Ew.
Please, oh please, let us stop giving press to Jon Gosselin and his hair plugs.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
The last two years...
Two years, my friends. I started this blog just over two years ago with the entry above. My "coming of age" entry. The entry in which I lamented my quarter-century birthday. Check it out; it's pretty quality, if I do say so myself. Okay, a tad bit self-seeking and whiny, but good nonetheless.
Today, I have officially dropped off the cliff of my midtwenties into the vast canyon that is my late twenties. And how am I feeling about this you may ask (whilst cringing to yourself because you really don't want to hear it if I'm still cranky-McCrankerson about the whole thing)?
Eh, well, dearies, its not that bad.
I know, right? Egads, Erin's not in mourning on her birthday?! What is this world coming to?
No, I guess I'm not.
Don't get me wrong, things are often times still messy in my crazy, mixed up little world.
I do have dark circles under my eyes, and two years ago, I didn't even know what that meant.
I'm wearing unflattering khaki pants that I bought at Kohls. Not Anne Taylor. Not Gap or Banana Republic. Kohls. "Expect Great Things", right? But seriously, don't buy these pants. (although, at some point, its got to be the wearer's fault, I suppose. Perhaps its my post baby thighs that are less then flattering. Let's think about that later, today is my birthday afterall.)
My knees are achy from sitting at a computer day and day out.
And my brain is starting to petrify from lack of use.
I sometimes forget to brush my teeth on Saturdays (I think its the absence of my weekday routine that throws me off).
Last night, I watched baby einstien. It was only for about 5 minutes and Jonah was definitely in the room with me. But still.
This entire week, my husband and I have been glued to the couch each night to watch "National Parks: America's Best Idea" on PBS and we were actually lamenting our lack of DVRing capabilities since we won't be able to do a re-watch. Not lying.
All very clear signs that I am older. Not all bad, though. I mean, to my decidedly hipper 25 year old self, maybe it would appear as though I've let myself go, but I'm okay with it. Well okay, not the thigh part, but as I said, we're not thinking of that today.
I have a beautiful baby boy who looks at me like I'm the sunshine in his day. My husband is still the funniest guy I know and he's somehow able to make me thankful that he asked me to marry him every single moment we spend together. Even the ones that are less then pleasant. I still have my health, a decent job and a truck that gets me places. My family still loves eachother and me and they are all accomplishing truely magnificient things, all of which I find myself a part of.
My man, JC, He takes good care of me and mine and really, there is very little I can find that could make me think ill of my turning another year older. (Don't. Focus. On. The. Thighs.)
So there. You all thought I would piss and moan and I didn't. Maybe I am growing up, afterall.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Have you ever wondered
http://http//www.cnn.com/2009/CRIME/08/27/california.kidnap.shed/index.html
I'm a thinker. I can sit at my picnic table in my backyard just thinking for literally hours on end about nothing of real consequence. I'm an odd duck, I know; we've been through that particular discussion before. Sometimes, when my nearly six month old son is just sitting and staring off into space, I wonder if he's going to be a thinker like his momma (in between his spastic bouts of energy that come from his fathers genes) and if so, are we going to just sit and think together at that picnic table? Hm. That'll get the neighbors talking. Those weird Hahn's are out there thinking again.
Anyhow, something I've thought about since I was old enough to comprehend it is how fortunate I am that I grew up in the circumstances I did. I've wondered about how we really have zero control over what we are born in to. I've thought about how I could have been born into an impoverished african nation to an AIDs-ridden mother. Or to a Poland Jew in a concentration camp. Or to a slave in Georgia in the 1800's. Of course, I could have been born into a wealthy dynasty, too, but I try not to let my mind wander that way... (kidding, mom)
Anyways, it is facinating to me to ponder how God chose this particular time, place and family for me. Which of course leads one to further expect that He chose that particular time, place and family for that african orphan or for Paris Hilton. Then I have mornings like this one, where I read about a young girl, abducted at 11 years of age in 1991 to be locked away in shed and raped by her kidnapper only to become pregnant and raise her two children in that very same shed until they were, in turn 11 and 16 years old.
I think of those children who were literally born and raised in a shed. A shed in the backyard of their kidnapper father's house. Where everyone just lives their mundane suburbian lives around them and doesn't even realize that they are there. Could they hear life passing them by? Did they know there was more out there? What did that mother say to those children while they were growing up about their circumstances?
