Lay off the caffeine

I was lying in bed last night reading... I'm totally engrossed in a book called "Motherless Mothers" that explains how women who have lost their mothers engage with their children. As if I don't feel sorry enough for myself, right?

It's actually a very interesting look at a situation I wasn't aware existed for myself. I'm reading this shit, thinking, "Don't all moms feel this way?" Apparently not.

It's nothing psychotic or anything. Or at least I don't think so. I'm not that far into the book yet. There were a few things that just smacked me right over the head. One is that I'm insanely jealous of women who have their mothers to call up when they need parenting advice. I remember when Zoe was first born being extremely disturbed by the fact I didn't have that resource, and made it a point to read every piece of literature about parenting that I could get my hands on.

My dad wasn't much help. Despite giving my poor mother three children, he remembers little about our upbringing. Did she have drugs during the delivery? "I think so. I don't know." Did she breastfeed us? "I think some of you. At least one. I don't remember." How many kids do you have, Dad? "I think two or three; one looks a lot like the milkman."

The other thing the book points out is that once these motherless daughters become mothers themselves, they not only stop defining themselves by having lost a mother, but they see their mothers in a totally different light. I sobbed when I read that part. I hadn't realize I had gone through that, but I had. At some point in the past five years I stopped being mad at my mom for leaving us and started feeling sorry for her that she missed all these things her kids were doing that she probably had looked forward to sharing with us.

And while I'm reading this stuff, as if on cue, I felt the baby move for the first time.

I was lying still and felt a definitive whoosh. I don't know how I even noticed it, it was so subtle, not like a fist jabbing me in the rib or anything. I thought I was crazy, but I looked up fetal development and sure enough, I should be feeling that around now. Perhaps with Zoe I wasn't so intuitive, because I don't remember feeling that so early.

Maybe, after too many cups of coffee yesterday, the kid was trying to tell me to go to sleep already.

Big on small talk

DATE: Pronunciation: 'dAt; Function: noun
a : an appointment to meet at a specified time; especially : a social engagement between two persons that often has a romantic character b : a person with whom one has a usually romantic date

-- Merriam-Webster



Joe didn't have much of a plan for our date. In fact, when I got there, he was sleeping on the couch, and despite my ringing the doorbell and yelling up the steps, he stayed asleep, forcing me to let myself in.

I didn't feel that great being there. The last time I was in his house, I was alone, trudging grudingly up and down his steps in the heat with my most important and heavy stuff, swearing at him through tears, loading my shit into plastic shopping bags and then into the trunk of my car, imagining the neighbors were watching from their windows in their centrally air-conditioned kitchens and saying to each other, "Well, that didn't last long."

I didn't last long in there today either. After some small talk on the couch, I waited outside while he packed up a cooler full of food.

There were flash flood watches throughout the county, but we headed to play miniature golf. It felt absolutely ridiculous to me. After I lost, we toured the grounds and ended up at the driving range. Joe seemed surprised when I agreed to smack a few balls. I had never done it before.

This, was fun. I hit balls off the walls, tipped them off the tee and watched them roll down the hill, missed some completely and shot them nearly straight up in the air. But every once in a while I sent one soaring straight and long and imagined it wasn't too late for a career change.

Not long after, we were back in the car and it began pouring rain. Joe found an empty pavillion in a nearby park and made us roast beef sandwiches. It was rather inventive of him, despite being a huge cliche. And again the small talk. We sat in silence for a bit and I asked him what he was thinking. "Nothing," he said. "I'm just watching the cars."

I looked up at the road. There were no cars.

He jumped up and announced it was getting late and it was time to go. We went back to his house and I managed to sit in the kitchen long enough to down a couple cups of coffee and more of his small talk. Then I jumped up and announced it was getting late and it was time to go.



I don't know what it all means. If I'm supposed to be happy about it, I'm failing miserably.

Patience

"It's just a moment;
This time will pass."

