i obsess.

what it's like when you have a disability but can't get assistance because you forget to call because of the disability:

I'm on hold but it's already afterhours for the mental health triage for Kaiser and I have a feeling I should've tried to call maybe slightly earlier than I did, which was, hilariously, right at five o' clock.  You know.  Quittin' time.  So, basically, I nailed la hora solid.

What I want to know is this:  after I get the help I need, and b'lieve you me, I need it, N.E.E.D., should I write a book about my ADHD experiences?  Now don't you all (hee!  I said "you all," like there are more than three of you reading) kiss my ass and say, sure, honey, you should do it!, sure's shootin', don't just blow a bunch of hot air at me; tell me if you think there might be someone who would benefit from my semi-horrific collection of disarranged, colossally messy life puzzle pieces, none of which fit together in any coherent fashion.

Or, conversely, tell me if you think that, oh, poor dear, she really *is* a big, sodden, ridiculous mess (and please take note of my having deliberately NOT described myself as a fierce, hot tranny mess, b/c I am simply not that interesting anymore, people), and she just needs to find somewhere quiet where she can whisper to herself and rock out in her kewl granny chair.

Book?  Or whispery chair scenario?

It all starts here, people.  IT. ALL. STARTS. HERE.  (It also all falls out of my ear, or ass, depending on your pov, or maybe quite possibly where you're standing, in which case, I apologize and -- you're right.  Absolutely no more beans/beer at the same time.  Scout's honor.)

Dweedle deedle dee!

word of the day.

Gotcha!  There is no word of the day!  But you looked.  And I used exclamation points accordingly, as one should, when one is expected to produce and, realizing that the drawer full of "brightly imaginative" is tapped, finds oneself doing a silly jig instead.

I could do the jig with my clothes off and maybe while holding hands with jesus and THEN maybe you'd be innarested.  But I suppose, since you pepeol jus wont be sated wwith antyhign less, i'll have to jig sans vestments and since i *obiuvsouly* cant produuce jesus to be teh fred adstair to my giner, you will just have to acept GIN as his standin.

Which, no pobrlm, ive had alredady some of.  And i will now commnence the jizg.

Whee!

Didja like it?

Was it all thata you had hopped for?

Goodm.

wanst some gin?

itsh good to.

yyum.  *licks inside botttle for resth7*

i can kance, um,m dance again if you want.  i had thiaz really awsmoeme dream abuout how when i saw, um, when i wasz a shripper, i used to get upset when the polae waz too slickh, becasue my hands go tall clalmmy whne I'm tyrifng to do thingfs like climbs rocks or polkes, heh polka i can't do that dance., wher whas i.  i had a dream about climb ing pokes, no, poles, DAMMIT KEYOBARD, sotp messing up wat im tring ot say.  i was dreamignas bout working hte pole and how much i prefered a less slick surface, the brass onesz wer sucked, the more indrstrial kindas were boss, because amy nands coudl stick to it better.

and its was greate, my dream because i realy woredd the pole fierce ilke a fiecre hot trany messz.

mk gona go laya domn,, now.

hopee you had a goood time watchgmi me do the pokla.

plseeae close youre dor onna way ou.t

*whipeser8* thxnkmsa ou, i llove yo.mu, your rad.  m sognna be sichk now shhhhh

p.s. GREATEST HITS CLASSIC!, in case you actually arrived here hoping for something that dwelled somewhere within the realm of substance. 

emotions, allow me to introduce surface.

Oh, hi, Surface!  Nice to meet you - again!  I mean, I'm assuming we've met before.  I feel like we must have, even though I totally can't remember.  Whatev.