Incredible. That could have very easily been any of us, but it wasn't. It was her and it was them. Why was it them?
I have no idea.
Wow... overthink much? These entries are the ones that I kinda wish I could just erase... only because they are rambling... but I won't do it because its all about the growth, right? So. Yikes.
I'm a thinker. I can sit at my picnic table in my backyard just thinking for literally hours on end about nothing of real consequence. I'm an odd duck, I know; we've been through that particular discussion before. Sometimes, when my nearly six month old son is just sitting and staring off into space, I wonder if he's going to be a thinker like his momma (in between his spastic bouts of energy that come from his fathers genes) and if so, are we going to just sit and think together at that picnic table? Hm. That'll get the neighbors talking. Those weird Hahn's are out there thinking again.
Anyhow, something I've thought about since I was old enough to comprehend it is how fortunate I am that I grew up in the circumstances I did. I've wondered about how we really have zero control over what we are born in to. I've thought about how I could have been born into an impoverished african nation to an AIDs-ridden mother. Or to a Poland Jew in a concentration camp. Or to a slave in Georgia in the 1800's. Of course, I could have been born into a wealthy dynasty, too, but I try not to let my mind wander that way... (kidding, mom)
Anyways, it is facinating to me to ponder how God chose this particular time, place and family for me. Which of course leads one to further expect that He chose that particular time, place and family for that african orphan or for Paris Hilton. Then I have mornings like this one, where I read about a young girl, abducted at 11 years of age in 1991 to be locked away in shed and raped by her kidnapper only to become pregnant and raise her two children in that very same shed until they were, in turn 11 and 16 years old.
I think of those children who were literally born and raised in a shed. A shed in the backyard of their kidnapper father's house. Where everyone just lives their mundane suburbian lives around them and doesn't even realize that they are there. Could they hear life passing them by? Did they know there was more out there? What did that mother say to those children while they were growing up about their circumstances?
Incredible. That could have very easily been any of us, but it wasn't. It was her and it was them. Why was it them?
I have no idea.
Wow... overthink much? These entries are the ones that I kinda wish I could just erase... only because they are rambling... but I won't do it because its all about the growth, right? So. Yikes.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Emily Post is not my friend.
I hate thank you cards.
Truely, I do.
It is in the opinion of this blogger that they are a completely unecessary and impractical notion. Think of all the occassions that require thank you notes. Weddings, babies, graduations, funerals. Giant, life-altering events that are often times preceeded and proceeded by the most hectic and emotionally exhausting weeks or months or even years of ones life.
Not exactly the perfect set up for thoughtful communication, is it? Furthermore, I have yet to really receive and/or write a seriously meaningful thank you card. For starters, the cards are too darn little; and if you have been blessed with large handwriting (as I have been), that limited space isn't much for lengthy sentiments (and those are the only kinds of sentiments I do). Inevitably, I end up continuing onto the back, because I can't control my rambling in my efforts to fully express my gratitude, and since I write in pen (because pencil is tacky, right?) I can't take that rambling back.
Secondly, they are, in general, impersonal. Honestly, when have you recieved a card that did not contain the following format: Dear (insert name here), thank you so much for the (insert item/s here). I can't wait to use it when I (insert occassion here). It was wonderful to see you at (insert festivity here). Again, thanks. (insert chosen adieu here)?
I mean, come on. The problem I have is that I see a handwritten envelope in my mail box that is typically filled with impersonal bills and commercial junk and my little adolecent note-passer heart leaps, only to have my hopes dashed with a generic thank you note.
Now, I need to stop here and clarify in the event that I have hurt anyone's feelings. That is certaintly not my intention. I appreciate the thought behind thank you notes. The idea is refreshing and polite and wonderfully victorian. Its just that I would sooooo much rather even a random email or facebook comment on my wall then a standardized card that someone was forced by the unforseen ettiquette police (and perhaps the memory of their grandmother and her impeccable manners) to write me.
I bought you the gift because I love you and I care. No need to thank me for that. And if I buy something for someone I barely know, then a card is needed even less. Likely, I forgot I even did it and there is no need for you to go to all the trouble of finding my address on yellowpages.com for something like that.
