On 2015 and Fake NYE Resolutions

Another year is almost over. I have no New Year's Eve plans. How about you? Oh, I could go to a party I suppose, but then I'd feel guilty about leaving G-Money with the in-laws, and I'd feel even more guilty if he spent the night which has been suggested. Why all the guilt? Can't a bitch go out and have some fun for New Year's? The answer my friends, is NO!

So, after the boy goes to sleep tomorrow night, I may imbibe in some wine, catch some Netflix, and call it a night, all before midnight, most likely. It sometimes makes me long for the days of partying half the night away while dodging shaving cream slaps in the face, and then being able to sleep in until noon the following day. Happy New Year!

On to my "resolution." With resolutions in the past, I always knew I was lying to myself, like oh, I'll stop swearing so damn much, or I'm going to give up caffeine...cold turkey. You know, something that seems so simple, but you know you're never going to do it anyway. Well, I think I've come up with a reasonable resolution, or maybe, a "promise to myself." I think by now, you all know I have a passion for writing. If she's so passionate, why hasn't the bitch written anything since that boy has been born? That's an excellent question that you muttered under your breath. Here's the answer: I use the excuse of, I'm so tired chasing after that little stink pot, that at the end of the day, I want to fall into bed with a book, which, honestly, most days I do, or I catch an episode of my stories, mon'.

I did start a second manuscript before G was born, and was half way through it actually, when I decided to shelve that shit. There might be some good meat in there somewhere, but I came to a giant blockade and couldn't go any further. I didn't like where the story was going and I just gave up.

I thought the solution was... start a new project, get new ideas flushed through, that might bring new ideas to the other project. Of course, I misjudged just how tired I would be all the time and decided sleep overruled writing. So... here we are, a year and a half without a word written. Some writer I am. 

What does all this mindless babble mean to you guys? Well, quite frankly, probably nothing, but, I'm making a personal vow to myself that in 2015, I will sit my ass in that chair, whether it's in the middle of the afternoon on a weekend while the boy naps, or after the boy goes to bed at night and get some words on the page. I will follow through with my book of short stories and get it published. Probably not in 2015... let's not get ahead of ourselves here, but it will be done. I did it once, and I certainly don't want to be some single publication sucka.

In closing, it's been a roller coaster year. We mourned the loss of my grandfather, we celebrated G-Money's first birthday, along with several other of his milestones, walking, talking, eating like a man, climbing, and so on and so forth. We sold our first home and bought another one. We've been sick, we've been healthy, we've been stressed, we've been cool as a cucumber. I always like to think the next year will be better than the last, but that's always a crock of shit isn't it? Has anyone ever had a stellar year, the whole year long? You get the same problems, but in a New Year. I'll just be hoping for no major shit going down, and I'll be happy.

On Christmas and a 17 Month Old

Ah, the Christmas Season is upon us again, and has been since Halloween. Those old Christmas carols have been on repeat since November 1st. I mean, what the hell? How can you get into the Christmas spirit when you haven't even disgustingly gorged yourself on Thanksgiving food until you feel like you want to die. I just don't get it.

I'll admit, I broke down and started listening to Christmas tunes a few days before Thanksgiving, only because it was sub-zero outside, and I felt jolly. Not to mention, the jingle bells and shit made the kid bop his legs in the back seat. Anything that makes for a peaceful car ride I'm down for.

Speaking of the kid, he is 17 months old today. I'll call him a year and a half, he's close enough. I'll call him a year and a half until June, when I'll say, he's almost 2. I really hate it when parents say, "Oh, Mindy is 47 months, and Carson is 76 months." Nobody cares! It's like me saying I'm 376 months old. Phew, with that out of the way, I must mention, this child really is his father's son apparently. He's a bonafide hot dog. Climbing and testing his physical limits. He invokes mini-heart attacks on the daily. He's repeating everything, and has been for a while, which is limiting for his mother who typically swears like a sailor. He's a bit of a character, running around the house with a smirk on his face, being independent playing alone in his room, sitting and building shit with his blocks, he's really his own man. I also really appreciate that he's an observer, he really has to stand back and really take in a situation before he decides whether or not he wants to be involved. That's pretty good for a kid of his age.