Wouldn't you love it, Surface, if you and I could somehow form a permanent bond, so that whenever we meet, we don't have to be reintroduced?  Somehow, every time that happens, there's this surprising pain that Nervous System has to manage.  It's surprising because, well, there's that whole *ahem* (whispers) issue with Memory.  Yes.  I know, issue is being overused these days.  I didn't think that sort of thing bothered you too much, Surface.  I thought you were disaffected.  Cool.  Etc.  And I have this spidey-tingle that says you're about to launch into a long, tedious explanation as to why that's not true and cite several examples and precedents and DUDE, stop pretending to be a barrister.  Yeah.  I said barrister.  It's cooler.  You know that when you're not playing your never-knew-from-cool tired-ass bit.  But.  Back to what I was saying - about Memory having kind of sucked, well, all along?  It's not our fault Memory's so bad at her job.  Why we should have to endure this repeated pretense at not knowing one another?, and why Nervous System has to continually fend off the bouts of pain that result is totally stupid and illogical.  Which brings me to Logic.  Where has Logic even BEEN all this time?  Logic spends more time vacationing than anything, and is conspicuously absent on these recent bitter-cold, rain-soaked days, just when we need her support the most.  God!  This!  Sucks!

I have to go, Surface.  I promised Velvet-Lining-of-Chest Tucked-Inside-Inner-Depths-of-Soul I'd be back by lunch.  We're having toasted cheese and tomato soup.  Don't worry.  I'm sure you'll get some.  I'd just rather not have to watch, is all.  You eat like a mad cow.

Anyway, relax.  We'll meet again soon.  Don't start sobbing.  God.  You'd think you were Emotions.  Sure.  You can call me E. 

Just don't you fucking DARE call me Emo.

or, you know, okay, i could completely disagree with myself.

I've said so many dumb things in my years playing a human being here on this planet that I'm not surprised to catch myself out having said one more dumb thing.

For instance, I've now switched stances wholeheartedly from what I just posted about ignoring the network media, although not so much about ignoring them, but mainly ignoring the suggestion that McCain's winning because he's no longer having to struggle with another candidate for the nomination, while Barack and Hillary are still in a heated contest.  Rather, what this dude says:

Matchups Against McCain Will Suffer

Expect Clinton to start closing the general election performance gap on Obama, but not necessarily gain on McCain. I have long argued that whoever has the monentum in the primary campaign will always perform better in the general election. For the next several weeks, neither Clinton nor Obama will have momentum in the primary campaign, but McCain probably will. As our campaign gets nastier and remains somewhat inconclusive, there is a good chance McCain will gain on both Clinton and Obama.

I dislike eating my words, because they taste narsty, but I'll do it.  Bleah.

(Mainly, I just DON'T want this to be true! - I don't want to see the Dems infight to the point that we can't win the election in November - we are only hurting ourselves with this crap.  Hill and B DO just need to have a thumb-wrestling match and call it, already.  And we know they won't.  And it makes my head hurt.)

this is when i begin squirming subtly while smiling in an awkward fashion.

So, all that brouhaha I stirred up about the paint and other make-up of the toddler trike?  I suppose I should try to keep it in mind for future reference, because the truth of the matter is this:

I.e., that my son's utter, unabashed joy over receiving his first shiny, red bicycle (okay, it's a trike, but you be the one to explain that to him, 'cause I don't really have the energy) is outweighing my concern over whether he'll spend large portions of time licking its probably lead-soaked alluring red exterior.

Thank you, Grandpa Jeff.  The recipient is satisfied beyond words.  He'd prefer to sleep with it, but is settling for just sitting on its well-curved black seat for most of the day as second-best.

And Gwen and Mignon?  Your told-you-so's are more than earned.

I'm cool with it.

5 a.m. logic.

After Caleb did the 2 a.m. potty trip with J, the one where he wanted to sit vacantly on the toilet after he'd finished going, for an indefinite period, and Caleb got a little short with him about that desire, I woke blindly at 5 a.m. to the screaming shrew that is our toddler.  I insisted that, with eyes burning and shoulder achy from too much time sitting weird while watching stored-up Scrubs episodes from the last few months last night, not to mention past the old bedtime (whydoIdoitwhy), he'd better go back to sleep, NOW, or I was going to shut his door (the deal we've worked out recently in order to keep him from sobbing after bedtime has finally, adamantly, arrived).  He kept sobbing.  I stumbled toward his room and stayed true to my word, shutting both his door *and* ours.  Nothin' doin'.  He continued screaming.  (This was after we'd already gone through the litany of issues that might have woken him up, with his scratchy-throated, wobbly "noooo" bleated out after each item was asked; "Do you need to go potty?"  "noooo."  "D'you need to change your pants?  Is your bed wet?"  "nOooooOo."  "Are you thirsty?  Do you need a glass of water?"  "NOOOooooOO."  "Is this retro-active payback for what you may require in psychoanalyzation as an adult thanks to our current parenting behaviors?"  "NOooo."  And so on.) 

