Blah.
I haven't posted here in ages. Time is so scarce and I hate that. I think I hate it. Secretly I suppose I like to be deathly busy. I don't have to think about things as much then.
I'm sitting in the living room drinking a bottle of german white wine that I sampled during a night out with husband many weeks ago. It doesn't taste good while sucking on Airborne lozenges. Madeline has been sick and teething and I have felt on the verge of being sick for several days now; that added with no sleep (because she's NOT sleeping) drives me to drink at this moment.
We leave Friday for a week long visit to Kansas. Well, almost a week. We will leave Friday to go to my parents' to celebrate Maddie's 1st birthday. Then we'll leave Saturday and drive as far into Iowa as we (Maddie) can stand and spend the night. Sunday we will go the rest of the way leisurely and check into our hotel until Friday. We were just in Kansas a week and a half ago for Grandpa Woody's funeral. He was 95 and died peacefully. He still has a sister in Missouri who is 98 years old. Gross. I never want to live to be that old, even if I'm as "with it" as they were/are.
The day we found out Woody died Justin's parents had just left Bemidji from a Fall visit to announce they had been married in Arkansas the week prior. They have lived together for 22 years and I guess decided to "take the plunge." Gross. Justin's mom is good enough, but his father figure is a wacko sometimes. Justin's biological father died when he was 5 or 6 years old and then the current flavor came into the picture. Needless to say, (for MANY reasons) we stay at a hotel when we visit Kansas.
With Madeline's birthday approaching I think about all of the business of the last year. I am POSITIVE I want no more children. My mother gets angry at me when I make remarks about harvesting all of my eggs and sending them off to a hatchery or something. She thinks it awful to have only one child and that it more or less is punishing our daughter. Admittedly, I would prefer not to baby the Maddy Cakes like Justin's parents treated him. I also don't want her to have to grow up so fast and fend for herself like I did as the oldest of 4 in a poor, working class family. I'm confident that we can strike a balance without having to burden the world (and ourselves) with more kids.
Don't get me wrong, I am totally in love with my daughter, but she drives me up the f'ing wall sometimes. I'm in the process of weaning her from breastfeeding because she is approaching one year of age and because we are going on a cruise in January and I DON'T want to deal with that crap while on vacation. I'm too selfish I guess. Even after a year, I miss being able to do what I want, when I want. I want to go to the gym or tan or shop or get a facial or pedicure...and CAN'T do any of that without finding a sitter and then feeling guilty.
We bought a new vehicle about a month ago and Justin has it all decked out with Superman accessories inside. It's all good. A blue Jeep Liberty (Justin's favorite color) fits the motif and I want him to be happy. He is usually stuck driving my truck most days anyway because Mad's carseat is in the Jeep and it's just easier (or something).
I'm working part-time for a property management company in Bemidji and not using my degree at all, but it works extremely well for our situation (child) and it pays extremely well, so most of the time I'm ok with the sacrifice. This fall I was offered some classes to teach at the tribal college in RL but had to decline because of our situation (child) and was also approached about doing some part-time radio work where I've done some voice services for ads. I used to have a radio show in college with my friend Dave and always wanted to go into radio. Unfortunately, again I had to decline at this time because of---yes, our situation. I sometimes wonder if the outcome would have been different if my husband had been the one in my shoes. Oh well, that's what wine is for, right?
Last week I met with Randy, a personal trainer at my gym. I want him to kick my ass into serious high gear so I can feel a little better about my body image. As I mentioned before, we are going on vacation in January and I want to run a half marathon in the area next summer. I know I can totally do it with proper training and encouragement. Randy reminds me of a drill sgt. That's what I need. It's difficult when I have to have balanced meals for my daughter though. I can't very well just give her protein and veggies for every meal every day. I often lack enough discipline to just say "no" to other things if they are here. Although, she has this crappy organic whole milk yogurt that is so gross, but she loves it.
Let me see if I have a recent photo of her around. I think that the pictures have not been taken off the digital camera in a while and I have the batteries on the charger right now in preparation for our trip to KS.
This photo is from earlier this fall at a campus event. Someday soon I'll put up some more.
I recently wrote a quick essay about breasts. Enjoy.
My earliest memory of breasts takes me to the arms of Grandma Hilda. Baby-powder scented hugs suffocated me as she pressed my face into her soft pillowy bossom. I always had a place to lay my head when I was with her. My mom had little breasts. As a child I watched her dress and the empty bits of skin that once nourished me as an infant no longer required a bra.
I inherited Grandma Hilda’s breasts. My first bra was reluctantly worn at the young age of ten. I was mortified at the fast growing sacks of flesh that had taken over my body. All through school being big chested was torture. Tits, knockers, boobs, funbags, jugs—all condemnations hurled at me throughout my teenage years. Tits. I never had tits. My mighty mounds of mammary jiggled and bounced from the day they sprouted up from the pink spots on my chest. Jokes about getting black eyes when I ran and never being able to wear pretty bras scarred most of my adolescence.
It was when I reached my twenties that I discovered the treasure chest my genes provided and stopped trying to hide beneath baggy sweaters and loose tops. My cleavage opened up a whole new world and granted me powers beyond compare. V-neck tops revealing the shadow between the plump flesh caused men to become fools in my presence. I no longer existed from the neck up and as long as I was overflowing out of some sexy top I always had a man in line to talk to me.
My husband fell under the spell of my magical melons and always raved about how beautiful my breasts were. The pleasure it created for both of us as he squeezed and tugged and maybe even bit once in a while made life every exciting. I felt full and content as I watched him collapse and quickly fall asleep with his head on my chest, face looking up at me with admiration and a smirk of child-like satisfaction.
That same expression was mirrored a short time later in my daughter. She was a natural nurser only 15 minutes out of the womb. Her latch was strong and I was her link to this new world. I had great plans to breastfeed my baby and was horrified the day my milk came in and my beautiful, sexy chest quickly became God’s milk bottles. They went from being something nice to look at to performing a latent biological function. I cried as my in-laws cowered in terror at seeing the silky skin fill my baby’s little mouth.
My bust line increased several more inches (and ounces) and after the initial shock and engorgement leveled off, I grew to love my breasts again. I could nourish my daughter anytime and anywhere and the best part was that my husband loved the packaging his daughter’s milk came in. My lady lumps have now taken on the name “na-nas” by my little girl and when I walk into our bedroom and she watches me dress, I surge at that look of familiar, genuine admiration, knowing I don’t really exist from the neck up at this point, but gratified that some day she will run to my arms and I can press her head to my hooters and reminisce at my once soft sexy breasts having become sallow saggy sacks of skin.
