo. Love that guy).

I could tell you about my trip to H&M with Naomi, where she decided that I absolutly must have the most ugly thing in the store. With some pinking shears, a glue gun, and a some magenta fabric paint, Molly Ringwald might have been able to whip this into something funky to wear to the prom. But...Naomi's idea is that I should wear this "in the kitchen. And to the drugstore". But that does not a Friday post make.

Time to start digging around at the bottom of that barrell. This might require your participation.

Since this post (which garnered me so many hits from so many places) where I exposed myself inapropriately, I have planned to do a post celebrating the most unacceptable breastfeeding photos: yes, the toddler/preschooler nursing pics. Pictures from behind the closet door. Especially pictures where absolutely no care is taken to protect sensitive eyes from unduue sexual confusion. Yes, I want to see you feeding your nurslings "old enough to ask for it", or if you prefer- "old enough to chew steak". I confess, it's been so long since I've bothered to nurse discreetly, I don't know if I remember how. I wear shirts that I can access The Girls from the top. I wear underthings that make this easy.

You have all weekend to collect and take your pictures, and I will post them all on Monday, along with any captions you want to include. So, folks, write next week's post for me. I'm depending on you!

In in the highly likely event I have no picutres to post on Monday, I will be forced to blather on about why I don't have a blogroll anymore, and how the only blogs I still read with any regularity are 1. people I know in real life, 2. people who I may or may not have crushes on, and 3. people who are fluffy and diverting, like Go Fug Yourself. Okay, that's an exaggeration, I have 240 bloglines subscriptions and I do occasionally spend a few hours catching up. But still. Not post worthy.

This long weekend I am off to the mountains, where I plan to ski for the first time in 3 years. Alone. Blessedly alone.

don't the best conversations with 4 year olds happen on the toilet?

So, I'm sitting on the toilet and Naomi says to me, "When I'm big, I want to dig for human bones and make them into skeletons".

Naomi was born with a taste for the macabre. She doesn't know this, but her favorite filmmaker is Tim Burton, the actor she will watch in anything is Johnny Depp (right now she's grooving on Edward Scissorhands). She was fascinated with the BodyWorlds exhibit when we took her last year. She had quite the love affair with the bookstore's toy skeleton, named, obviously, Mr. Bones.

As my mind raced among sociopathological possibilities I was surely inducing by inflicting such stress as divorce upon her tender psyche, I stalled and asked her a question "Like, for your job?"

"for a job!" Now she's excited. She wants to go get a job RIGHT NOW working with human remains. Great.

Is my daughter going to be a forensic pathologist? Or an archeologist? Or a reclusive bone collector? Time will tell.

But if you ask her what she wants to be when she grows up, she will now answer "I wanna be an arche-cologist! And dig for human bones!"

I've cast my vote.

Re-runs

One year ago I wrote this post. Remember when Dot was placing? I was thinking about her when I wrote this. I didn't want to come out and tell her "no, don't do it" because I knew she wouldn't hear me. But...I couldn't say nothing.

I almost forgot!

I never told you how the gloves turned out, did I?

I am very happy with them. The only mistake visible to a non-knitter is that one of the cables goes in the wrong direction. By the time I noticed it was wrong there was no way I was ripping back. Let the mistake stand. If she wants perfection, she can go to The Gap.

I shudder at the thought of a knitter inspecting these gloves; the evidences of tiny mistakes are very, very many.

Also, the right hand glove is bigger than the left hand glove. Not sure why. It's bothering me, as I look at the picture.

I also sent the bottle of pink nail polish that, if it were me, I'd wear with that color.

Some pattern notes for the knitters who may try this:

The yarn I used was recommended to be knit on size 7-8 needles, the pattern called for size 6 for a denser fabric, I knit on size 2's. I knit two gloves with one skein and had plenty (a few yards) left over. The gauge on the label was 18 sts over 4 inches, and my gauge was more like 21 or 22 (I didn't keep my gauge swatch, and I forgot to write it down). I can just barely get them onto my hands and they are big on Naomi, but not too big that she coudln't wear them. (She loved them, by the way, and now I'm knitting the same pair in red; sock weight yarn this time, on 1's).