A few minutes later, as the screaming hoarsely continued, I blurrily reminded Caleb to ignore it.  He was obviously managing that just fine, because he responded in the almost-asleep voice that it was not a problem.  Seconds later:  snore.  You know.  The usual.  Meanwhile, my heart began accelerating its rhythm, because I always get kinda pissy when he can fall asleep so fast and so easy after so much disruption, and because, well, there was the fucking screaming happening, still, so I waited a little longer and then stomped over to the door.  Caleb snapped awake and tried to caution me to be nice.  I was, sorta, if you think of sotto-voce as nice.  I mean, I do, especially at 5 in the morning. 

Anyway, I beligerently tossed his door open, kneeled down next to his little bed, and said, in a nice, quiet voice, "J.  Listen to mommy." 

"Oh." 

"Now, you need to stop crying or later today?  You're going to stay in your room in the morning.  You won't get to go downstairs and play, and you won't get to go in the living room and play with any of the ornaments on the tree, and you'll just stay in here.  That's it.  Nothing else.  Because it's only 5 in the morning.  We're not getting up right now, you're not going to play downstairs right now, it's still the middle of the night.  Time to go back to sleep.  Unless you keep crying.  Then you'll just be in here, with the door shut.  Do you want that?" 

"Blow my nose?" 

"Sure."  And I offered the lower portion of my t-shirt for him to honk good and loud into.  He did it twice.

"Are you all done crying, now?  Should I leave the door open?"

"'Course, mommy.  Leave it open, peese."

"'k.  G'night.  Go back to sleep."

"'Course, mommy."

And I shuffled back to bed, feet cold, stomach colder where the snotty part of the shirt clung to my torso.

Climbed in under the covers, husband already softly snoring again, and thought about how weird it was; that I could be so quasi-mean to my son about his potential punishment, even feeling like it was mean as I proposed it, listening to myself sort of shocked that I could say something so like what I remember hearing about kids being trapped in rooms, all day, every day, fed scraps, clothes unchanged, *abused*.  Granted, I knew that this was simply a proposed extended time-out, and that I didn't really mean it, because I knew, just knew, he'd not call my bluff.  But what if he had?  What if he'd continued to cry, what then?  Would I have insisted angrily on his remaining in his room for the morning?  Is that like jailing a toddler?  And when I know my husband would have most likely balked at my trying to enforce what I'd said (because I try to stick to what I say I'm going to do, for the sake of consistency, even though it's sometimes a little on the, let's face it, batshit-crazy end of the spectrum)?

I'd be lying if I didn't find the whole thing kinda funny, though, as I was drifting back toward pretty, pretty sleep.  I wouldn't have to follow through on the jail-time, and it worked, my threat, and still.  I had a belly coated with snotty goo to attest to my being -- normal?  Tired?  A real parent?

Oh, I know.  Finally done with my hipster phase.

*******

Just re-read this and I can't resist adding that I read between the lines more than the lines themselves, and boy, is it enlightening.  For one thing, it's pretty obvious that J probably didn't give a crap what the content of my lecture was when I went in there, rather, he was happy to have my soft, quiet voice playing close to his ear, getting to blow his nose, receiving the little pat on the back and, finally, a nice blanket readjustment from mom.  He probably didn't even think about what I was saying.

So much for my getting all caught up in that part of it.  gah.  So typical.

of tummy-ache and ginger tea and -- oh, realllly.

