.::still blinking::.

jj and I celebrate our VD in a small way. I got him a couple small presents, including pistachios because he loves them and we never have enough in the house it seems. He got me a subscription to Real Simple Magazine, a gift that keeps on giving. Unfortunately for him I do the finances and saw that he had ordered it about a week ago. But I am so excited to read it. It is sitting on my bed stand waiting for me. I don’t know what I am waiting for, but once I go through it I will have to find something new to entertain me. I am not ready to give up that feeling of going through a magazine for the first time.

Also, in celebration of the holiday we are going to the temple tonight. Isn’t that romantic? Normally I would not go, but it is Stake Temple night and someone put my name on the list. I am pretty sure that it was not me because I have not been to the temple since my sister Kateka got married in Augustish. To say the least, it is not one of my favorite activities. To help along the romantic feelings jj and I are going at separate times. I will go when he gets home from work, he will go when I get home. I am sure by the time he gets home I will be in bed watching American Idol, that is an activity I far prefer.

Also, jj got up early this morning and after his workout he jetted over to Harmon’s to buy me some flowers. I do like fresh flowers, and jj.

As I write this, the boy sits across the table eating the last bits of popcorn from a bowl and sucking the life from unsuspecting oranges, and I cannot have any. I already asked.

He is so fun lately and says funny things all the time. We will not let him have bandaids, or as he calls them bangers, unless he is bleeding. The other day we were in the car and I guess he had bonked his head somehow and was begging for a banger. I told him that he was not bleeding and so he did not need one. After about a minute he informed me, “Mom, my head bleeding really bad! I NEED a banger.”

He is now drowning tortilla chips in his glass of water and then slurping up the remains. And yes, I just sit and watch. I don’t really care how he eats as long has he is eating.

The weird thing about him eating is that he is so picky, but he loves steak. Half cooked bloody steak, he will have the blood dripping down his chin like Eric the Red and I don’t say a word; I am far to chicken to draw his attention to the fact that was he is eating. Something we usually have to bribe him to do unless this eating activity involves chocolate. I am so amazed that he would even let steak sit on his plate. Usually if he does not like the food he will throw it on the floor or at me because I am the offending party, obviously. I am amazed at his ingesting half cooked steak when he acts like noodles are going to cause his death and I must be the devil for trying to get him to eat such toxic worms.

I finished a book this morning, She’s Come Undoneby Wally Lamb. It is for the book club I am in.

I don’t know if I would recommend this title, but I am seriously thinking about sending it to my dad. Not because it only relates to him, it related to me also. I think that any person could find that we all do the same things in our lives. We repress ourselves and if we get caught up in the pain of our childhood then we stay fourteen years old for the rest of our lives. The book was about moving forward, and becoming the person you are meant to be. It was about figuring out that you deserve to be loved, but you have to be completely honest with the people that love you. That is what love is anyway, being loved in spite of who you are.

I feel like in order to be loved you have to love yourself first. No one else is going to do the job that you are supposed to be doing and no one else can do it better than you. However, there is the point where you take it to far. That is not what I am talking about. You need to know the value of you. You need to know who you are and what you stand for. You need to know what your limits are and what you will and won’t put up with. You need to know that you are worth standing up for. You need to love yourself enough to be honest with yourself. No one else can fix you, it is completely up to you.

And then when you love yourself, other will love you too. I struggle with letting others love me. I keep myself guarded. People are not going to love you the way you think they should. Just because they are not doing it your way, does not mean they are doing it wrong.

“Accept what people offer. Drink their milkshakes. Take their love.”

I am learning.

On being crazy, she says, “It was a matter of perspective, I began to see. The whole world was crazy; I’d flattered myself by assuming I was a semifinalist.”

Aren’t we all kind of nutty? Some of us are just better at keeping a secret than others.

I guess we are all stunted children. We are all emotionally constipated. But when we finally let love in, we start to see what we are capable of, what we can do for others and what they are willing to do for us.