-- Stuck in a Moment You Can't Get Out Of, U2



Zoe and I made a mousse pie today and I taught her the fine art of licking the beaters clean. It occurred to me that in the entire 10 years I spent in Florida, I didn't bake a damn thing. Not a single cupcake.


Chocolate nostrils.

My mother baked with us a lot when we were kids. And I'm realizing what enormous patience that woman must have had and wondering why I inherited only a tenth of it. I love to see Zoe inquisitive about cooking and I let her do a lot of things that make my dad crazy (such as stirring spaghetti sauce on the gas stove), but when I tell her to hold the mixer for a second while I scrape the bowl then she turns it on and the beaters get within a millimeter of my knuckles before spraying me with chocolate mess... then the show's over.

My dad went up to Butler County and was supposed to be back for dinner. We made the pie for him and waited patiently for him to come home to grill the steaks we bought, but he never showed up. We ate a grand dinner without him, but I told Zoe we had to wait for him to eat the pie. We waited... and waited.....

And waited....

At 10 p.m., we said to hell with it, and ate the pie. "I'm going to put this in the trash, Mommy," Zoe said after a few bites. The pie sucked: Neither of us liked it. And then I remembered why I don't bake.




Zoe is really taking to the whole idea of being a big sister. At school on Friday, she made a drawing of me and her: I had a big purple circle in the general area of my torso, and the teacher helped her write, "I will be a good big sister." At the grocery store today, she kept pulling diapers off the shelf for the new baby. "Not yet," I kept telling her. And when I woke up from a nap later, there was a pouch of Caprisun lemonade, unopened thankfully, on top of my belly. "That's for the baby," Zoe told me, "but not until she's a big girl."



Joe and I have our "date" tomorrow. He told me to come over at 2. What on earth he could have planned at 2 is eluding me, but I didn't ask. I've already made up my mind that I can't possibly have fun being forced upon this man for an afternoon by our therapist. But I am open to being surprised and even pleasant.

When I asked what time I should tell the sitter I'll be picking up Zoe, he suggested 7. I guess he intends to stick with it through dinner.

It's supposed to be rainy tomorrow. Perfect.

Hope sucks

"You kick up the leaves and the magic is lost."

-- Bad Day, Daniel Powter



Joe and I rode to the counseling session together in near silence. I kept thinking that he might pat my knee or take my hand, but he didn't. I tried to joke with him a little, but he didn't take the bait. He's all seriousness these days.

The place we went to was tucked behind a shopping center and doubled as a rehab. There were a few people drinking pop and smoking on the steps to the entrance, and I had a strong hunch they were there for their own brand of counseling. Joe knew one of them and paused to say hello.

Sabrina came to greet us; she seemed really kind. She led us down a dirty hallway to a room with dirty chairs and threadbare carpeting and faded pictures hanging crooked on the walls. She had me sign a bunch of papers and then she quizzed us a little. She asked about the pregnancy and I told her I was at the beginning of the second trimester.

"Oh, me too," she said.

I was surprised, but it didn't occur to me until later that Joe might have been shitting himself.

Only 35 minutes into the session, I looked at my watch. It felt like hours had passed. There were no real surprises, except when she asked me what I liked about Joe. I couldn't think of anything. Every time I started to say something I thought I liked, I'd finish the sentence with a "...but..." I finally told her that I was too mad to think about that right now, and that everything I liked was now called into question.

I could have told her a bunch of stuff I didn't like, but, not surprisingly, she didn't ask.

Joe said a lot of nice stuff about me. I think the worst he said was that I treated him like a dumping ground for my problems. I didn't look at him much while we were in the office, but I could see him glancing at me a lot.

Sabrina prescribed a date and suggested we go on it before our next appointment.

We scheduled another session for next week and left. I thought Joe might put his arm on my back as we walked across the parking lot, or hug me before he opened the car door for me, but nothing. We were almost back at the office before he asked me if I found the session "satisfactory." I couldn't say that I had. I actually felt rather drained and down.

At work, the skies clouded over and the lights flickered throughout the afternoon. It was threatening some serious rain. I got an email from Joe asking me to find a sitter for Sunday. As I was packing up to go home, he came to my desk and told me to be careful driving. It was the first time he made his way over to my desk in weeks.