Which brings me to another point. How crazy difficult it is to find out someones address nowadays! Heavens above, no one under the age of thirty is listed in the phone book and therefore, no one under the age of thrity knows how to navigate those paper wasters anymore anyways. Of course, as aforementioned, you can google someone, but that traverses the way too fine line between inquisitive and creepy. one minute you're researching an address and the next you've got college transcripts and police blotter on your screen. Yikes TMI.
All in the name of ettiquete.
I guess you could say that I am likely writing this out of guilt. After my son was born we were blessed with an overabundance of beauitful gifts and I haven't gotten around to writing even one thank you card. I've thanked many people, personally, but never actually written a word. Baby, full time work and just plain old life has gotten in the way and I hate hate HATE that it is eating me up inside that I haven't begun the monumental task of writing out those small curtesies. And now that its been six loooong months, and I'm frankly embarassed.
So there you have it. Make what you will out of this. But don't expect anything so polite as a thank you from me for reading. Homegirl don't do that kind of thing apparently.
Truely, I do.
It is in the opinion of this blogger that they are a completely unecessary and impractical notion. Think of all the occassions that require thank you notes. Weddings, babies, graduations, funerals. Giant, life-altering events that are often times preceeded and proceeded by the most hectic and emotionally exhausting weeks or months or even years of ones life.
Not exactly the perfect set up for thoughtful communication, is it? Furthermore, I have yet to really receive and/or write a seriously meaningful thank you card. For starters, the cards are too darn little; and if you have been blessed with large handwriting (as I have been), that limited space isn't much for lengthy sentiments (and those are the only kinds of sentiments I do). Inevitably, I end up continuing onto the back, because I can't control my rambling in my efforts to fully express my gratitude, and since I write in pen (because pencil is tacky, right?) I can't take that rambling back.
Secondly, they are, in general, impersonal. Honestly, when have you recieved a card that did not contain the following format: Dear (insert name here), thank you so much for the (insert item/s here). I can't wait to use it when I (insert occassion here). It was wonderful to see you at (insert festivity here). Again, thanks. (insert chosen adieu here)?
I mean, come on. The problem I have is that I see a handwritten envelope in my mail box that is typically filled with impersonal bills and commercial junk and my little adolecent note-passer heart leaps, only to have my hopes dashed with a generic thank you note.
Now, I need to stop here and clarify in the event that I have hurt anyone's feelings. That is certaintly not my intention. I appreciate the thought behind thank you notes. The idea is refreshing and polite and wonderfully victorian. Its just that I would sooooo much rather even a random email or facebook comment on my wall then a standardized card that someone was forced by the unforseen ettiquette police (and perhaps the memory of their grandmother and her impeccable manners) to write me.
I bought you the gift because I love you and I care. No need to thank me for that. And if I buy something for someone I barely know, then a card is needed even less. Likely, I forgot I even did it and there is no need for you to go to all the trouble of finding my address on yellowpages.com for something like that.
Which brings me to another point. How crazy difficult it is to find out someones address nowadays! Heavens above, no one under the age of thirty is listed in the phone book and therefore, no one under the age of thrity knows how to navigate those paper wasters anymore anyways. Of course, as aforementioned, you can google someone, but that traverses the way too fine line between inquisitive and creepy. one minute you're researching an address and the next you've got college transcripts and police blotter on your screen. Yikes TMI.
All in the name of ettiquete.
I guess you could say that I am likely writing this out of guilt. After my son was born we were blessed with an overabundance of beauitful gifts and I haven't gotten around to writing even one thank you card. I've thanked many people, personally, but never actually written a word. Baby, full time work and just plain old life has gotten in the way and I hate hate HATE that it is eating me up inside that I haven't begun the monumental task of writing out those small curtesies. And now that its been six loooong months, and I'm frankly embarassed.
So there you have it. Make what you will out of this. But don't expect anything so polite as a thank you from me for reading. Homegirl don't do that kind of thing apparently.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
The hardest thing about being a mom...
Being a mom is hard work.
You have to be a superwoman multitasker who can exist while sleep deprived, food deprived and in all seriousness, sanity deprived. No one tells you this because a. You won't believe them, if they did. and b. The human race would fall into extinction. No, moms don't share those kinds of stories (birth stories, of course, are a whole other ball of wax, they're like some right of passage or something. EVERYONE shares the gory details fo their labors, and typically its when you're in own 9th month and therefore too far gone to change your mind. What is WITH that?).
