Dear Ducky,
Hallelujah! For the love of God!
You just put yourself down for an unscheduled nap in your play pen. I love you.

Since I’ve finally got a free minute, let me tell you a few things about yourself. Your first birthday is this week. I just can’t believe it. Where did your babyhood go? Stop, please just for a minute, I need to soak you in before you’re a little boy.

We went to the L.A. County fair this week. Of all the sights and smells and sounds, the one thing that got a reaction out of you was the camels. Both of them. You laughed and laughed and laughed. We got an up-close tour, so the camels were right in your face, and you LOVED every minute of it. Nevermind the Zebras or the ostrich, they were not interesting at all.

You and I flew to Ottawa to go and visit Nanie and Grandpa D. You were a little turkey on the plane ride. You spent five hours standing on the seat and making faces at the woman behind you. Also, you made me change three dirty diapers on ONE flight. What’s up with that?

Nanie and Grandpa had a blast taking you into town to show you off. We went on a long boat ride around the Thousand Islands, and then Nanie baked you your very own birthday cake. They sure miss you.

As soon as you can talk, the first thing we’re going to teach you is “Where’s the remote?” because, Dude, you have a T.V. remote tracking system embedded in your little brain. If it’s not the T.V. remote, it’s my cell phone, my Ipod, the mouse or the keyboard. Nanie tried to give you your very own mouse, but you were to smart to be fooled.

You’re starting to get into things that you know you’ve been told not to. It’s really annoying to yell “Get out of the Dog Water Dish” several times a day. You know when you’re in trouble too, you stick your lip out and cry, much like I imagine your father used to.

You love to play “Upside-down Baby” with your father. Your other favorites are “Upside-down Puppy Kisses” and “Upside-down Mama Kisses.” You throw your head backwards when we’re not expecting it, so we have to be careful to hang on to you.

You’ll eat more for your father than you will for me. We’re not sure why, I guess you take him more seriously? He’s more fun? Who knows?

I finished your “My first year” photo collage yesterday, it was so hard not to cry when I put it up on the wall. You’re our whole world now, and you’re growing so fast.

I love you, little Duck,
Mama

What am I so afraid of? Why don’t I just write?

I’m afraid of consequences, yes. I fear I’ve become boring, yes… but isn’t this my place to be boring if I want to be?

I made some quip about diaper changing and was told “you should have a website!” I stammered, and then trailed off, “I do have a…” I did. I don’t use it much lately?

I’ve been spending my paycheck paying for a babysitter so that I can go horseback riding once a week. That’s who I used to be. The girl on the old gray mare. But, I’m not so much a girl any more, and the mare, her days belong to some other college girl I’ve never met. Going horseback riding with my college roommate has been nice. She’s still the same old soul she’s always been. But that’s just it. Nice.

Not defining.

I no longer live and breathe wood shavings and leather. I can’t remember how it really feels to canter a steady horse. I certainly don’t have the athletic body any more.

I remember the farm, the drama, the hard fought privileges and lessons. I remember knowing exactly who and where I was. I was certain about my place in the world.

Not so much, anymore. I struggle to write, I think, because I struggle to own the person who I have become. I struggle to write, because I know for sure that two people read here (Hi Goon Squad! Hi Husband!). I’m not sure who else does, so I find I’m censoring myself. Too much.

At the moment, I’m That Mom who doesn’t care that the baby is pulling toilet paper off the roll. I won’t even promise to pick it up before my husband gets home. The baby is happy. And for now, quiet.

I’m That Mom who’s lonely, so I over-commit to volunteer work and committee work I don’t want, just so that people will call me or stop by.

I think I’m still depressed. Or at least, I’m lonely enough that when it’s quiet enough to sit and write, I feel sorry for myself. By the time I sit down with a minute to myself, what’s left for me? I’m spent. I’m tired of being defined by depression. I’m tired of depression. I’m tired of myself.

I’m tired of reading blog posts that, well, look like this one.

Lately I feel less like a writer and more like a short-order cook. I’ve got a Twitterized attention span for writing. I’ve got Twitterized thoughts pulsing through my mind. These probably could all be post topics, but…

One sentence paragraphs.

That’s all I’ve got in me.

How is it that I’ve got one week worth of blouses for me, and six months worth of shirts for the baby?
I think it has something to do with the fact that he’s a lot cuter in his new and hand-me-down clothes.

I took the baby and spent a week with the in-laws. It was so nice to not be the only “mom” on duty for a few days. It was nice to have a mommy of my own for a change.

I spent a week not watching t.v. Yay for me! Seriously. This is a Big. Accomplishment.

I go back to work this week. I’m dreading it now, but I’ll enjoy it when I’m there.

How on earth is the baby already 11 months old? How? H.O.W? Seriously? I’ve missed a whole year of my/his life from depression.

Suck.

I watched an infomercial for Your Baby Can Read (if you buy $200 videos and flash cards). I feel like an inadequet parent.

I’m trying to figure out what PBS programs to Tivo to compensate. I’m unimpressed with Baby Einstein.

Dear Ducky, You’re almost walking. You’re all over the place. I can’t believe your first birthday is in weeks!

My darling boy, you have an unnatural relationship with the T.V. remote. Not the DVD remote or any of the half dozen remotes we never use. THE T.V. remote. You’ve figured out how to work Tivo. Makes me wonder what else you’ve learned that we don’t know about yet.