I had a vicious tummy-bug (doesn't that sound so much adorable-r than "gastroenteritis") take me down on my birthday, which was Sunday, and I had cute-as-a-button fevers and, while I did no vomiting, my bottom(ing, keeping within the cute theme, 'cause rhyming is cute, it *is*) will not be the same as it was for some time.  And my tummy is sore from all the precious spasms.  Plus I'm sick to death of flavorless food, i.e., dry toast, rice, bananas, and some applesauce thrown in which actually *did* keep things kinda interesting, also, I put (ooooh!) peanut butter on my toast a few times for protein and 'cause I think I might have had to hurl the toast away, with my arm, not my throat, but anyway.  Fun!  Which, shame on me, I shouldn't mock the process, because I blew it on Tuesday night, since, even though I was still in the throes of misery, I ate the delicious, mind-blowingly good fried latkes Caleb made for the first night of Chanukah, and then?  I had seconds.  I'm officially retarded.  No offense to special-needs people.  I'm serious.  They are all smarter than me.  I mean it.  I rate low on the brain-possession scale when I pull such stunts.  Which is why I paid dearly yesterday.  A damnably tepid day on the eating front in my world.  And that is something that pangs me, because food really does = one of the best things in life, I believe.  I'm not exactly a foodie, because I can't cook worth beans (heh) but I likee the eatee part.  Lots.

But my birthday was fine, Caleb and the kid sang the song and the kid helped me blow out the candle on my cupcake, selected from the ones that he and Dad made, so that ruled, and all the people I love called and sent cards and emails and wrote on my facebook wall and stuff.  I'm learning more and more that it's what means the most to me, those people just leaning in through the doorway for a minute and saying, "Hi!  Happy!  Love!"  So.  I'm getting cornier than ever in my wizening age.  Sweet.

Sweet.  Something I'm not, lately.  I'm more just "stress ball of yarn wound tighter than all of the press secretaries for the current presidential administration put together," which almost sounds more exciting than it is.

I've been unable to blog about my parenting, no, wait, let me start over.  I'm unable to blog about my son, more and more, as he gets older, because I'm feeling more and more guilt and frustration and have no idea how to reveal that to people without feeling like I'm doing it wrong, doing it badly, with no redemptive anything, and am so afraid that people will criticize me, or worse, call the authorities and remove my son.  Even though most of my logic says that is just silly, really, silly as can be, there's a teeny part that says, don't give up the goods, bitch.  Don't tell people what you're doing, not in black-and-white, because then the evidence is all there.  Shhhhhh.  If you're gonna be a horrible mother, don't broadcast it, for FUCK'S sake. 

(Hi, Mom [in-law]! *waves*  Don't be horrified by this stuff!  I always pour my soul out on my blog like this!  It's how I manage to keep it from driving me to drink.  Heh.  That was funny.  *pours another cocktail*  That was another joke.  I make a lot of jokes about being an alcoholic/drug-addicted/actor-type-person here.  No worries.  I would never, ever, ever, *ever* become an actor.  So breathe easy.  Wanna shot of tequila?  Damn.  Bottle's empty.  Neversmicnd.)

I wish I could just be honest, like Kristen and Lotta, who do it with humor, panache and pistol-smart talent, because it must be so emotionally cleansing to unload about how things really are as a parent, and I want to do it, but it feels scary, so instead I turn the loaded gun I carry on my own fleshy ghost and shoot, shoot, shoot away.  I'm positively, no, negatively riddled with wounds of my own making at the moment, because I'd rather manage the pain I've caused myself than this messy, unbounded emotional swamp made up of moments where I've done or said something involving my son that I regret.  Regret because I fear.  I fear that he'll be harmed, irreparably, and okay I'm a cliche, I'm the mom that everyone says, don't be silly, we *all* fuck our kids up, I'm just going to pool my money with my friends, like Nora's friend and I had a laugh over this morning at the daycare doorway, because when they're grown up we can pay for group therapy for them (cheaper when you buy in bulk, right?).  I'm not laughing inside, though, and neither is she, neither are any of us.  It's horribly hard, it's horribly scary, I don't want, and neither does anyone else want, our kids to develop scars and permanent wounds that they

can't help but develop or experience and WHY can't I get past that thought of a sudden?  I've done nothing but tell myself that he'll have to run into things and fall off of things and he'll have scars and he'll have experiences and he'll have stories, and I was totally okay with that, I really have been massaging my own back for the last two+ years, convincing myself he'll need these things in order to have a full, rich childhood, but why in the motherFUCKING world did I forget that it applied to the emotional as well as the physical?