I watched him walk all the way back to his office. For some reason I wanted to follow him, but I went home.

Feelin' like myself again

"It's nothing, it's so normal.
You just stand there; I could say so much,
But I don't go there 'cause I don't want to."

-- Back to Good, Matchbox 20



On Friday I was curled up on the table in the doctor's office, feeling sick as all hell. Stomach cramps. Backache. Headache. The doctor said I must have the flu, and ran through a list of a dozen other symptoms, all of which I said I didn't have.

"Yep, touch of the flu," he said.

Miraculously, on Saturday I was fine. Sunday, back on the couch all day. I convinced myself it couldn't be morning sickness. Or afternoon or evening or even middle-of-the-night sickness. But I couldn't go to work like this, and I couldn't call off the next six months. I called the doctor on Monday and complained some more. "Go to the emergency room," the practitioner told me.

Hmph.

On a hunch, I stopped taking the prenatal vitamin. By today, I could run a marathon. I almost washed my car, but decided to celebrate my newfound health by being lazy.

But no more lethargy, no more stomach pains. I'm going to try a regular vitamin and try to get my iron the old-fashioned way. Someone said red meat has lots of iron. Mmmmmmm. Hamburgers. I actually weigh less than I did before I got pregnant, so I will have to start packing on the pounds.

Does ice cream have any iron?



Joe and I have our first counseling session tomorrow. Though he said he would, he made no effort to make it happen, so I drove to the park today and called the employee assistance program and had an appointment in less than five minutes. I need to get this little soap opera over with.

I think he's a little bit nervous. He emailed me questions. Is it a man or a woman? How long will it take? What will you be talking about?

I'm not nervous. I'm not relieved. I'm not feeling anything. Well, that makes me nervous. That and maybe the car ride back to the office together.

Maybe, maybe

"His heart beat faster and faster as Daisy's white face came up to his own. He knew that when ke kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips' touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete."

-- The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald


I kissed Joe tonight.



This turn may seem sudden, but to me, it was a fucking endurance challenge.

On Wednesday, the emails began in earnest. The "conversation" between us went so slow in real time but in four days I went through so many emotions and edited myself so much that I didn't have much time to think about the big picture or speculate about where this was all going.

I was stealing time with a computer every chance I got to see what he had to say next. I was sometimes replying off the cuff but mostly I found myself trying not to alienate him. At one point he asked for my trust.

"Where do you suppose I get some of that?" I wrote back.

"It's earned," he wrote.

What I wanted to write and what I actually wrote varied. "And I'm supposed to just give it to you?" is what finally found its way to his mailbox after much cursing and backspacing on my part.

Yesterday and today we typed about concrete ideas, changes, thoughts, wishes even. As Day Four of Emails wore on, I was frustrated that we hadn't talked on the phone or in person, but we were starting to write about mundane things like our errands and eating habits. We were professing a desire to work things out, but neither of us was really willing to put ourselves out there.

At 10 tonight I put a cake in the oven and text-messaged him: "Are you still awake?"

He texted about watching hockey and cleaning the coffee pot, so I headed over there faster than the law allows. As I was pulling into his driveway, I texted him to come outside and fulfill one of his earlier promises to kiss me.

The look on his face when I bounded up the steps to him could have melted me if I wasn't still so mad at him. He was so genuinely happy to see me and he LOOKED at me and we hugged a lot and he checked out how big my belly had gotten. We talked and joked a bit but I didn't go in and told him I had to go because I had a cake baking, but then I got what I came for.


I kissed Joe tonight.

Twirly girl

Summer is finally here.

It has been a cool June, in the 50s at night, but it hit the 90s today and it hasn't fallen much from that since. The fans are out, and I'm missing the hum of window ACs.

It is still not nearly as hot as I have known it in Florida or even as hot as it was when I was there a couple weeks ago. My dad and I were watching the 11 o'clock news and he offered to put in the window AC in my bedroom.

