Flashback Friday

On the first Friday of every month, Scary Mommy hosts Flashback Friday...an event inviting bloggers everywhere to post previous entries that no one actually read. So, since I'm feeling all nostalgic this week, I thought I'd repost the first entry I ever wrote on this blog...

Who? Me? A Mommy?

It was 6:25 a.m. on a Saturday. It was, in other words, many hours before I intended to leave my cozy nest of a bed. In fact, I’d been determinedly ignoring my hungry, howling cats for an hour, but when the dog stuck his cold nose in my face and sneezed, I gave up. I stumbled out of bed and stomped down the stairs, snarling “I really hate you guys right now. Hate, HATE, HATE you, you hear me?”

And that’s when it struck me.

Oh my God, I’m going to be a mommy.

What kind of mommy tells her children she hates them?

Holy crap, I’m going to be a Bad Mommy.

In theory, I’d already known I was pregnant for several weeks. But since no one knew but my husband, pregnancy seemed more like a never-ending case of the flu than the beginning of a life-changing event.

But as I sobbed my heart out at the kitchen table, reality set in. Soon, I’d be wholly responsible for another little person—and my every action would have an impact on their life. Every cross word, black-hearted glare and snide remark could be the one that sends them to therapy in their adult years.

I resolved to be a nicer person after that. A better person. One who could conceivably be viewed as capable of raising a child—hopefully one without too big of a risk of becoming a serial killer.

It’s several weeks later now, and things are still a little touch and go. I haven’t cussed at my pets lately. But I have snarled at my husband more than once or twice. I’m starting to feel excited now, even overjoyed. And although I haven’t met my baby yet, I already love her (or him) with a ferocity that surprises me.

But those moments of panic? They still sneak up on me. I’ll be minding my own business, flipping channels on the TV, when with a suddenness that stops my heart, I remember—I’m going to be a mommy. Who the heck thought that was a good idea?

Things Worth Remembering.

At four months and counting, Tori's changing every day. She's constantly discovering new things - so fast, I can hardly keep up. And as much as I try to convince myself I'll never forget these early days, I know I will.

I'm sure I won't always remember how, when I lean over her crib in the morning, she throws her arms open wide and gives me a face-splitting grin.

Or the way she giggles when I change her diaper, so happy to be clean again.

Or the conversations we have at the breakfast table, her babbling in her high chair, me pretending to know what she's saying.

I'll forget how cute she was the week she discovered her tongue, sticking it out every time she got a chance.

And how delighted I was when she blew her first raspberry, spit bubbling all over her clothes.

And how I almost cried the first time she laughed - giggling as I bounced her in the air.

I won't remember how her chubby little knees wobble when she "stands" on my lap.

Or the game we play sitting on the couch - I put her on her tummy on my chest, she flips herself off - over and over  and over again.

Her sweet baby smell will probably fade from my sensory memory. As will the feel of her warm little body turning into a dead weight on my shoulder as she falls asleep.

The memories might fade, to be replaced with newer, brighter versions. But at least now, I'll always have a written record to jog my brain.

Adventures in Daycare.

On Monday, Tori turned four months old. She also went to daycare for the first time. I say daycare in the very loosest of terms—she's actually being watched by a friend of mine. In a private home. By a woman who looks after just one other little boy (and her own kids, of course).

It's a pretty sweet situation. In fact, you'd think letting her go would be pretty darn easy, right?

For most people, it probably would be. But I'm the kind of woman who sobs every time she has to take her dog to be boarded.

Internet, it was one of the hardest things I've ever done. In fact, I think I was more nervous about dropping her off at my friend's house than I was about getting my stomach cut open and having her hauled out in the first place.

The dread started as a dead weight in the pit of my stomach early last week. By Friday, I was a snarly, miserable mess. By Saturday, the tears had started. And by Sunday night? I couldn't. stop. crying. Period.

When I woke up Monday, I was physically ill. I felt like I needed to vomit, and my head was pounding. And my eyes? Were practically swollen shut from all the sobbing.

Somehow, though, I got her fed, dressed and ready to go. I even managed to drive us there without hitting anything (there are advantages to living in a small town with little traffic).

I managed to keep from actively sobbing while I was actually inside, but the moment I kissed Tori good bye and shut the door behind me, the waterworks started again. Before I could go to work, I had to pull over into a parking lot and pull myself together.

Yeah. I was a mess.

I made it through the morning (although I couldn't really tell you what I accomplished) and rushed back over there at lunch to check on her. She was fine, of course. A little overwhelmed, maybe, but fine.

When she arrived home that evening she was in a great mood. Bubbly, talkative...100 percent cute. So I felt a little better.

Tuesday, it was a little easier to drop her off. And today, it was easier still. I know she's in good hands.  In fact, the whole family seems to be pretty enamored with her. They tell me she's the happiest baby they've ever met.

I'm glad they're enjoying her. And I'm thrilled that she's doing so well. But you know what? I'd still give my right arm to be able to stay home with her myself.

And leaving her? Is still really freaking hard.

The Next Big Thing?

Do you Twitter? Then you've got to watch this video.



So...did it get ya? I actually thought flutter was for real for about the first minute or two.

The scary part? I could totally see someone actually thinking this was a great idea. After all, smaller is better, right? And as every copywriter knows, no one actually reads.

It's only a matter of time, people.

What A Difference A Year Can Make.

I realized while driving Tori to day care for the very first time this morning (v. traumatic. will discuss later.), that it's been almost exactly a year since I found out I was pregnant.