But I'm not going to be like that. I feel there is healing in sharing so here is a tip for all you future moms. Get your babies declawed in the hospital. You read right. Declawed. Like they do to kittens. At least, like they did before animal rights activists stepped in. I mean, really, it can't be worse than circumscision, can it?
Okay, in all seriousness, cutting a newborn's nails is probably the hardest thing I've ever done. Even harder then childbirth. Maybe that's an exaggeration. Maybe not, though, because there is this crazy phenomena that I'd like to call "leaving the hospital memory loss" where the second you roll out those doors in that silly wheelchair with your new bundle, you forget what it felt like to be in labor. Its like the nurses perform some sort of magical memory charm as you are relased (yeah, that was a Harry Potter reference). Just last weekend, I was walking with my husband, whining about rolling my ankle when stepping off a curb (so graceful) and how much it STILL hurt days later and I actually said "I haven't hurt myself like this in years..."
Seriously. I said that. The scar from where they sliced me open and yanked out my nearly 9 lb son is still a brutal red slash- and I'm moaning about a twisted ankle! But, there you have it. A memory charm, I am convinced of it.
ANYWAYS, waaay off topic... Nail trimming is a terrifying experience. I put it off as long as I could before Jonah started to look like he had gotten into a fight a with a feral street cat (and lost, bad). Then, I had to intervene, before DCFS shows up on my porch. NOTE: In case you were wondering, he long ago outgrew all his little mitten-sleepers and socks won't stay on his feet, let alone his hands...
I tried to convince my husband to do it. I mean, I feed him 12 times a day, the least he could do is trim his nails, for crying out loud (btw, Mike is an incredible dad and helps all the time... I might be exaggerating a tad for the sake of the story)! But, Mike gives up after about 20 seconds (That part isn't an exaggeration), which is about as long as his short fuse and big man hands can stand it.
So that leaves me. Have you felt a baby's nails? All that is protecting their poor, unblemished fingertips is this tissue paper thin layer of nail. And they give you these crazy sharp nail trimmers with an obonoxious magnifying glass attached to them (not at all helpful) and you're expected to NOT cut your baby? They (the super mommies on Babycenter.com) tell you to trim while your baby sleeps. But honestly, once Jonah is out, no one, and I mean NO ONE is allowed to touch him. Make all the noise you want, but don't you dare come near him and wake him up! Its the only chance I may have all day to pee and eat a granola bar! And then they say "bite his nails". First of all, that seems a little icky. He sticks his hands in his own poop on a regular occasion. I mean, yeah, that's probably my fault, but c'mon! Second of all, I used to bite my nails for years, and I remember the bloody hangnails that resulted from my chewing. THAT can't be good, either.
So all I've been able to comprimise with is to trim after he's in his post-giant feeding, drunk on warm milk-food coma (post bathtime, for a super drowsy baby!). I tried it last night, and I was successfully able to trim one hand and the thumb off his other hand before he caught on. Better then nothing I suppose, but he still has 4 sharp fingers left and for some reason, they seem to grow in a pointy shape for extra clawing capabilities. I COULD hold him down like they do at the pediatrician, I suppose and just get it over with... but, I'm not quite at that point yet. The whole giving-an-unsuspecting-happy-baby-a-massively-painful-shot process still makes me cry everytime, so I'd prefer to keep it within the confines of the doctor's office.
Thus, Jonah is currently sound asleep in his swing this morning with weapons attached to his tiny chubby fingers, wolverine fashion.
So there you have it, kids. My dillema. Input is, of course, welcome.
Happy Mom's day, everyone!
You have to be a superwoman multitasker who can exist while sleep deprived, food deprived and in all seriousness, sanity deprived. No one tells you this because a. You won't believe them, if they did. and b. The human race would fall into extinction. No, moms don't share those kinds of stories (birth stories, of course, are a whole other ball of wax, they're like some right of passage or something. EVERYONE shares the gory details fo their labors, and typically its when you're in own 9th month and therefore too far gone to change your mind. What is WITH that?).
But I'm not going to be like that. I feel there is healing in sharing so here is a tip for all you future moms. Get your babies declawed in the hospital. You read right. Declawed. Like they do to kittens. At least, like they did before animal rights activists stepped in. I mean, really, it can't be worse than circumscision, can it?
