Baby No Name

List of Potential Baby Names

Dana

Dante

Holden

Sebastian

Spencer

Simon

Gianvincent

Rocco

Theodore

Jude

Silas

Dillon

Gabriel

Harrison

Sawyer

Jasper

Greg

Oscar

And there we are. 

Through My Eyes

It's not that I don't think of my mom anymore.  I do.  I think of her daily, as I always have.

And it's not that I don't feel the need to speak with her anymore, or write down the stories that I want her to know.

It's that I choose to feel that she's with me.  Not staring at me or watching me from above, just a part of me.  She's gone; she's not coming back; and I've known all along that "talking" to her through this blog was just a gimmick.  I just pretend that she's part of me and sees things the way I do.  Through my eyes.

Happy?

I'm not sure how I feel about being home.  I am happy that I don't have to get up at the crack every morning and leave my house sometimes before my daughter even wakes up, but it's taking me some time to be okay with that.  Believe me, not working is way better than working.  But for someone who's worked consistently for 14 years, save for 10 weeks around Leah's birth, it's strange that I'm not working.

1-I feel lazy.  I guess because I am such a big proponent for working.  I see people complaining about not having money or not feeling important, and I'm like, Duh, then get a job.  Problem solved. I don't know why I judge value by whether one works or not, but for some reason I feel like I'm lazy or less of a person right now because I'm not working.  And not actively looking for work.  And have pretty much made up my mind that I won't be working again until November.

2-I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing.  Clearly I shouldn't have free time, right?  I should pack my days with laundry, dusting, and vacuuming, and then I should pack my afternoons with bike rides, park visits, and playdates, and I should know what I'm making for dinner at 9 a.m. so that the meat can defrost, and I should always be in a good mood because hey, the stress of working is now gone, and, well, is this right?  Am I on the right track here?  Because if so, then staying home is sorta just as stressful as not staying home.  Clearly, I've missed something...huh?

3-I am very concerned about us paying our bills for the next five months.  We've never lived without my salary, and I'm pretty much putting our near future in Greg's hands and I am an enormous control freak.  So, this is very hard.  When I am bringing home the money, I know how much is coming in and when and where it's going to go.  And now there's significantly less than that, and I am nervous.

4-If there is not enough money to pay the bills, we are pretty much SOL since there's a very good chance that I couldn't even get a job if I wanted one since I'm 6.5 months pregnant.  So, there's that.

Ok, so other than that, I think I like being home.  I already feel a lot more laid back and I can already see a difference in my relationship with Leah.  I am looking forward to the summer and the time we'll be together. 

And I'm feeling a lot more grateful towards Greg.  I know not every woman has this opportunity, and I would like to really take advantage of it. 

So, for now, I'm using May to get the baby's room ready, declutter my house, and clean every nook and cranny, since Leah's still in school full time. 

And as for the rest of the summer?  Who knows...

Cousins

Our holiday weekend was low key, which, as I get older and more exhausted, is exactly how I prefer them.  On Monday, we went to an indoor BBQ at my dad's, due to the rain, and Leah got to play with two of her favorite people, Matthew and Bella.

Bella is getting so big--she's almost one--and I when I saw her and Leah playing this weekend I got a glimpse of what the future might be like when those two get together.

It included bail money.

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Age of Non-Innocence

Dear Age Three,

You are cordially invited to kiss my ass.

I cannot believe how freaking crazy you are turning out to be; how I want to kiss you with tongue one minute and taser you the next. 

You now know my name is not just Mommy; you heard people calling me Dana, and you figured it out.  So now YOU call me Dana. 

You ask me if I'm kidding you (no), if I'm serious (yes), if I'm for real (yes), and if you can have candy (no).

You don't push my buttons, you rip each and every one out of my body with your cold sharp nails and then you stomp on them, beat them with a stick, set them on fire and then smoke the ashes.   My buttons are shot.

You know everything, and it bothers you that I don't always agree.  {Editor's note: This one might be my fault.  I have a psych degree with a self imposed focus on child psychology.  Back in the 90s we were taught to treat the child like a real person, rife with choices.  Allowing your child to decide which shirt she was going to wear to pre-school would help her to say no to drugs as a teenager. (?? whatevs) As a result, Leah's grown up thinking she's an equal part in this family--someone who has the same say in all family decisions.  Au contraire, Carol Ann, this is my mine and your father's house and we follow my our rules, and I am we are in charge and I we make the decisions.}

Oh, Age Three, you are a sexy beast.  With your funny little conversations and your cute little faces.  And your propensity to throw your backpack at me and hit me when the mood strikes.  You are wonderful with kids that are younger than you, acting like an old grandmother who plops you on her lap and pinches your cheeks.  And you love to hang with the older cool kids, leaning up against the garage smoking and cussing.

