I’m laying hookie from church today, by accident. I went for a long walk with The Dog, and got back in time to see That Guy pulling out of the driveway.

I needed the walk. Trying to get a grip. Deal with what I’m left with sans-anxiety.

I wish I could name the thing that is making me walk around with a kink in my step.

All week long, I race around wishing I could put the baby down. I spend a lot of time wishing my arms were free so that I could blog a coherent sentence, or heck, think a coherent sentence. Then I think of Heather Spohr, and realize there’s a reason she has time to sit down and write so eloquently.

I’m trying to figure out what’s going to make me happy. Well, what’s making me upset? Dog hair! – But is a $400 vacuum going to make me happy?

Ear plugs! – But what if I need to hear him cry? What if, for some reason, he really needs me?

I wish I could blame PMS – but that’s not it either.

I slept in today – that didn’t fix it.

I wish I could start a sentence that didn’t start with “I.” I don’t mean to be this drawn into myself. I wish I could just snap out of it. Would it be more interesting if I wrote in the third person?

Elizabeth is in a funk.

Fifteen years ago-
Ugg, I hated highschool. Highschool was only slightly less terrible than Junior High. My best friend from junior high went to the other high school in town. After ninth grade, she got a summer job at a Boy Scout camp where her cousin worked. I missed her, so I applied for the same job.

Two months out of the house. Two months doing something I was good at (scouting). Two months in a tent giggling with my best friend.

I never got the hang of Boy Scout politics, but I was fifteen, I barely even knew the politics existed. I didn’t really enjoy the 6 year old boys, the bugs, the bad food, but it was worth it to be out of the house.

There were three campsites when I was there. The main one in front, and progressively smaller ones as you drove further into the forest. Each with less buildings and roads than the one in front of it.

I remember the trees. A hundred different kinds of green leaves. Nameless to me, but with a specific scent that is nowhere else. The further back you went, the thicker it got. The shade from the leaves, and the way the leaves played with the light. There was something intoxicating about the dancing light and the woody scent.

There were fires several years back. Most of the mountain. What was the main site is now nothing more than cement foundations and prairie grass. There isn’t a single tree left.

The Scouts had retreated, given up on the first site. After the fires, they resumed camping on the second site. The second camp lost a few buildings, and was rebuilt as the main camp. All of the resources for all three sites were poured in there. One nice camp site.

The third site, tucked away down the dirt paths. The biggest trees, the densest forest, was abandoned. The third site, where the magic was.

Five years ago, we went back. On a road trip. I just wanted to drive down the main road. To see if it was true, that everything was gone. It was shocking to see the first site, a place that I had driven through a hundred times, may as well have never existed. Not even a pine needle left to mark the spot.

The second site was carrying on. Business as usual. Scouts being dropped off for the week. Fresh paint, roads cleared, extra fire buckets. It was nice to see, but it was not home.

We drove deeper into the forest. I was afraid to see the damage. I was afraid of how I would feel if i couldn’t recognize it. But as we drove, the trees grew taller, the shade grew thicker, and I could smell the woody enchantment that had been there ten years before. The road narrowed, and curved around. The third site sat untouched.

The basic camp, with little more than tents, a snack shack, and a swimming pool had been abandoned. Abandoned, but not missing anything other than the sound of cubscouts and the water in the pool.

We walked around. Breathed in the air. Looked up to the tops of the still-standing trees. Tried some barely-standing doors. The forest had not changed, had not been touched.

Just for a few minutes, I was home again.

I’m going out on a limb and posting something I woudn’t normally post. This is my space, and it should be alright for me to do that. Please, no trolls.
_______
Anxious. Anxious. Anxious. Lonely. Angry. Anxious. Abandoned. Burdened. Anxious. Disappointed. Anxious. Stressed. In a hurry. Anxious. Unable to sleep. Anxious. Tired. Dragging. Anxious. Worthless. Anxious. Regretful. Anxious. Listless. Wistful. Anxious.

Today, the meds are working, and I am less anxious. A reprieve. It doesn’t happen often. But, when I’m less anxious, I’m left to deal with the other things rattling around in my head.

Anxious. Anxious.Anxious. Lonely. Angry. Anxious. Abandoned. Burdened. Anxious. Disappointed. Anxious. Stressed. In a hurry. Anxious. Unable to sleep. Anxious. Tired. Dragging. Anxious. Worthless. Anxious. Regretful. Anxious. Listless. Wistful. Anxious.

I should be celebrating. For the first time in twenty years, I have meds that help. Today I’m not anxious. Lonely. Angry. Abandoned. Burdened. Disappointed. Stressed. In a hurry. Unable to sleep. Tired. Dragging. Worthless. Regretful. Listless. Wistful. But not anxious.

I can sit still! Now that I can sit still: I can, I should… what should I do first?