Okay, in all seriousness, cutting a newborn's nails is probably the hardest thing I've ever done. Even harder then childbirth. Maybe that's an exaggeration. Maybe not, though, because there is this crazy phenomena that I'd like to call "leaving the hospital memory loss" where the second you roll out those doors in that silly wheelchair with your new bundle, you forget what it felt like to be in labor. Its like the nurses perform some sort of magical memory charm as you are relased (yeah, that was a Harry Potter reference). Just last weekend, I was walking with my husband, whining about rolling my ankle when stepping off a curb (so graceful) and how much it STILL hurt days later and I actually said "I haven't hurt myself like this in years..."
Seriously. I said that. The scar from where they sliced me open and yanked out my nearly 9 lb son is still a brutal red slash- and I'm moaning about a twisted ankle! But, there you have it. A memory charm, I am convinced of it.
ANYWAYS, waaay off topic... Nail trimming is a terrifying experience. I put it off as long as I could before Jonah started to look like he had gotten into a fight a with a feral street cat (and lost, bad). Then, I had to intervene, before DCFS shows up on my porch. NOTE: In case you were wondering, he long ago outgrew all his little mitten-sleepers and socks won't stay on his feet, let alone his hands...
I tried to convince my husband to do it. I mean, I feed him 12 times a day, the least he could do is trim his nails, for crying out loud (btw, Mike is an incredible dad and helps all the time... I might be exaggerating a tad for the sake of the story)! But, Mike gives up after about 20 seconds (That part isn't an exaggeration), which is about as long as his short fuse and big man hands can stand it.
So that leaves me. Have you felt a baby's nails? All that is protecting their poor, unblemished fingertips is this tissue paper thin layer of nail. And they give you these crazy sharp nail trimmers with an obonoxious magnifying glass attached to them (not at all helpful) and you're expected to NOT cut your baby? They (the super mommies on Babycenter.com) tell you to trim while your baby sleeps. But honestly, once Jonah is out, no one, and I mean NO ONE is allowed to touch him. Make all the noise you want, but don't you dare come near him and wake him up! Its the only chance I may have all day to pee and eat a granola bar! And then they say "bite his nails". First of all, that seems a little icky. He sticks his hands in his own poop on a regular occasion. I mean, yeah, that's probably my fault, but c'mon! Second of all, I used to bite my nails for years, and I remember the bloody hangnails that resulted from my chewing. THAT can't be good, either.
So all I've been able to comprimise with is to trim after he's in his post-giant feeding, drunk on warm milk-food coma (post bathtime, for a super drowsy baby!). I tried it last night, and I was successfully able to trim one hand and the thumb off his other hand before he caught on. Better then nothing I suppose, but he still has 4 sharp fingers left and for some reason, they seem to grow in a pointy shape for extra clawing capabilities. I COULD hold him down like they do at the pediatrician, I suppose and just get it over with... but, I'm not quite at that point yet. The whole giving-an-unsuspecting-happy-baby-a-massively-painful-shot process still makes me cry everytime, so I'd prefer to keep it within the confines of the doctor's office.
Thus, Jonah is currently sound asleep in his swing this morning with weapons attached to his tiny chubby fingers, wolverine fashion.
So there you have it, kids. My dillema. Input is, of course, welcome.
Happy Mom's day, everyone!
Friday, May 8, 2009
Further proof, as if you needed any, that I am a dork.
http://http//www.fanfiction.net/community/Good_Completed_Twilight_Fiction/57325/
So I said in my previous entry that I haven't been able to read, and that's not entirely truthful, I haven't been able to read books...
Online fanfiction is another story. I discovered that late night feedings are condusive to internet searching since it only takes one hand to scroll. Really, there isn't much else to do at 12am, 2am and 4 am and I've seen enough shamwow infomercials to last a lifetime. So there. My secret is out. I read fanfiction. Not only do I read it, I read it all the time. Seriously, its addicting! Okay, so some stories are much higher quality then others. Some are just plain smut- though I have learned through trial and error to typically avoid the "M" for mature setting- PG 13 all the way for my little modest heart. Not to mention, its pretty disconcerting to read something over the top, only to find out it was written by a 14 year-old (for real, this happened to me. It was probably the most vulgar thing I've EVER read and when I checked her profile, it was all tennis practice and homework troubles! Talk about embarassing...)