I also bought E a journal, because it was right around 9 that I started to make up stories and write them down. I wrote a little note inside about that and how this can be a place she can write and draw and express herself.

I sent it out the morning of her birthday, after a missing tapestry needle sent me in a flurry to the local overpriced knitting store a block away. There, I found my yarn on clearance and so bought another skein to make a matching pair for msyelf. Heh.

Two more adoption songs and then I promise I'll stop

Again, reprinting lyrics and calling it a post.

Also, This blog I recently discovered has a few posts that sum up exactly how I feel about life. Especially over this past year. Especially right now.

If you haven't signed the Alison Quets petition, please do so. Read more about the case here. A quote from her lawyer: "A mother says, 'I want my baby.' You don't tell her to wait. You don't make her get a lawyer. You return her baby," DelBalzo says. "The whole process shouldn't take a week, let alone a year or more." DelBalzo argues, "The would-be adoptive couples who withhold a wanted baby -those are the real kidnappers."

On to the fluff:

I like the original and the Frente versions of this song.

"Bizarre Love Triangle"

Every time i think of you
I feel shot right through with a bolt of blue
It's no problem of mine but it's a problem I find
Living a life that I can't leave behind
There's no sense in telling me
The wisdom of a fool won't set you free
But that's the way that it goes
And it's what nobody knows
While every day my confusion grows
Every time I see you falling
I get down on my knees and pray
I'm waiting for that final moment
You'll say the words that I can't say

I feel fine and I feel good
I'm feeling like I never should
Whenever I get this way, I just don't know what to say
Why can't we be ourselves like we were yesterday
I'm not sure what this could mean
I don't think you're what you seem
I do admit to myself
That if I hurt someone else
Then I'll never see just what we're meant to be
Every time I see you falling
I get down on my knees and pray
I'm waiting for that final moment
You'll say the words that I can't say

There's Been an Accident: Twilight Singers

daylight is creeping, i feel it burn my face
i don't sleep here no more, so, my shadow walks in place of me
like candy, your eyes, seetly, roll out of control
like the singer, alive, but just barely holding on

far away, where you run, when it all becam undone
you'll be dust, realize, you were taken for a ride
but still you call that number, til you're crawling under
them stones, assorted jones, and all alone

i'm alive, it kinda took me by surprise
but everytime i look away, there's no light
there's no sentry at the gate

far away, where you run, when it all becam undone
you'll be dust, realize, you were taken for a ride
but still you call that number
'til you're crawling under
'til you're crawling under
'til you're crawling under
'til you're crawling under
them stones, assorted jones, and picked over bones

daylight is creeping, i feel it burn my face
i don't sleep here no more, so, my shadow walks in place of me

The Day Itself: not so bad

Yesterday I borrowed my brother's car and headed oceanward, where Barb and I saw the dying sun over the water, and we talked like only two birthmothers can talk.

It felt good just to be there, the the company of a person who requires nothing from me in the way of pretense, explanation, or defense. I was free to talk, or to not talk. I was free to cry, or not cry.

I say a silent prayer of gratitude for the internet, because without it I never would have met Barb, or read this post of Jayne's, or recieved any of your comments and thoughts when I most needed to hear them. So, thanks, internets. This birthday would have been much worse without you.

In preparation for my trip to Barb's I went through my picutres from when E was born (and damned if I could find a single one without me smiling like a Koolaid drinking fool). I tried taking picutres of them, because I don't have a scanner and I wanted to post some. They turned out too blurry to post. But! Barb has a scanner! And she scanned in these two.

The first one, obviously, is from when she was just born. The second one is right before we left the hospital, literally our last moment as mother and daughter. The anniversary of that day is tomorrow.

Today I retured to narcoleptic land, this time I didn't try to fight it and the girls and I spent the day watching PowerPuff girls on repeat in the TV room. I dozed on and off, only getting up to attend the most basic needs.

Tomorrow is back to normal.