I’m almost bored. The anxiety has waned, and now I have nothing to do, nothing to think about. Well, not nothing: Lonely. Angry. Abandoned. Burdened. Disappointed. Stressed. In a hurry. Unable to sleep. Tired. Dragging. Worthless. Regretful.

One foot in front of the other. One thing at a time. One. I can’t remember the last time there was a singular thought in my head. I can’t remember this sense of focus. The house is clean. The work is done. There’s nothing on the calendar until next week. What did I focus on, the last time that I had focus? I can’t contain this need to plan something, anything: a trip, a date, a movie premiere, a trip home.

Quiet. Birds chirping, and a bus passing on the street. There’s nothing good on T.V. I need something to do with my hands. I thought I got over this loneliness. I thought I worked through this anger. I feel raw and defenseless. A ten-year-old kid all over again.

I can’t remember the last time I lived a day without that pattern. Anxious. Anxious. Anxious. Keep Busy. Think of something to worry about. Anxious. Anxious. Anxious. It’s bizarre, but at least I knew what to do with my day. Is it strange to miss that?

It’s Saturday. It’s beautiful outside. The chores are done. The list is checked off. There’s nothing to finish up. I’m dressed. I can’t think of what to do or where to go. Now what?

Dear Ducky,

I would like to know why it is perfectly alright to abandon you for a whole hour at the YMCA, but, it is unacceptable to leave you for five minutes on the livingroom floor.

What is with the screaming?

Please explain.
Thanks,
Mama.

Dear Ducky,

I keep promising myself that I’m going to sit and write all of this down. And then, I don’t. Or, I try. Or, I don’t get quite enough time. I want to remember so many little things. I can’t even remember them long enough to get to the keyboard.

The days are slipping by quickly.

You’re changing so much. I want to not forget every little piece of you.

You charm the volunteers at church, and at the YMCA. They tell me how you’re so active the whole time I’m gone. How you’re so happy to stand in the bouncer and watch the other children.

You get lots of compliments everywhere we go. I walk down an isle and I hear “Oh how cute!” follow behind me. I turn to find you flirting with everyone who will make eye contact. “Gerber Baby” is what I hear the most.

The Afternoon Fussy has been driving me crazy for the last six months. I think I’ve finally figured out that you need a nap at 4pm whether you like it or not. Today, The Dog and I will take you for a walk at 4 o’clock, and see how that turns out.

You’ve just started petting The Dog. I’m glad you like her. She’s trying awful hard to be your buddy. She can’t wait for you to be old enough to play fetch with her. Every few weeks she tries to hand you her toy.

You love applesauce. You like nectarines. You’ll eat rice cereal if you’re starving. I’m not sure if you’re really all that into nursing anymore. We’ll have to see how long that lasts.

You’re not sitting up yet, but you insist on being held up so that you can stand. You rock back and forth on your knees, and just today you managed to inch forward.

For the record: you snore. You always have. It’s nice to be able to hear you breathing without getting close enough to wake you up.

Breathing.

Oh Ducky, another L.A. baby, Maddie Spohr died this week. I just can’t imagine what her family is going through right now. I can’t stand looking at a picture on Flickr and wondering if her parents knew that was the last picture they would take of her smile. Which one could be the last picture I take of your… It just rips me up.

I took extra pictures of you. I turned off the T.V. and played with you. I made sure to cuddle you and spoil you a little bit extra this week, just for Maddie.

I’ve got to remember to stop and enjoy the minutes.

Love,
Mama

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful post, a letter to my six-month-old son Ducky.

It was whistful, and thankful, and cute. And then Wordpress ate it. Arg.

That’s the thing about motherhood. I don’t get time for do-overs. I don’t get time to fix errors, or update regularly. I could *try* to remember the details of the last post, but that’s why I wrote it down in the first place; the details are getting harder and harder to remember.

I want to blog to remember his quarks, but I can’t think over the Bellyaching from the Bouncy Seat. I want to call friends and talk on the phone, but I can’t hear over The Bellyaching.

There was something else I wanted to post. “Aaaaah, Aaaaaah.” The only way to keep him quiet is to put him on my lap, but then he “types” with me. “Aaaaaah, Aaaaaah.”

I just for once, want to complete something. From start all the way to finish. I can’t even manage to cook dinner and get all the way through the dishes, let alone retype a lost post.

!@#$ing Wordpress ate my post again.

Today, for Maddie, I let Ducky nap on my shoulder for an hour. I made a point to not be annoyed that Ducky woke up from his nap, and interrupted my lesson plans.

Today, for Maddie, I tried to memorize Ducky’s smell.

Today, for Maddie, I took an extra long video of Ducky rocking back and forth on his knees.

Today, I tried not to wonder what picture of Ducky would be the last picture I take. And then I took five extra pictures.