Back to Christmas. The tree and decorations went up Thanksgiving weekend. I thought for sure the tree would have come down at least 5 or 6 times by now. Not the case. However, the boy loves ripping the ornaments off the tree and yelling "BALL!" and giggling as he gallops away with the goods. Which is why, all our ornaments are plastic. This year, he's more engaged in Christmas. He admires the lights, he explores the tree, which makes me think... I won't be able to put presents under the tree because all that shit will be open in 3.5 seconds.

And now, for the sentimentality of it all. Christmas is a magical time of year. Maybe it's the lights, the snow, the frigid temps, the stupid Christmas music, or maybe it's being lit up by holiday cocktails, but even at my age, I still feel something in the air around Christmas time. Of course now, presents aren't a priority, it's about hanging out with family and friends, going to holiday parties, imbibing, dancing, celebrating, and enjoying being alive. I find myself looking forward to holiday parties, instead of dreading them, I'm even looking forward to hosting Christmas dinner at the new house even though I have no idea what the hell dinner will be. I'm looking forward to laughter and good stories that may or may not be remembered. That's what Christmas is all about after all, right?

On Inspiration

Should it surprise you that I've been running my mouth about getting back to work on my writing, and I haven't done shit about it? I know it doesn't surprise me. I come up with new excuses every day for not sitting down in the chair and starting the new project.

• I sit at a computer all day at work
• I have to wait until G-Money goes to bed to maybe get an hour of work in. By then, I'd rather watch Mad Men (which I'm addicted to and will probably be addressed in another post.)
• Gah! I just want to relax by reading a book (I'm gaining a small stack of "to read" books that I'm anxiously wanting to burn through)
• I want to go to sleep
• It's pointless to sit in the chair because I'll just watch the clock until I decide it's time to go to bed.

The thing is. I'm working everything out in my head. I know I'm doing a book of short stories. I know I want it to be dark. Like, twisted, haunt your dreams kind of dark. I suppose I'm apprehensive about how far I can really go without having people think I'm some sort of crazed lunatic writing about what I really think. Well, let's be honest, whenever someone writes something, there's always an element of truth in the writing, a little part of that person mixed in with the characters. In any case, I don't want people looking at me stranger than they already do. Ah, I kid. I'm at a point in my life where I shouldn't care about what people think. I mean, anyone who has given birth knows your dignity and caring what people think go right out the window since you've got a team of people all up in your business.

This is another excuse I tell myself. I'm withholding writing what I really want because I don't want to expose any sort of vulnerability. On the other hand, it might be fun to keep people wondering about me. There's two sides to every person. Their mask, which they wear for everyone around them, and what's underneath the mask, their true selves.

On the plus side, I can pacify myself by saying that I'm constantly pulling ideas from everyone and everywhere. Sometimes it's nice to be that quiet person lurking in the corner observing instead of being in the center of it. It really makes for great material.

On "Mommy Guilt"

Okay, I have to admit, I've fallen prey to the made up moniker of "Mommy Guilt."

Mommy guilt is an equal-opportunity affliction, the experts say — it strikes whether you're 20 or 40, CEO of your home or a Fortune 500 company, living in the big city or on Main Street USA.

If you ask me, it's bullshit. Do daddies feel "Daddy Guilt?" I didn't think I would care about being out of the house so much at work. I thought, ah, distance will make the kid's heart grow fonder, maybe he'll be a perfect little angel during the time we are together... that's a lie, I had no preconceived notions that G-Money would be perfect 100% of the time, though, to his credit, he is awfully sweet, like 97% of the time.

So, "Mommy Guilt" struck me when I started working even more hours at the office, and then I piled more work on top of that. Work, after work, and on the weekends. It's gotten to the point that the boy is so used to me leaving, I put a coat or sweater on and he's like "Bye-Bye Mama," and waving me out the door. I feel like I'm missing out on precious bonding time, time that I won't get back because he will grow and lose interest in his parents and will gain interest in girls. He won't want to hang out with mom and dad, he'll want to hang out with his friends, doing God knows what.

It's all sentimental drivel. Most of all, I feel like in a way, I'm abandoning him by working so much. Though, I know in the long run, maybe he'll be able to be one of those men who don't objectify women and place them in one category or another ie: career bitch, or house bitch. Maybe he'll see that women can be strong working mothers who support their kids and don't have to be just a career bitch or a house bitch, they can do both, or only one, the options are limitless, and hopefully he'll see that one day.

On Writer Troubles

Now that I've decided to shelve my novel for a while and start a new project of short stories, I find that I'm "totally geeked, dude." I've got ideas swirling around my head, and I really, really want to get to work.