I think it has a lot to do with honesty and love. We all deserve love from people who are willing to give it without a price tag attached.

I liked this book, but it would easily be rated “R.” There is tons of bad language and a sex scene that made me feel dirty for a day. There is actually a lot of sex. It was pretty much like prime time tv, with more bad language. It is also 465 pages, but it only took me 4ish days to read, and I do other things a lot of the time.

I have been sick all week. Gentry seems to be better and I cannot seem to get over the sore throat and the other optional side syndromes that I peddle trough daily.

Because of this I have not seen the new baby, and I probably won’t for a while. I am not that mother, the one who drops her sick kids off at your house and peels out of the drive way mumbling, “See ya suckas! My day is ruled by the almighty dollar and not the health and well being of you or my children.” I am not opposed to women working who have children. That is your business. However, if I am recovering from your business for the next week to week and half, I might turn on you. Like the white tiger on Roy. I will be all over you like a spider monkey.

Because I am a whore for time to myself, I sent jj and Gentry to the museum. I am now deciding what to do with the day; take some medicine and clean or lay in the bed like a sloth and let moss grow on my unmoving body, eventually blending in with the bed. Both options having their upsides. The cleaning being that I am always loosing hair, if I was a chia pet you would find little spouts of plants all over the house including on top of the fridge, wrapped between your toes, and in balls that resemble spiders in your socks. I need to start vacuuming more and getting rid of the massive amounts of hair that have almost formed a net over the doors making it impossible to get out of the house. Becoming one with the sloth, I think it is obvious why I would want to do that.

I do vacuum, every Saturday. How this hair has taken over I do not know. But it is gross in a way beyond gross kind of way.

I dream about Hawaii almost every night now. In fact, jj and I get up in the morning and compare Hawaii dreams. We want to move there so badly. I am completely afeared (I did that on purpose) of the water, but I cannot keep the yearning to go back out of me. We planned the trip for a year, what I didn’t plan on was the way that it would change me.

I find that life is amazing, no matter what. You end up in a completely different place than you originally planned. You plan and make decisions and there is no way to actually tell what is going to happen. What I do know is that no matter where you are or what your circumstance is, you need to be happy where you are right now.

I read this today. Don’t judge me for liking Meredith Vieira, but I am a fan, and I don’t know why. But her casual honesty speaks to me.

Don’t you find yourself living a dream, but not the one that you had planned on?

The little boy is sick again. He woke up crying last night at about 2am, he had thrown up in his bed. Since then I have really not slept. It has been a pretty constant string of throw up events, and it makes me sad. Not the lack of sleep, but the way I have to hold his little body and hold a bowl under his mouth as his entire body wretches and tries to get rid of the sickness that is in him.

I moved the mattress from the daybed that is in the office into his room and slept on his floor. He rotated from his bed to mine depending, I guess, on how he felt. There were several times that he requested to be put in his bed. But when I started staying in his room, the mess of throw up became far less. I was able to catch the throw up before it got on any clothing, bedding or hair. Which is nice since we went through about five pairs of pajamas and three sets of bedding, and that can get kind of tiring in the middle of night.

I did sleep a little bit. I probably got about two one hour stints. But my mommie ears were on high alert, every squeak or sneeze woke me and made me nervous. I had a hard time sleeping because I was worried about him because I don’t want to have to take him to the hospital again.

I am trying really hard to keep him hydrated this time. He has a sippy cup of Gatorade with him at all times and he just had a lovely fruit popsicle. The kind that is fruit puree and that I covet. They are so good.

I think that he is going to be fine. He is watching Buzz Lightyear, drinking a cocktail of sprite and gatorade, and carrying around a small bowl of fishies and teddy grahams (thanks Kateka and Grandma).

Last night was our book club. There were a couple of us there that are regulars and quite a few new people. The girl (who is actually a lady, but everyone that is within ten year of me either direction is a girl) who hosted the bookclub, called me the day before because she had never hosted before. She has recently had a baby and we talked about that and for some reason I told her that I had a crush on my babies original pediatrician. She acted kind of strange about it.