You are pushing your boundaries right off the map and I am constantly re-etching the line in the sand.  I fight back and I lose.  I let you walk over me and I lose.  I attempt to stand up to you and we are two chaps from the wild west at a showdown in the Alamo.  Oh, and I always lose. 

You are a steamroller in a tutu--a Zamboni in lip gloss.  I grow four grays each time your teachers tell me you're an angel.  Most days I can't wait to get home to see you and most Mondays I skip to work whistling a tune.  

Age Three, you drive me to drink.  And I am trying to drink you in.  I am told that you're the toughest, until she's a tween, which has been likened to age three with hormones. 

I was told that parenthood was hard, and it would be the toughest road I've ever traveled.  And I arrogantly nodded my head and rolled my eyes and thought there is no way that something that is a half my height and like a sixth of my weight will even be a blip on my life-radar, let alone uproot my life and leave me a confused, befuddled, frustrated shell of my former life.

And yet, here I am.  Eating some humble pie.  Baffled at just how difficult parenthood is.  How the one thing that drives me up the wall and out of my skull is the one thing I'd give my life for without a second thought in a hot flat second.


Up Yours,

Dana


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OT: My Shoes

Before I had Leah I wore a size 6.5. I had amassed an enormous amount of shoes and most of them held a special place in my heart. I am not a shoe snob—meaning I don’t care what brand or store they come from—if they are attractive and don’t hurt (much), I’ll wear them. And love them.




Once the aftermath of what I call pregnancy and its related fallouts settled, my feet stopped shrinking at a size 7, which is where they are today. While most of my summer shoes still fit, thanks to the backless varieties, most of the winter boots and loafers had to be replaced.



Three weeks ago I went to my basement where I keep off-season clothes, found the bag of summer shoes, and brought it up to my room. As I opened the bag and peaked inside, I knew immediately that something was very wrong. The smell alone was my clue, but the shoes—covered in a green and black moss-like substance confirmed my biggest fear. The shoes had gotten moldy in the basement and it looked like it might be the end for them.



Not quite sure of what I should do, I quickly closed the bag and shoved it into my closet, as the best way to put something out of your mind is to hide it in the back of your closet. But every time I opened the closet door, despite the fact that I couldn’t see the bag since I had shoved it really far back, I was reminded of the memory of the bag of sad shoes and the idea that something had to be done.



I decided to wash the shoes. Like in the washing machine. And surprisingly only two pairs didn’t make it! Two of my most beloved pairs, but this gave me a reason to replace them. Which I did. At a half off sale at--and I am not embarrassed to admit this--KMART!



So, there’s really no point to this post today, other than to say that shoes are shoes and life goes on, and also as a reminder to my husband that there’s something wrong with the basement and I’d like for him to fix it immediately. And also to solidify the notion that my washing machine is the best appliance in the house. I’ve always believed it, and I think that this story proves it.

No Reason

Things are good. So good. Yet I am still not right.

There are milestones and careers and success stories and new schools.

There are open windows and open doors.

There are anticipations, excitements, and things to look forward to. But I have started reaching for the phone to call her again.

I began running again. Running makes me think of my mom. Dieting, eating well, being healthy, being unhealthy, seeing grandmas, reading about people dying in their 50s, pregnant women, shopping, cleaning, lipstick, the vacuum, and the Gin Blossoms. Everything. It’s disgusting, really.

My anxiety is out of control. I can’t stop thinking about how Leah is probably dying every time I’m not with her.

Songs that have nothing to do with moms that have died make me think of my mom that died. I mean, songs that are clearly about other things I think were written with me in mind.

Never mind, I’ll find someone like you

I wish nothing but the best for you too

Don’t forget me I beg, I remember you said,

Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead.

 

~Adele

 

It’s just a minor setback, and I’m sure I’ll come out of it, but it takes a lot out of me and it wears me down.


God, I hope I lose weight tonight at Weight Watchers.*

Here we go again.

*My priorities are warped.

 
 
 
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Dream On

Yesterday Leah told me that Pop Pop John took her to gymnastics with Ana.  Then, after that, they went to Dunkin Donuts.  And then, she woke up! 

That's what she said. 

I think that she recounted her first dream. 

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What Have I Created?

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Whatever She Wants To Be

I often look at Leah and wonder what will come of her.  What kind of woman will she grow to be?  What will she do for a living?  Will she marry?  Will she have children?  Will she move to another state or country?  Will she never move out of my house?  Will she be headstrong and independent?  Will she be kind?  Will she own her own business?  Will she be an ant marching to work each day?  Will she be open with her feelings?  Will we be good friends? 

The list goes on and on...

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