Wow.  I've been beating up on MYSELF, beating up on myself because I want to keep him from feeling those beatings, those emotional bruises and scars, and I just. can't. stop. it. from. happening.

He's going to be hurt, scarred even, not necessarily by me, but by life.

Oh.  Oh, but, god, it's one thing to say that what-doesn't-kill-you-makes-you-stronger over and over and OVER to yourself from the time you first hear it as a twenty-three year old until right this second and onward, ever onward, into the misty, gray future over that hill, but SHIT, no, I can't can't I can't let him have to oh, god.

I hate this being a parent so much more than I thought I would.  I hate that he will hurt.  I hate that he's already hurting.  Necessarily so.  Because that's our fucking plight. 

I know.  There's beauty.  There is absolute, stunning, breathtaking beauty and light and joy in this life, and I see it in his face, I hear it in his raspy, sweet voice when he shouts at the sight of lights strung along rooftops and when he spies a bird tunneling skyward, when he smells cookies or bread baking or hears music and, enchanted, dances wildly, hands in fists and a crazed grin on those little-boy cheeks, and I delight in those moments.

Shit.  This shit is hard.  It's so hard.  I love him more than I ever thought possible, and that love makes everything so hard.

Well, at least now I've solved my health riddle.  I think I'm getting an ulcer.

somebody oughtta slap me.

I get not one, not two, but *three* good things in one fell swoop.  This after bearing no deserving mark of any kind, and instead, earning merely a box on the ear.  Or three.  For one thing, I wrote that lame, whine-encrusted post earlier, and now I have brand-new, perfect, hump-able countertops in snow-white (the color is, in fact, named "blizzard") manufactured quartz.  They are, well, they're making me breathless.  And not just because of the epoxy used to adhere their sleekness to the cabinets.  Although that may have something to do with my spinning head, and not just the beauty. 

The second thing was that I screeched more at my poor, sweet puppy-muffin this morning, in a vain attempt to quell my anger over things that are out of reach of my clutching, dried fingers, because she leapt onto my bed while the countertop installers were here and I'd trapped her into our bedroom to keep her from pestering them with her overly-personal greetings (she *is* a dog, but still -- it's rude, the crotch-sniffing, if you're not a dog; people don't like it, and by people, I most certainly mean me).  Afterward, as I was cleaning the surface of the bedcovers with a rolly-tape-thingy one uses to remove dog hair from clothes, and in my case, many, many other random surfaces that are probably not what its intended use is for, not that I'll let that stop me in my endless search-and-destroy mission re: the dog detritus within our living space; I realized that, in terms of her cost-benefit ratio, Ella is mostly all +s, with the only negative being that she sheds enough to build a new planet constructed entirely of her shedded material and it drives my crazy just that much crazier.  Well, and she can be whiny if within 100 yards of a tennis ball, but that's pretty much it.  Otherwise, she's a pet amongst pets, and with the prettiest, softest brown eyes I've ever peered into, and guess what that dollfaced dog did for me, just a few minutes later?  While I tried to vacuum the stairs, but instead encountered a spider bigger than my hand walking, yes, WALKING down the stairs, because it *could*, I suppose, but then.  Oh, my, yes, then.  I summoned SHE.  And she came.  And the spider stopped walking, and froze.  It knew.  And I said to her, Ella?  C'mere, girl!  C'mere, sweetie!  And she wagged, and smiled, and ran up and down the stairs, until I pointed, shaking, at that thing.  And she stopped.   And pointed at it.  Until I said, Ella.  GET.  IT.

And she did.

And I love her.  She is my shining, white dog in furry, shedding armor. 

Do you think eight treats is too many?  Do you think I'll regret my choice to reward her thusly at a later point, say, this evening, when her anal glands begin firing a round of fishy bullets into the air? 