When I got off the phone I thought, what the heck is wrong with me? Why do I tell people this stuff. I honestly don’t think that they care and then they probably just look at me and think she doesn’t even like her husband, she like her sons’ doctor.

It is not like this is a huge secret to jj. I tell him who I have crushes on and he tells me who he has crushes on and it is not like we do anything about it. Anyway. I was telling him the other day about this crush and how I always seem to have crushes on my doctor and Gentry’s doctors. These are people who are taking care of us, people who make us feel better when we are sick, people who help rid us of our health problems. I really like my gyno and get misty when I talk about him and how he saved my life when Gentry was born. I really think that we would have died if he had not been so on top of things. For this, I will always have a crush on him. It has probably been two years since I have actually seen him, I always see the nurse practitioner.

jj said this is called Florence Nightingale Syndrome. But isn’t it true that soldiers and people who have been wounded fall for the people that are taking care of them quite often. It is an intimate relationship. You share things with them that you would not share with most people. They take care of you and see you in really intimate ways. To me, the patient, it seems to be personal.

But, jeez, I want to learn to keep my mouth shut. I need to tell this to people who are not going to think that I am crazy.

Also, I am watching the neighbors daughters. They must be smoking a little pot, because they have got the munchies and I am tired of feeding the little carnivorous hounds. Seriously, they are not asking for food, they are asking for fishies, cookies, pop, and every other non-food item that I have. These two girls have gone through half a gallon of milk in half a day. Little girls. One is four and one is two. Then they are going potty every 15 seconds and guess who gets to wipe them. Me. And guess how much I enjoy wiping bottoms that are not my own or my babies. Not that much.

I don’t think anyone could get Florence Nightingale Syndrome on me. I would seriously be like suck it up. You are missing an arm and asking for way to much painkiller and that is seriously a drag. And wipe your behind?!? Use your good arm. Geez.

As you can see, things have changed.

Today I was trying to republish the blog and it erased everything except for the links that I had added. So I republished again with a different template and all my links were erased. I have been thinking about changing to moveable type for a while and I guess this was the signal to do that. I should have it up and looking better in a few days.

The guys that I work with at tradeshows for Control4 know that I get post-partum depression. They know that I love my little boy, but when they ask if I miss him and I say things like, “No.” They say things back like I guess that the post-partum never really left your system.

The thing is, Gentry is not supposed to be at tradeshows with me. If he were I would probably miss him. However, if I were home alone for seven days, I am sure that I would go crazy with worry and not know what to do with myself. I also know that he is being taken care of. I know that jj’s parents love him and I do not worry about him while he is with them. I worry more about leaving him with a 15-year old who may not follow the directions and put him in bed at 10 rather then 8, which is bedtime. Then the next day I will have to deal with Prince Angry Pants, and he will let me know he is the king and I am the lowly stable maid.

And then there is this from Finslippy. It is amazing how you can love a little person so much, but it is like you are tied together and wish for a few moments for yourself. I need the moments to myself to reflect and think about my parenting. While in the thick of being beaten in the thigh with a thick wooden spoon, it is hard to be a smart, clear thinking adult. I need the moments away from him to breath. To remember I do not love Buzz Lightyear and that Pepperidge Farm Fish are not my favorite food. I need the moments away to remind me that there is a me.

The other day after dinner I was holding Gentry. I was wearing a shirt that had a semi-plunging neckline. As we were both standing there talking to jj, he dove his hand down between my bosoms. I stood there for a second recalling a time as a child I had done the same to my Grandma Katherine, and she had kind of freaked out and I still remember the shame that I had felt. I was small enough at the time to still be held, so I was pretty young, not a pre-teen pervert. I decided not to react that way.

Instead I said, “Whatcha looking for?”

He fiddled around for a second longer and then said, “Mangoes.”

Interesting, I thought, fat chance of finding anything down there.