"Dad, this is nothing. I'm comfortable."

"I'm sweating my ass off sitting here!" he bellows.

I can take the heat, I just can't take the cold. But still, as any good mom will do for her kid on a Saturday afternoon in mid-June with nothing else to do, I forced my dad to take his truck to Toys R Us to get her a proper plastic pool.


Look at that elephant pool!


We then visited my cousin, and Zoe and Regina hung out in the HOT TUB. Yes, all 98 degrees of it.


Look at that porpoise toy!

Then we came home and made a cake for my dad. His birthday was Thursday, but we often -- if not always -- exercise the option to celebrate his aging years along with Father's Day.


That's some cake batter!


OK, if you've gotten this far and looked at that many pictures of my kid, you are hoping this blog will get better, wondering why my photo captions have a diversional quality to them, or both. Or maybe you just notice the child looks... odd.

I hacked off her hair.

Before examining the photos more closely, sideways, and upside-down, realize it didn't look that good when I took a stab at it. After a horrible attempt at a layered bob last night, I had to run around today looking for anyone who would take a walk-in to get the mess fixed. I thought about putting a before-the-stylist-got-to-it photo here, but I don't want to embarrass the poor child if the picture ends up archived somewhere forever. Zoe is aware that she got a haircut and cackled giddily as inches and inches of her locks fell to the bathroom floor, but she has no idea about the wrath her mother unleashed on her head.

That is, until we were in the car tonight, and, as Zoe often does when she's tired, she tried to twirl her hair. I heard her audibly suck in her breath in the back seat. "Mommy! I can't twirl my hair! I'm like a BOY! Am I a boy or a girl now?"

She fell asleep shortly after that. I wonder what the hell she is dreaming about tonight.


Audrey, who had finished her appointments for the day and was probably about to leave work early, fixes Mom's idea of a haircut.

Measuring madness

I was driving home from work tonight, just getting off the West End Bridge, when a minivan in the next lane started drifting into mine. I was right beside it, not even back in the blind spot, so I was sure it was a mistake and instead of honking the horn, I hit the gas and sped to the red light.

The minivan pulled in behind me, honking away. I looked in my rearview mirror, and there was a middle-aged woman in the driver's seat on the phone, flipping me the bird and hollering something out the window. I couldn't hear what, but man, I was game!

I rolled down my window and told the bitch (I think that was the worst I called her) to get off the phone and pay attention to the road, something about where to find her turn signals too. Ah, hormones. The next six months are going to be fun.

A great thing about my new blood pressure medicine is it does its job even when I'm in distress. I know this because I've whipped out my blood-pressure-taking machine at times when I've been really mad (there's been a few of those episodes in the past week) and the reading was still low.



I looked at the three houses tonight and all of them had great stuff going for them, but none suited my needs exactly. Except the one I wrote yesterday that was my favorite. I called my dad over to look at it and he found what I was blind to: Dead rodents, black mold, peeling paint from water damage. But otherwise it was charming. Especially the two ducks mating in the pool. Neighbors say they come free with the house.

Back to the drawing board.

Please no Charlie Batch

My dad on Ben Roethlisberger's helmetless motorcycle accident today: "The asshole should try playing the game without a helmet."






"Was it only last week
We made crazy promises,
Mad as the snow?"

-- Mas as Snow, Kitchens of Distinction


I emailed Joe yesterday to see about getting my stuff back. It spurred a little typed dialog between us for part of today. It wasn't hostile or inflammatory, in fact it was quite the opposite. Kind of a conversation about the very remote possibility of making amends.

We didn't talk about why he kicked me out. He suggested counseling, and I agreed. I think that is a good idea, if only to get an objective third party to verify if I'm crazy or not. But I don't know if I can do this.

The very least that I can hope to get out of it is that we come to terms over the new baby. Maybe the best I can hope for is to find out why this happened and get in one last, big fat "Fuck you."

OK, OK. I'll try to keep an open mind.