Trouble is, my window for writing is very small. Like, fleas on your dog small. I have to work a "real" job, five days a week. I have to come home and be a "mom" from the time I get home until I go back to work, and even at work, I'm still a mom. This leaves me with the time my kid takes a nap to get something done, which usually entails housework or the like. More often than not, I can be found napping when he is. Also, there's the time he goes to bed for the night which usually occurs anywhere from 8:00pm-9:30pm. Maybe I'm just not passionate enough, but I'm so tired at the end of the day, all I really want to do is curl up in bed with a book for a few minutes before I pass the hell out.

So, hypothetically, if I didn't have a "real" job, I'd still have to you know, raise a kid, which in and of itself is a 24/7 job, y'all know that. I'm making excuses. If I were really geeked as I claim to be (liar), my ass would be in that chair after the boy went to sleep, even if it's just for 30 minutes. To hell with my desire to plop down and read the big ass book I'm entrenched in right now. Work bitch, work!

Bottom line is, sooner or later (later), there will be another book of mine out in the world. At this point in time, I'm projecting two years. That seems like an inordinate amount of time to write, edit, design, and publish a book doesn't it? Well, what can I say? I'm busy. I guess I'll always just be a part-time writer.

On Having a License to Thrill

Well, I finally did it. I've become a "licensed real estate salesperson." What does this mean exactly? Not much. Except, if you want to find a pad to live in, or sell your current pile, I could possibly be your go-to home girl. You know, if you're in to that sort of thing. For those of you that don't know, my day job revolves around real estate. I work for a broker, and have been for the last (9) ::gasp:: years. I figured, it was high time to lay it down and get licensed myself, simply because, it seemed like a logical next step, right?

In any case, don't you worry my pretties, my true passion still revolves around writing, which let's be honest, I've done none of for the last year and a half or so. However, G-Money is growing like a weed, becoming his own man, I've got that dark licensing cloud out from over my head, I think I'm overdue to jump back into the writing pool.

Before cooking up my gorgeous little homeboy, I was deep into my second novel. I thought the plot was interesting, something refreshing. It's totally different from "Stress Test." However, the more I got to re-reading it, the less I liked it. It sounds trite, like it's been done. It's not daring enough. I'm looking for shock value, people. This isn't to say I could keep something of the same premise, but otherwise totally rewrite it, and I just may, but, I'm thinking of maybe starting fresh, something completely new. I'm thinking, maybe a book of short stories. I've got an idea for two different books, the first, would be horror, obviously, the other idea is sort of comedy/satire book. In any case, this will probably be my project as we dip into fall and the nights are longer, and maybe the boy sleeps a little longer.

On First Overnight Separation

Last week, Thursday, I was presented with the idea of my husband taking G-Money up north a day early, leaving me completely alone until roughly 7pm Friday night.

At first, I was in a tizzy. What the hell do you mean you're taking my baby up north without me? He'll miss his mommy! I came to my senses shortly thereafter.

Just think of the things I could do totally unencumbered. I wouldn't have to worry about planning meals, bedtime, sleeping curled up in the fetal position fearfully waiting for the boy to wake up. I could do whatever the hell I wanted! Immediately I sent the word out. I was desperate to go out for a cocktail, on the fly, not having to worry about being home for bed time. I got home from work, itchy to start my child-free day as soon as possible. I waited and waited for responses. When I heard nothing, I began to feel deflated, like I was going to be wasting my "day off" just hanging out at home. I cleaned the house (though much quicker since G wasn't there to "help me.) I did some laundry, changed the sheets on my bed. I packed for the weekend. Then I started to sulk. WTF, where was everyone? I started to accept the fact that I might not be doing anything that night.

Finally... a simple text... "You coming?" Holy hot shit! A response! I ran out of the house on the fly, something which I haven't done in a year, honestly, most of my life because I'm perpetually late. I eagerly drove down the road and met my best pal for a couple cocktails and dinner. I didn't think about the kid once while I was there, except for the time or two I mentioned him.

When I got home to go to bed, I thought, oh, maybe I'll be upset because he's not around. Surely I won't be able to sleep knowing he's not in the house. I'm going to cry myself to sleep. Wrong again, my friends! I slept like a friggen' log. That is, until about 5:30 when I had a half hour coughing fit that totally ruined my slumber. Of course the whiskey might have had something to do with my fitful sleeping.