Probably.  But, hell.  Girl-sweet-face deserved it.  I couldn't have done anything but wait for the end of time, or my husband, whichever came first, shivering low in a corner while the spider circled me, ever closer, its fangs dripping.  *ewwwww*

And the third thing.  The thing that has already provided me with much commingled shame and embarrassment, because my ADHD is in full dudgeon today, what with the kitchen stuff all happening, both good and bad, and the spider-attack, and the epoxy-sniffing, and my burgeoning appointment with the therapist where I have to disclose that the medication thing was a bomb, and now we have to talk about it and I have to describe things and finish sentences and try to avoid crying, all on one measly cup of coffee and zero food because that would require my doing dishes in the bathtub and I'm holding out until the dishwasher's installed, tomorrow, and don't look at me like that because you'd do the same thing, and you know this. 

Um.  There was supposed to be a third thing included in that last paragraph, somewhere.  Did it make it in there?  Can anyone else look?  I'm afraid to.  I can't remember quite where I mentioned the part about the spider-attack and I tremble at those words so I can't look back or I'll turn into a salt-lick for spiders to trod upon.

So Jozet gave me this award and I don't deserve it and I lost control of my bowels all over her comments section because I have no control over anything, ever, but especially in the face of being honored by someone so - someone whose abilities defy description, in the better/bigger-than-life category.  So.  I feel bashful and unworthy and thankful. 

And I'll write another post later about who I'm passing the award to, plus the pretty button will be revealed, which will hopefully prompt me to belatedly post the other buttons I've been given in the last few months but I keep forgetting to do it, and I apologize deeply to the givers, for I have dissed thee, please forgive.  Please. 

But first I have to run or I'll be late to my appointment for ADHD, a thing that causes tardiness, among other resulting disastrous effects.

Sweet.

maybe i should just twist shrink-wrap around my head.

Then I wouldn't have to bother with therapy.  And that would be a relief. 

Not that I don't love and adore talking about myself on and on, ad naseum, because, oh lordy, but do I ever.

It's just - oh, hell.  I feel as though I've been down this road so many goddamn times already.  Though, of course, not as a parent, which is truly what is taking me back down the avenue of "uh-hum, and why do you think that is?" (and other equally vague, mind-numbingly frustrating statements spoken through pursed lips of that ilk).

So much is surfacing right now, as we paint and paint and tear out and remove and visit the hardware store enough times to know many of the employees on sight, and receive sometimes-daily visits from the electrician and the general contractor, and write checks for obscene amounts of money for ridiculously exciting things like furnaces and flooring and cabinets (because, yes, we're throwing in that trite, hole-ridden towel on salvaging the cabinets, the object of so much back-and-forthing and hemming/hawing that has borne witness to my varied attempts to remove the paint and nasty, inches-deep stains of god-knows-what on both the insides and the outsides of the old kitchen cupboards, where I've removed more flesh than paint, and revealed more ugly soul-worms and sundry other unpleasant spiritual nastiness in the process).  Also, we've done some painting, and there's been the fun of J's massive anxiety over having started daycare part-time, it's been tough on him, all of this, and I want to sympathize, but I also need the sanity that results from a little time to work on all the jobs I've got and not be forced to do so during his incredibly-shrinking naptimes and after he's in bed, when I'd prefer to do things like, oh, sleep, and relax, and have five minutes of conversation with my husband that is not limited to child rearing or home repairs or the business or money or other similarly bloody fucking I'd-rather-die-now-please topics of hellish soul-sucking pleah. 

Don't get me wrong.  I heart our new home.  I will heart it much more when it resembles our home and not a factory for broken dreams.  Which is currently its state.  Ai.  Seriously.  Kill me now.

But, no, please don't, because I'm gonna git fixed, I'm going to the doctor, and I'm gonna get heaaaalthy, going to the doctor and I'm gonna get heaaaalthy.  Gonna get me some focus, is what I'm fixing to do.  Gonna get me some brain-glue.  Kick that frontal lobe in the balls.  Til it pukes.  I'm gonna toss it in the horse's water barrel, and then make it drink eight pots of rocket-fuel-coffee.  And spit in its eye.  Hear that, frontal lobe?  Get ready for head to roll.  (Ha.  I'm really just that amusing.  Say you're amused.  Amazed?  Amassed?  Amorous?  Ambiguous?  Ambidextrous?  Amicable?  Amorphous?  Amway?  Uh.)