Anyways, I've kind of got it down to a science. Thus far, I've traversed into the Twilight and Harry Potter fanfiction universe. (surprised? I think not.) When reading Twilight, I tend to favor AH, AU, T rating, Canon Pairings, Completed fic. Translated into non-dorky language, that is All-human, alternate universe, teen rating, typical romantically involved couples (learned this one after reading one too many Edward/Jasper, Carlisle/Bella pairings. I mean, really, let's not be ridiculous. Bella would NEVER stomp on Esme that way!), and completed stories (nothing worse the reading something that never was completed by the author. Probably because they got grounded or something. Yeah, I said it. ) Truelly, I hate to read anything that messes with the original story line, so I nix the vampires, which basically makes the stories a typical chic flic, only, online. Again, not surprising when you consider who we're talking about here. You all know my slight obsession with chic flic. I heart happy endings and pink book covers.
As far as the Harry Potter fanfic goes, I am much less open. I read only Post-DH (Deathly Hallows, so we're typically talking Harry/Ginny epilogue) or James and Lilly stories. Only the stuff my girl, JK Rowling, never touched on. Nothing sacred, of course.
And there's some good stuff out there! I doubt any of you are nerdy enough to be interested, but if you are, let me know and I'll make some recommendations. I have hours of sorting through the crazy, out of control world that is fanfiction, behind me!
I know what you are probably thinking, and I have yet to be tempted to write my own... though if I ever make that journey, you will all be first in line to know. It takes much less time to read them to write at this point and time is precious!
Plus, it is one thing to read fanfic, its an entirely other thing to actually write it... a whole 'nother level of "odd duck" and I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet.
PS I'm not THAT bad. My uber cool, ultra intelligent younger PhD program little brother was into warcraft a while back and confessed to me that one night, while playing online, his "partner" had to logg off because "his mom was calling him" (for real) and rather then feeling stupid for playing with an a little guy, he was actually dissapointed because he was losing a good partner!
PPS Don't tell Jonah what a total nerd his mom is. I already have Mike rolling his eyes at me. Although, he's not much better HE watches fishing videos online. Poor, poor Jonah...
So I said in my previous entry that I haven't been able to read, and that's not entirely truthful, I haven't been able to read books...
Online fanfiction is another story. I discovered that late night feedings are condusive to internet searching since it only takes one hand to scroll. Really, there isn't much else to do at 12am, 2am and 4 am and I've seen enough shamwow infomercials to last a lifetime. So there. My secret is out. I read fanfiction. Not only do I read it, I read it all the time. Seriously, its addicting! Okay, so some stories are much higher quality then others. Some are just plain smut- though I have learned through trial and error to typically avoid the "M" for mature setting- PG 13 all the way for my little modest heart. Not to mention, its pretty disconcerting to read something over the top, only to find out it was written by a 14 year-old (for real, this happened to me. It was probably the most vulgar thing I've EVER read and when I checked her profile, it was all tennis practice and homework troubles! Talk about embarassing...)
Anyways, I've kind of got it down to a science. Thus far, I've traversed into the Twilight and Harry Potter fanfiction universe. (surprised? I think not.) When reading Twilight, I tend to favor AH, AU, T rating, Canon Pairings, Completed fic. Translated into non-dorky language, that is All-human, alternate universe, teen rating, typical romantically involved couples (learned this one after reading one too many Edward/Jasper, Carlisle/Bella pairings. I mean, really, let's not be ridiculous. Bella would NEVER stomp on Esme that way!), and completed stories (nothing worse the reading something that never was completed by the author. Probably because they got grounded or something. Yeah, I said it. ) Truelly, I hate to read anything that messes with the original story line, so I nix the vampires, which basically makes the stories a typical chic flic, only, online. Again, not surprising when you consider who we're talking about here. You all know my slight obsession with chic flic. I heart happy endings and pink book covers.
As far as the Harry Potter fanfic goes, I am much less open. I read only Post-DH (Deathly Hallows, so we're typically talking Harry/Ginny epilogue) or James and Lilly stories. Only the stuff my girl, JK Rowling, never touched on. Nothing sacred, of course.