The next morning, I got out of bed without having to worry about the cat and dog waking him up. I got to eat my entire breakfast without my little scavenger begging for scraps. I got to leave the house without feeling guilty about leaving him again. It was all very refreshing.

I was expecting some huge fanfare when we got back together Friday night. I was expecting him to be so geeked, for him to run up to me and not let me go. Boy, was I disappointed. Sure, he was thrilled to see me. He had a big smile on his face and came over and gave me a big hug, but after a few minutes, he tossed me aside like yesterday's bitch.

Yes, I'll admit it. I missed G while he was gone... but, I certainly won't turn down another opportunity to be child free if his daddy wants to take him somewhere over night sans me.

On "That Writing Itch"

Lately I've had thoughts swirling through my head to write. To write something, to write anything. If y'all remember, I was working on another manuscript before I became knocked up with G-Money. Of course, I thought what I was writing was a huge, flaming turd, but rumor has it, that all writers feel that way about their work.

This itch has returned with a vengeance. It's uncontrollable, it's a tick, I'm jonesin'. Yet, I've done nothing about it. Why? I'll blame it on the kid. I'll say, between working full time and trying to give G-Money a happy childhood, there's just no time for writing. Go ahead, you can call bullshit. It's probably true. If I was a total die-hard, my ass would be in the chair after the boy goes to bed. I'd spend an hour or so after his bedtime and before mine feeding my addiction, hunched over the computer desk, staring at the white screen, blinking cursor, thinking of some sort of twisted shit to write.

Do you want to know what I do instead? I chill for five minutes and enjoy the silence and wind down from the tornado that boy is. I let the dog out, and stand out on the deck, listening to crickets and bullfrogs. I pick up the myriad of toys he's strewn all over the house. I tell the cat to shut his fat mouth because he's not eating AGAIN. I plop down on my bed and start reading some quality fiction and escape for a half hour or so before I pass out. Basically, I'm making up excuses not to park my ass in the chair and write.

Lately, I've been thinking about revamping "Stress Test" so it's not so cagey. I've been thinking about rerouting the whole plot, but then, it would cease to be its former self. I think part of the reason I didn't go hard into promoting that book is because, I didn't feel like it was my best work, but it was the best that that story was going to get, at that time. But now, a few years later, maybe I have more to offer to the story. I think revamping the former work is also giving me an excuse not to work on my current "sitting in the drawer" manuscript.

The bottom line is, no matter what else I'm doing with my life, deep down, I've still got the urge to write. Even though, I don't do it nearly as much as I should, (or at all right now for that matter.) It's been a constant for two decades, and I'm sure it will never amount to anything, but at least it will be out there.

On Turning 31

Yes. I've done it. I've had another birthday, and I've turned 31. I'm even still being honest about my age. This might change in the next decade though.

I'm really afraid of heights. I get vertigo if I'm somewhere high and I look down. Heights and I aren't the best of friends. So, for my birthday, I decided I should tackle something I'm afraid of, because, why not?

I heard about "The Adventure Park" on the news a few months ago when it opened, and thought it looked pretty cool. Horrifying, but cool. Basically, it's obstacles and zip lines up in trees, at varying heights, with varying difficulties. Most of the obstacles move up there in the trees, so you really have to use your strength and concentration to keep yourself from falling. It's rated like a ski/snowboard hill. Purple, yellow, green, blue, black diamond, double black diamond. The diamonds are obviously the hardest. We didn't touch those. Some of us started on the yellow, and thought it was pretty good, the green was a little tougher, but still fun. The blue... the blue was a bad choice, for us in particular. The first two obstacles were fun, but the rest of the course just felt like torture. It was definitely tough, and forced us to push ourselves. I'm pretty sure two of my pals hate me by now, but, I think overall, it was an interesting time.

I think about the last year, and I realize that of course, this last year has been devoted to my boy. I've just been his mom. I haven't been Kate, I haven't been J's wife, just G's mom. Which, don't get me wrong, I'm pleased to be G's mom, but, I miss my old self, and I'm completely aware that I'll never fully get my old self back again, but I think I need to make a date with the old girl every now and then so I don't totally lose my shit.

Now that the little boy is getting older, and since he eats table food, he relies on me a little less as far as feeding, which gives me a little freedom. I don't have to make sure we're back together every two hours so he can go to town, I can have a cocktail every now and then, I don't have to worry if he's got enough milk or baby food on hand. The kid will find something to nosh on.