I've stepped up the house hunt, and I've found a lot of interesting stuff. I'm going to look at three on Wednesday. Here is my favorite:



It has hardwood floors, a fireplace, stained glass windows, a game room, central air... and it's empty! I have a good feeling about this one. The outside looks kinda odd and I almost skipped looking at it, but when I did a driveby, I realized it was just a poor choice of paint colors. Puke brown and shit brown, I mean, really??

It's a great price, low taxes, good school district... oh, and I did mention EMPTY, right?

This smells

I don't know what to say about this very, um, unique product, but the reviews are hilarious. (If you're afraid to click on the link, note it IS Amazon; it can't be that bad, right?)

I (heart) hormones

"And so it is
Just like you said it would be.
Life goes easy on me.
Most of the time.
And so it is,
The shorter story.
No love, no glory.
No hero in her sky.

I can't take my eyes off you..."

-- The Blower's Daughter, Damien Rice



I'm a mess!

I inadvertently told off a girl at work today. Yeah, the words kept accidentally spewing out of my mouth. She's a tough girl, she can handle it, but I'm at my wit's end with myself.

Friends tell me it's hormones. Yeah, it's probably some of that. But it doesn't help that my "fiance" kicked my pregnant ass to the curb a few days ago. And that I don't know why.

Wednesday was Day One back to work: I am singing songs along with the radio on the way to work. EVERY song is about kicking ass. I am totally empowered, happy and ready to kick ass. It is a good day. I see Joe only in passing, across the room, and I think, "This ain't so bad." Then I grab a Kleenex and blow.

Day Two: I am at work only briefly when I have to run to the doctor for an emergency ultrasound for bleeding. I am lying on the table when the ultrasound woman tells me everything is all right and shows me the baby on the screen, all legs and arms and spine and stuff. Then I start weeping uncontrollably. And do so on and off (mostly on) for the rest of the day. Good thing I skipped mascara in the morning. I can't concentrate on work at all. I go house-hunting and feel better. I lie in bed and write Joe a few letters, but my feelings oscillate so wildly that none of them makes sense to me. And why the fuck am I writing that bastard letters?

Day Three: Thank god it's Friday. I'm a puddle of mess. I go back and forth between hating Joe and loving the shit out of him. We're still not even speaking, but most of my stuff is at his place and somehow I have to get it back. But not now. I have a lot of deadline stuff at work, so I keep busy enough, spout off to (at?) my coworker and boss, and when I get home, I look at more houses online so I can go look at them tomorrow. Busy, busy, busy. I'm on a mission. I'm pissed that I'm not allowed to paint while pregnant. Zoe wants a purple room, and I want to be the one to give it to her.



I can't stand not talking to Joe, and I can't stand the idea of talking to him.

I have a pretty good feeling that I haven't hit bottom quite yet. But if the bottom comes in the form of anger, I'll be thrilled. My eyes are so fucking dry from crying, and that annoys me.

Mixed results

Among things Floridians take for granted: Ducks in the back yard.


I got back from Florida yesterday and headed back to work today.

It's funny, after a day or two in Florida, I felt like I never left. Then, after a day in Pittsburgh, I felt like I never left.

It's an identity crisis! I don't know if I'm shopping at Giant Eagle or Winn-Dixie.


Zoe makes brownies with Dad.


Zoe hangs with the girls.



Joe and I were playing house with mixed results for some time before I left, but when I got home he wouldn't let me back in. I'm not sure exactly why. We had argued about Zoe and how I handle custody, which frankly I think is none of his business, and in the end he told me that if Zoe was the most important person in my life (which I claimed in an argument) then I didn't belong in his.

I'm a little stunned by it. We were looking for a house together, he asked me to marry him, we were looking at college funds. Now I'm shopping for a lawyer and planning to deliver a baby without him. Great.

My primary emotion is relief. And I can't explain why. Maybe because I found out what kind of a man he is (or isn't) before I started hating him. Of course I'm kicking myself for believing the string of bullshit he was feeding me, but I can't dwell on it or I'll go crazy.