And there's some good stuff out there! I doubt any of you are nerdy enough to be interested, but if you are, let me know and I'll make some recommendations. I have hours of sorting through the crazy, out of control world that is fanfiction, behind me!
I know what you are probably thinking, and I have yet to be tempted to write my own... though if I ever make that journey, you will all be first in line to know. It takes much less time to read them to write at this point and time is precious!
Plus, it is one thing to read fanfic, its an entirely other thing to actually write it... a whole 'nother level of "odd duck" and I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet.
PS I'm not THAT bad. My uber cool, ultra intelligent younger PhD program little brother was into warcraft a while back and confessed to me that one night, while playing online, his "partner" had to logg off because "his mom was calling him" (for real) and rather then feeling stupid for playing with an a little guy, he was actually dissapointed because he was losing a good partner!
PPS Don't tell Jonah what a total nerd his mom is. I already have Mike rolling his eyes at me. Although, he's not much better HE watches fishing videos online. Poor, poor Jonah...
Thursday, May 7, 2009
She's back!
Well, well, well... look who's back!
Okay, I know. Its been a ridiculously long time, but I have a reasonable excuse and I promise to give my most sincere effort to not let this long of a lag in blog entries happen ever again...
That being said, I would like my first effort in returning to the wonderful world of blogging to be an ode to my last entry, done 8 weeks prior to Jonah's birth (which will be referred to from this point on as PJ, as in "pre-Jonah". For obvious reasons, we won't use "before-Jonah".) (if it isn't obvious, that's just fine. forget I mentioned it.) This was actually inspired by Jess- whose little guy was born a month P-J, and who's been a late night life saver on my facebook messanger a time or two. Thanks, Jess.
Things I can't do anymore (8 weeks after Jonah):
1. Go to the bathroom with the door closed. Please, oh please don't let my neighbors ever see me pee!
2. Take a shower longer then 7 and a half minutes (for real, I think that's my personal best)
3. Button my old jeans... which is odd because...
4. Eat three, make that two square meals a day. I subsist on cheese-its and "dark chocolate and nuts trail mix" bars by Nature Valley.
5. Watch an entire episode of anything except cooking shows. For some reason my son LOVES cooking shows. Lydia's Italy is his current fav. He loves the butter and carbs, just like his momma.
6. Wash my hands enough. I mean it, be careful when you shake my hands, you have no idea if I had the chance to soap up after a diaper change! And chances are, I have no idea either.
7. Get grossed out from poop. Honestly, I hardly even notice and there's been some real doosies!
8. Talk in a normally-pitched voice. Its getting higher and higher every day. I can't help it! He smiles more the squeakier I go!
9. Listen to obnoxiously loud, angry music in the car. Its all baby einstein travel tunes and lifehouse these days. Yes, Erin Hahn, music snob extroidinaire, listens to plinky motzart performed with annoying yet oddly comforting, whistles and xylaphones.
10. Remember to take care of myself. A big ol "Amen" to Jess' comment about brushing teeth. I'd add to that: shaving my legs, washing my make up off at the end of the day (if I even put it on), lotioning up, deoderant (I have some strategically placed all over, in case I notice I forgot. In fact, I have chewing gum all over, too... in case I forget to brush my teeth and lotion in the car, for when I forget that, too. That just leaves shaving, which, lets face it, was a lost cause P-J, anyways.)
11. Go right to sleep without checking "just one more time" that he's still breathing.
12. Carry a purse. That was a biggie for me, only because I used to LOVE handbags of all shapes and sizes. Now the only size is LARGE and it contains all Jonah parephenelia and my chapstick.
13. Look in to my son's smiling face and NOT see his father, or vice versa. And I love that.
14. Read a book! Seriously, did you ever think I would say that? I can kind of read, just its in very small stints and only when Jonah is asleep and Mike isn't around... I imagine I will work out something eventually. Harry Potter movie this summer and Twilight movie next fall... I'll need to reread and prep for those...
15. Remember what it was like to not be a mom and totally in love with my little boy... but that's okay.
At any rate, there are lots of things I can't do, but they seem very minimal in the grand Jonah-filled picture, if you want to know the truth. I live each day in a crazy, multitasking blur, but its essentially all done in order for me to be able to freeze time for just a bit and watch Jonah smile and coo for his mom. And that, readers, is completely worth all of it.
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