This isn't to say he needs me less. He still cries when I leave for work, and clings on tight when I get home, he still needs reassurance in the middle of the night and clings on when I take him out of his bed. He likes for me to sit down next to him while he plays with his toys, even if he ignores me. I think... he just likes having me around, it's a novel thought. Of course, the older he gets, the less he'll want me around, so... I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

In closing, it's been a good year. Full of ups and downs, stress, no sleep, worrying, tantrums, screaming, learning, and new experiences. I'm looking forward to another year of much of the same, maybe with a little less stress, tantrums, and screaming.

On Having a One Year Old

A few weeks late, but yes, I now have a one year old. It's hard to believe how fast the last year has gone by. When I was knocked up, those nine months took FOREVER! Even the first weeks and months with G-money seemed to feel like an eternity. Possibly because I was sleep deprived and had no idea what the hell I was doing... nothing's changed on that front.

Seeing him change from a helpless infant into a trixy toddler has been pretty amusing, I'll admit. His personality is starting to shine through a bit more, and I realize, he just doesn't give a shit about much of anything. Granted, he'll have his little toddler frustrations when he doesn't get his way or something pisses him off, but for the most part, this kid is chill. Someone stole my toy? No big deal, I'll just go play with something else. Some curly headed bitch knocks me down at the kid gym, whatever, I wanted to sit down anyway. He even amuses himself with the smallest things. For example, the other day I was in the kitchen, and he was somewhere else, all was quiet, I thought oh shit, he's probably flushing the dog down the toilet, however, I heard his trademark giggle around the corner in the living room. I walked over to see what was so funny, and there he was, standing up on one of the chairs making it bounce back and forth.

It's things like this that make me miss being young. Something as simple as bouncing in a chair amuses this kid. I simply like to see people get slapped in the face.

Of course I threw a first birthday bash for him. Yes, I know he won't remember, he won't care, he could give a shit less, but I thought, maybe someday when he's older, he can look at the pictures and be like look at all these people who wasted a perfectly good afternoon to come a one year old's birthday party. G had his first take of homemade cake and homemade ice cream. He hated both. He had maybe two bites of cake and spit out the ice cream (I'm guessing on account of it being so cold.) He had no problem taking a few spoonfuls a few days later though. He got a lot of nice swag from his family and his parent's friends, he was only mildly cranky, but was better after a nap. Overall, great success.

Since I've been a mother for a year now, one might think I've warmed up to other children. You're dead wrong. I still loathe most every other child. I don't want to hang out with them, I don't want to schedule play dates with them and my son, I don't want to hang out with them at child friendly places. I like my kid, that's all. I am however, looking forward to watching this boy grow up, so there.

On Being a Mother (You're in For a Long Post)

I've neglected my poor blog for nearly a year. You poor readers, all one of you must have been desperately wondering what's been going on in my life for the last year. How did having a kid turn out? Did he arrive on time? How's he doing? These are all valid questions.

 

Yes, my due date was June 22, 2013. I never expected to either go into labor on that date or have my son be born on that date. In fact, I was hoping he'd come a little early, you know, like maybe a week or a few days, give a big, fat, pregnant bitch a break, you know?

 

Since he did not show up on his due date, I hoofed it back to the doctor on June 24th, only for her to tell me there was no change, there was no way in hell I was having a baby any time soon... but that didn't mean that he couldn't come any day now. At that point she also tentatively scheduled me for induction on July 2 since she didn't want me going two weeks past my due date. Believe you me, I was not looking forward to being induced, however, I felt a twinge of relief knowing there was now an actual end date. Every day I waited with baited breath wondering if I'd drop that kid like it was hot. I'd be thinking, oh God, don't let my water break at work, everyone will think I pissed myself, or I sure hope I don't go into labor when J is at work, I don't want to tell his boss I'm popping out a baby. Every day that he did not show up, I grew bigger, and more pissed off. I was like, what the hell, kid? Show up already! We're all anxiously awaiting your arrival. I went to work every day, waddled around and completed my tasks and wondered when I'd be telling my boss I wasn't coming since the kid was coming.