Today, I tried not to be scared for the unknown. I tried not to imagine the worst. Not that I ever could imagine the worst. My heart goes out to the Spohrs.

Up. Again. In the middle of the night.

I’ve got a rant stuck on loop in my head so I may as well get it out.

Ducky turned six months old on Friday. It’s portrait time. We got dressed up for family pictures yesterday, and went to The Mall Store (or should I say SEARS PORTRAITS WHITTIER CALIFORNIA at the WHITWOOD MALL). I’ve taken the baby to this store, at another location, and had wonderful results. We were going to be in town, so I made the appointment in Whittier.

The staff was friendly enough. We had an appointment, and recieved a suprised comment when we arrived on time. The receptionist was very attentive and wrote down every pose that I said I wanted. I wanted enough pictures to fill a 10×10 collage of the family. I wanted six-month pictures of the baby. Please stop trying to sell me Easter Pictures with plastic eggs. I’ve done this a few times; I brought outfits, blankets and props. I know exactly what I want. Thank you.

We met the photographer, I reiterated the specific poses that I wanted for the baby, and we got started. She took maybe ten pictures of the baby, and then she asked us to sit down on stools.

She took Two Whole Pictures of the “family,” and then prounounced us *done*. “Come back in 35 minutes!” She *left the room* before I could muster the nerve to speak up and say that knew I was making a face in one picture, and I saw That Guy make a face in the other one.

We had lunch, and came back. We sat down. I tried to be polite about the speil that she’s required to give us, even though I’ve heard it several times before. It went something like this:

“Oooooh, Ahhhhhhh… Look at the ENHANCEMENTS.
See, and now we have THIS enhancement.
And now we have this SPECIAL ENHANCEMENT.
And see look at the extreme close-up of (she called Ducky by That Guy’s name) nostrils in SEPIA TONE!
And we have SPECIALS on PACKAGES!
And we have 25% off on collages!
And look, we have EASTER CARDS! With BORDERS!”
And isn’t this special lighting SO FANCY!?
Look, this one says HAPPY EASTER LOVE THAT GUY, BLOGGYMOMMER, and DUCKY!

Am I the only person who went to school long enough to learn that it’s ___BACKWARDS to spend 14 minutes taking pictures of THREE PEOPLE and then spend 35 minutes on the digital foofy poop!?

Let’s see how far I can get into this post without cursing…

NO AMOUNT OF DIGITAL ENHANCEMENTS will fix the fact that That Guy is talking to the baby and making a face at the baby while kinda-sorta looking at the camera. There isn’t an enhancement that will fix the fact that the baby is still CRYING in the ONLY Daddy and Me photo. There’s no enhancement that will fix the Half-Smile-On-One-Side-Of-Mom’s-Face pose.

The point of getting portraits done is to take SEVERAL DOZEN PICTURES so that we can PICK from the best PICTURES, not the best ENHANCEMENTS!!!!!!

Ugh. I’m up in the middle of the night, and I’m just SICK when I think about how long we spent getting ready, getting dressed, picking outfits for the baby, and getting out the door! That Guy got up EARLY and got a HAIR CUT! I even made an APPOINTMENT! And, we even managed to get there ON TIME without wrecking our marriage.

I actually spoke up for myself. I waited until she was halfway into her speil. I looked over all the pictures carefully and then I admitted that I didn’t like *any* of the pictures enough to pay for them. There was one cute picture of me and Ducky. There was *one* cute one of Ducky by himself.

There were NO OTHER CHOICES because she only took 12 picures. Twelve: minus That Guy making a face twice, minus my half-smile, minus two of the baby being propped up and posed with his elbow twisted around funny, minus the four raw photos that she wouldn’t even show us because she didn’t ENHANCE THEM, minus the baby crying in the last two. ONE PICTURE worth paying for. ONE.

The whole point of dragging my husband to a studio on a Saturday was to get a good picture of HIM with the baby. The whole point of paying for a family portrait is so that everyone looks their best together. The whole point of making an appointment is so that we actually have TIME to get a picture nice enough to hang in the livingroom.

I made it clear that I wanted a retake, I want the poses that I want, and I want her to spend more than 15 minutes taking a decent picture of THREE PEOPLE, that is what the SITTING FEE is for. “Well, I can spend maybe an extra five minutes, and then it takes 35 minutes to do the enhancements.” No, she can not spend more time taking pictures and less time doing the stupid, magic enhancments.

And then my head imploded and we walked away. “Come back at 5pm and we’ll retake them…” No. Just No. That Lovely Guy I Married agreed to reschedule and cancel the appointment.

And now, I’m upset. I would be happy to pay the money for a nice family portrait. I would be more than happy to buy the expensive CD with ALL of the pictures. I usually buy at least the $130 package… SPEND SOME TIME TAKING THE PICTURES!!! You’re a portrait studio. That is your JOB.