The stuff that's really been busting up through the top of my skull these last few work-y days is my history in regards to le burlesque.  Now that I've uncorked the bottle, it's all pushing up, crowding through the neck all together, loud and crackly.  I can barely keep it all sorted, in fact I can't really at all, and I want to find some time and a wee corner in which to seat myself and write write write 'til my hand cramps in the weird claw that I'm becoming familiar with of late, but when?  And it wants to be written, I'm feeling it in my jaw and the itch is strong, when?  And one of the weirder aspects of this nascent push to purge the shivery, black scrawl of words is that I'm seeing them again, seeing them everywhere, the women who I know have had racy histories of their own, only, am I imagining it again?  Like I used to do, when I knew in my bitty bones that so many bands had written certain lyrics with shamelessly racy burlesque babes in their heads as inspiration?

So if you're offended and must skulk off, permanent-like, I will do my best to keep my head up and write it despite the disappearance of people I've grown so accustomed to in this layer of world (kind of like one of the filling layers in a cake, really - raspberry-jam).

I have to keep my head up, keep writing it, keep prodding the frontal lobe, fixing, working, toiling, laboring.

I owe it to - myself?  Sure, yes, for today, that's who I owe.

(Although for the rest of the week I've gotta toil for the other joints.  Bummer.  I really long to press the words into place on pages, make their lacy shapes appear lest I forget them, in permanent displays of equal parts silliness and horrific stupidity and shambles and shams I'm such a sham.  I'll be at it for a long while despite that wretched truth, something tells me.  I wish it would shut up.)

please understand.

You guys know why I don't comment much, right?  Or why I barely even make my way to anybody's blog, ever, at all, even on the rare occasion?

(This is where you tell me it's okay and pat my back and walk away, thinking, what a needy mess.)

Anyway, I was attempting to reverse that whole business a little bit in the last few days, and I not only read many good posts, I even got a chance to comment a little.  Mind you, I shouldn't have been doing so.  I have work to do.  There's a job, which = actual money, sitting on my desktop immediately beneath this very open mozilla window full of my blog's business.  I've adroitly ignored it for the last two and a half days.  I won't make excuses, though.  I just -- needed to see some of you.  It's pretty selfish of me, given my current life situation.  But I had to know how you all are.

I found out some amazing things.  I read Mrs. Chicky's interview in the Boston Herald, pride rippling through me, face beaming, as I scrolled down.  I lingered over Ruth's and BubandPie's and Jana's accounts of summer, regret interlaced with pleasure because our summer has so little resembled their experiences.  (I'm sorry, baby boy - next summer will not be this -- harried?  Rushed?  Ugly?)  I made the usual leap from giggling to sighing to teary-eyed (corny but true) while reading another in the very long line of beauteous, vision-inducing, literature-worthy posts by Binky.   I felt moved by Suebob's meta-discussion about comments, and Mrs. Chicky's excellent addition to the conversation. 

Mostly, though, I experienced a deep sadness for this horrid business of the growth (brazen!) of our children.  While reading Mama Tulip's complex, lovely post about her son's second birthday.  Slouching Mom's depth of feeling for her sons in the many tributes to their acceleration through life.  Wordgirl's explanation about her behavior regarding her firstborn's college-bound momentum, her inner turmoil palpable (although she manages the writing of it with grace and humor and the lightest, deftest touch, a la her usual astonishingly brilliant style).

How do we allow our babies to grow up, to become fully functioning adults?  To leave our sides, never to return to the soft, fragile beings that needed us so desperately?  Okay, fine, so maybe the desperately needy part is a little overkill, but -- god, it tears me APART to think that there will come a time when my son won't place his glorious little hand in mine and squeeze my fingers, and look at me, his sweet face inches from my own, and shout MAMMMMAAAAAAA!!! ear-shatteringly.

How will I live after these days have passed through my hands?  These hands, so willing to rush past every moment because it is too much, almost, this existence as it stands, this constant nightmarish pace, slap-slap-slapping my cheek (quite rude, actually) as it flits through the middle of the hourglass?  I berate myself for not taking every drop of perfection in the moments we have here together and swallowing them whole, because I'm too tired, too dismally self-centeredly exhausted and fucked up in the head to really manage it.

*lays head on desk and sobs quietly*