Would you kindly stop crying so I can finish a post? No? Okay then.

Dear Ducky,
Ten months old. I can’t even beileve it. Your first birthday will be here soon. All I can think is that im not ready to lose my baby.

You’re already so independent. You drink from (my) cup. You are learning to grasp finger food. You insist on carrying the T.V. remote with you around the apartment. You sound like captain Ahab. Tap-Thump, Tap-Thump.

Each day you find some way to show me that you are moine. Right now, you’ve found me in the bedroom. You’ve come to visit me, and grab at the stuff on my night table. You’re cruising the bed and grabbing at my toes.

You come and go. Barely ten monts od an you’re in and out of a room likei a teenager asking for car keys. Before I can even write this down, you’re in the living room yelling “ah-AH, ah-AH, ah-AH!”

You got sick for the first time last week. What a little bug you are! Always something new. Apparantly, when you’re sick, you need to be snuggled. You haven’t let me snuggle you since we stopped nursing. You’ll forgive me if I cough on you every once in a while?

Just one more hug before you’re off and running.

You’ll be walking soon. Too soon. You’re already climbing. You love to open drawers. Right now you’re banging on the bedroom door. Slap, slap!

“The days go by slowly, the years go by fast.”

I’m already forgetting what it was like to be pregnant. I remember the waitiong Wondering what your face would look like. Now I cant remember not knowing your face.

You have your daddy’s smile. When your dad laughs I can see your face. I want to hold onto that memory, put it in a snowglobe on my night stand.

Lately, you only eat for Daddy. You’ll gobble whole jars for him! Stinker.

You want us to hold you , but only so you can reach what you’re aiming to grab.

I want to be the support that you need. I sens that you won’t need to depend on us for much, but I want to be the kind of Dependable that you need in order to readch the life that you’re meant for.

Love, Mama.

P.S. Stop crying so that I can write you a longer letter!

Oh, My head is spinning. Where do I even start?

My FIL is in the hospital with heart problems. That Guy I Married left the country to go be with him. He’s been gone for six days.

Six.

And I’m starting to feel it.

Four trips to Target. Babyfood, diapers wipes. More baby food. Shorts (it’s been 100 degrees all week).

A trip to the mall for shorts that actually fit.

Half a dozen trips to restaurants because my mother doesn’t cook.

This week, I’ve eaten fast food from Carl’s Jr, Del Taco, McDonald’s, Jack n the Box, In n Out, Panera Bread, and two diners.

And two homecooked meals from Ducky’s godmother and my stepmom.

600 miles in six days. To the airport, to the godparents, to work, to the godparents, to the grandparents, to my best friend’s house, back to work, back to the grandparents. No more driving.

It’s four in the morning, and the kid is actually asleep, I should be sleeping. But my mind is going in six different directions.

As a kid, my dentist’s office played music. Elevator music. You know, Old people music. Soft rock. Stuff like the BeeGees, and Journey. “Don’t stop believing” makes me think of fluoride. Why did they play that stuff, and who liked it anyway?

This week while sitting in the chair for the root canal, I was trying to stay calm so I listened to the music.

Chumbawumba, Smashmouth, The Fray, Coldplay.

I liked every song.

Elevator music. In the dentist’s office. And I liked it.
Please excuse me while I go tell the whippersnappers to get off my lawn.

Top Five Things Worse Than a Root Canal

Having four impacted wisdom teeth removed while you’re awake.
Full-mouth ex-rays and plaster molds for braces.
Needing six different dentist appointments to finally conclude that Yes you do need a root canal.
Having those six dentists appointments spread out over six months while the pain gets worse.
Hearing a lifetime of things touted as more or less fun than a root canal.

The phrase “Worse than a Root Canal” has a bad wrap. The Endontist thought it was because I hadn’t been fully numbed before the previous procedures. Really. It smelled bad, it took a long time but there really are worse things.

How about the phrase “About as fun as a Root Canal.”

Top five things that are “about as fun as a Root Canal.”

Lip Threading. I cried, seriously. IWill NEVER do that again.
Being an astheticians eyebrow-waxing-practice dummy. Years later, the skin on my eyelid still has not grown back.
Paying sixteen dollars for city parking while getting a root canal.
Blogging about Root Canals.

This is my baby. This is my adventerous little man. I wanted a cuddly baby, but that’s not who God gave me. He’s eight months old and he’s already racing away. He’s a racecar, he stops to grab my leg ever few minutes, but he doesn’t want to be picked up. Just checking tire pressure and jumping back into the the excitment of the race.

That Guy I Married laughs and sings The Bear Went Over The Mountain when I pick the baby up. I pick him up, he climbs up my shoulder until I have to hold him to keep him from launching to the floor. Then he climbs back to my lower arms and leans for me to put him down. He stands on the floor, and then reaches up to try to climb me again.

Rinse and repeat.
I guess that’s how I know that I’m the one he needs.

The bear went over the mountain to see what he could see,
but the other side of the mountain was all that he could see,
so the bear went over the mountain to see what he could see,
but the other side of the mountain was all that he could see.

The Duck climed over the Mama to see what he could see…
Happy Love Thursday

nervous for nothing
insert witty blogpost here
anxiety stinks