And what a year it's been. So much has changed...so much, in fact, that I thought I'd write another one of my famous lists. The title of this one?

The Top Ten Ways Life Changed After I Got Knocked Up.

The bottom dropped out of Wall Street—I'm too lazy to go look up the exact date, but almost as soon as I announced to the world I was pregnant, the economy went into a tail spin. I always have had great timing...

Grey's Anatomy was lost to me—Once the hormones started swirling, I could no longer take the ridiculous drama that Grey's has embraced. I swear, last season they absolutely delighted in seeing how many people they could kill off—and every episode I watched ended with me in tears. Grey's? You're dead to me.

My ass earned its own zip code—I knew your tummy got huge during pregnancy. But no one warned me about the effect it would have on my butt. I remember thinking when I first tried on maternity jeans that there was waaaay too much room in the trunk. Turns out? No. No there wasn't.

I entered a committed relationship with my toilet—First there was the nausea. Then the constant peeing. Which morphed into the constant trickle of pee as pregnancy progressed... I never realized how much time one person could spend in the bathroom.

I forgot to be terrified of the scale—The ever-increasing numbers were a good sign. It meant the baby was growing! And we were both healthy! And it had nothing to do with all those strawberry milkshakes I was drinking!

I learned to love Bob Ross— Can't sleep? Watch The Joy of Painting. Works like a charm...so does Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations. Which is a shame, because I love that show. But as soon as I put it on, it's lights out for Amber.

My family room got redecorated—Right before I got pregnant, we got new furniture. Then our TV died, so we got a flat screen. It looked pretty spiffy. And then? The baby stuff took over. Now I'm lucky if I can find the couch under the junk we have piled on top of it. And my fireplace? Is hidden behind the pack n play. I'm expecting an interior decorating magazine to call and schedule a photo shoot any day now.

My vocabulary shrank. And my voice rose an octave or three—Who's a cute little blog reader? You are! Yes, you are! Uh-oh, have you got a stinkers? What a stinky stinkers!

Wait. What was I saying?

Oh yeah. My memory shrank, too—I think Tori liked to suck on my brain cells for lunch while she was living in my tummy. Because I suddenly seem to have a lot fewer of them...and the ones I do have aren't responsible for things like remembering why I walked upstairs, or where my keys are. It's a sad state of affairs.

And lastly (here comes the sap. Are you ready? Do you have your vomit buckets handy?)...

I made a miracle happen—My body took a tiny little cluster of cells and turned it into bones, and blood, and skin, and hair...all the things that make Tori the cutest little girl on the whole stinking planet. That's pretty freaking amazing, people. Pretty freaking amazing.

Oh. My. God.

Ahem. This is me getting on my soap box. Now I'm staring at you sternly. And now I'm shaking my finger at you accusingly.

Well, not all of you. Just those of you that think it's a great idea to let your house cat outside. Who think that those fuzzy little kitties who usually dine on kibble need to be able to hunt. And chase things. And poop in other people's gardens. And whatever else you think your very domesticated creature needs to do to stay in touch with his or her wild side.

Because you know what else they can do when you let them roam free?

Run out into the middle of a damn highway and get hit by a car. Or three.

No, my car wasn't the one that hit the cat. But I watched it happen. It was a kitten. A little black cat, with white paws and a white mark on his chest. You know how I know? Because after I watched the car ahead of us mow him down, we drove past him, and saw him still raising his poor little head...to watch as the car behind us finished the job.

I screamed, Internet.  I wanted to turn around and save him. But we were going 70. There was no shoulder. And before we could stop...well, I already told you what happened.

I have two cats of my own. Two very spoiled cats who are every bit as much a part of the family as my baby daughter. And I would rather cut off my right hand then let them roam free.

They're not wild.

They are domestic cats. Born of domestic cats. Who themselves were probably the progeny of other domestic cats. In other words, there's not a wild bone in either one of their bodies.

They do not need to hunt. Sure, they might like to, but that's why we have feathery cat toys and little yarn mice. It's called PetSmart people. Go there. Spend five dollars. And keep your cats inside, where it's safe.

Because if you don't? They could become the next little splat on the highway.

And no creature, no matter how small, deserves to meet his end that way.

Is Loneliness a Fact of Life?

I've never been what you might call a social butterfly. In fact, as a kid, I was horribly shy. I spent most of my formative years trying to fade into the background, terrified of being called on or noticed in any way.

Once I reached adulthood (or something like it), I forced myself to come out of my shell. Now I can make small talk with the best of them. Can even, in fact, approach a stranger at a party without fear making my heart feel like it's going to explode. But it doesn't come naturally. And I've never gotten good at making friends.

So now I find myself 500 miles or so from everyone I'm close to. Don't get me wrong. I've got friends here. People I can get a beer with, or invite over for dinner. We have fun. And I love them dearly.

But I can't seem to fully let my guard down. There's no one here who I feel like I can just call, out of the blue, and say, "Hey, PMS is a bitch this month. Wanna go get ice cream and listen to me whine?"

Maybe that's just part of growing up. My husband and my daughter have to come first now, and we have so little time to spend together, I'm reluctant to give any of those precious hours up. So I don't work on my other relationships like I should.

But I know I need to.

A few weekends ago, I went to a little get-together that one of my friends was having. It was just a few of us girls, and we sat around, drinking wine and bullshitting about make-up, and men, and whatever else came to mind. It was fantastic.

But even then, I felt like I was on the outside, looking in. I didn't feel like I was fully part of the group. I never do.

It's not their fault. It's mine. But I don't know how to fix it. Is it too late to learn how to make friends?