My last day of work was July 1. Early in the morning on July 2nd, the day I was supposed to be induced, I went into labor, at 1:30 in the morning exactly. J joked around that if I went into labor in the middle of the night that I better not wake him up. It didn't occur to me to wake him up when the contractions started, because, what was he going to do, really? Watch me waddle around, huffing and puffing until it was time to go to the hospital? Besides, I figured since I was holding him captive for the whole birth, he was going to need his rest. He woke up around 10:30 and found me hunched over on the couch panting like our dog. He made me a quick breakfast and goaded me into the bathtub because I was insistent upon trying to be clean for the hospital since I knew I wasn't going to get to shower for a day or two.

Around noon he decided it was time to head for the hospital. Contracts were under five minutes apart and I could barely walk because it felt like I was going to drop a watermelon, okay. So we get there, check in, whatever. They put us in a pre-screen room, just to make sure I'm actually in labor... yeah, I was. Then they put us in a room where I seemed to be progressing fairly quickly. My actual doctor was there when we arrived at the hospital, but she was like "good luck with your labor, I'm leaving at 5:00 today." Shit! I decided to go with an epidural because, for me, the contractions were worse than kidney stones, there you have it. I had to wait an inordinate amount of time for the epidural because there was a girl ahead of me that had to go in for an emergency C-section. So, while I was like, where the hell is my %&^%@% epidural? I understood that the girl ahead of me took precedence.

Finally, I got the epidural, and let me tell you, it was heaven. I did not like that they sent J out of the room while they literally stabbed me in the back, and that stab hurt! Once it was hooked up and running, it was marvelous though. However, allegedly the epidural was slowing down the process. It was getting closer to midnight, they had broken my water a few hours before, and I had no inclination to start pushing. Gradually they started easing off on the epidural, so I could start "feeling" the contractions more, and maybe start pushing. Well, I still had no inclination to push, but I was definitely feeling those damn contractions.

Over three hours of pushing went by, and nothing was happening. We saw the top of his head, and that was it. This kid was stuck! Never mind that my doctor had mentioned that part of my pelvic bone jutted out in a manner that would make it nearly impossible for a kid to pass through. You think this information would be on my chart? No!

27 hours of labor went by. I was exhausted. I hadn't slept since Sunday night. It was now early Wednesday morning. Around 4:00am they decided I could either keep pushing... if I wanted to, or they would do a C-section. Really? Keep pushing, when they and I knew the kid was stuck and he hadn't moved in three hours! Believe me, a C-section was literally the last thing I wanted, but I also knew that if I kept going at this rate, the kid might be in danger of infection, so I decided to let them gut me like a fish.

4:20am, high off my ass, and having to stop the surgeons in the middle of the operation because I feel them working on me, our son was finally born! 8lbs., 10oz., 20 1/4". I was so out of it, I could barely see him when they put him in front of my face for a millisecond. After they cleaned him up and checked him over, they gave him to J to hold while they sewed me back up. So he had a baby in one hand, and my cold, clammy hand clamped on his other hand.

True to form, the first thing our boy did was take a big dump on his old man. Hey dad, I'm finally here, I gotta shit!

The next few hours were a blur. I shook violently from the meds in the IV. I couldn't hold our boy for over an hour after the surgery. He got poked and prodded while we all had to watch. Finally, it calmed down for a short while, and the three of us got to pass out.

Being in the hospital sucked. Someone was always coming in just as the baby fell asleep. Which, hey, I'm glad they were checking in on the two of us, but shit, that baby was pissed, and I was too. Recovering from major abdominal surgery was rough, and nursing a baby while being split open was no field day.

We got to go home on July 5. Living in a Bungalow at the time and our bedroom being upstairs, we had to camp out in the living room for 2 weeks as I was ordered not to climb stairs for said amount of time. As I gradually healed, J and I got more used to being parents.

Now, our little boy is about to celebrate his first birthday. I cannot believe how fast this year has flown by. He's already taken a few trips and passed several milestones. He's been sitting up independently since he was four months old, started walking at nine months, he's got eight teeth, he eats full man meals, as of his nine month check up he weighed 21lbs., and was 29" tall. I'm confident he's over  30"+ by now. He's incredibly bright, and he's pretty much a whirlwind.

So, being a parent is exhausting. There is no more free time, no more "me" time, and working full time cuts down on that even more. It's tough to juggle work and a little one, but he seems to be adjusting, even though I think he's secretly pissed when his dad and I go to work.

When he's older, I look forward to harassing him about how it took 27 hours of labor and being gutted like a fish for me to bring him into this world.