Mister bluebird on my shoulder

I have two weeks until I am leaving for California. The packing process has begun! Yes, I am one of those people. You know, the people that start packing two weeks before they leave on a trip. I hate coming home to any sort of disarray, so I have been cleaning and rearranging like someone with OCD. Combine my pre-vacation insanity with an attack of the spring-cleaning-bug and you get one very clean house! Richie doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he even helps...in his own way.

helping


The two weeks I will be gone to the Bay Area will be my short break before I have to commit to a full-time schedule of classes. April 16th marks the first day of early registration and I will be there. Hopefully being the first person to register I will be able to get the class load I want. I start school the last week of May. I am not looking forward to giving up the blessed time I have with Richie. Who would? My single mommy solution to the whole problem is to enroll him in a "private" pre-school type day care place. Right now he is on the waiting list. Hopefully I will have him enrolled and surviving his first away-from-mommy experience before I have to be sitting in a classroom wondering how long he has been screaming for and if my instructor would understand if I ran out of the room to give Richie "the boob". I know it will be good for him; he enjoys playing with others kids so much. His personality has blossomed, and this will encourage his emotional development even more.

I will cry. I will cry like a...baby.

epocsodiela.kaleidoscope.pocsodielak

It's debilitating to know that after years of pretending you do, you find out that you do not, in fact, have the killer instinct.

I could hear static-filtered Richie babble from the baby monitor as the DVD player spit Tyler Perry's Daddy's Little Girls onto the TV screen. Before I could say out loud, "Every time I see something to do with dad's, I feel like crying," the tears came. Even though the muscles of my faces contracted tightly, even though I couldn't breathe at all, the tears came. I couldn't even think about how ridiculous I must have seemed crying through the preview to a movie I have never seen. For the seconds before I could actually stop crying, my mind was bludgeoned by emotions. It isn't about loving Nathan or not, being loved or rejected. It's about Richie. When did the psychological composition of humanity change so much that any one person could find it acceptable, even if just within themselves, to abandon a child? His own child.

In all our terse correspondance, Nathan never asked after Richie. His final excuse was that he simply did not know "the baby". Am I odd to find it disheartening that Nathan referred to Richie as "the baby"? Or naive in my ignorance of his paternal detachment?

To the day, it has been three weeks. I am like an addict, or an obsessive compulsive. What's the difference? What matters is that I have not responded to Nathan since his nasty message on Valen-effing-tine's Day. Actually, I have not sent him anything since the message I wrote him the week before that. So, technically it's four weeks.

Four weeks.

Poetic Injustice

Wading navel-deep in liberal feminism, it's difficult at times to remember the male portion of the gender pool has emotional depth and, sometimes more so than it's female counterpart. I plead guilty on at least 9 previous counts of judging-a-book-by-its-cover, as well as 3 1/2 counts of over-dramatizing a situation as a means of ignoring the feelings of a man. It's hard to raise yourself to be a compassionate soul, especially when bred from bra-burners. Though young, the experiences of my love life (from married at 17 to solo mom in a single bound!) have taught me many things. One thing I know is that a good man (I mean a good man) is hard to find; they are out there, just not in great number. Unfortunately, too many women think that since there did exist a day when the fairer sex could not vote that men should suffer, without complaint. Apparently, I missed the part of my history class where the teacher discussed the unjust oppression of women. I will probably get kicked out of the ol' maids club for this. They might even take away my Bedazzler.

I'll deal.

Three-hundred and Fifty-five Million Dollars

After a weird night of tossing and turning, I woke up yesterday prepared for a battle with any and every "associate" at Babies "R" Us. It was the day we were finally going to pick up the new crib, and Richie was no longer going to have to sleep in his small, though safe, pack'n'play. My whole body was tense and cold during the drive to San Antonio. My heart was already beating hallow in the icy cavity of my chest at the mere thought of confrontation. Unfortunately, yes, the closest and only baby store is in San Antonio. That's a three hour long drive, complete with aggravated toddler. In mommy time, when you factor in screaming and snacks, the trip is actually an eternity. Trust me, I did the math. Point is this, I had a very long time to think about how much I was going to hate the entire day. I wouldn't usually get all huffy over, well, anything. But! This is my son's leg, so I figure this was one battle I would choose to fight.

Thankfully, Richie was well-behaved. It was almost scary. Also, we made good time in getting there. Once we arrived, we left the crib in the car and headed up to the customer service desk. About four women listened to my sob story and complaints against Jardine. A big ol' macho man helped bring the crib in as one nice lady pointed us in the direction of the furniture. I had already called earlier in the week to have the Wendy Bellissimo crib put on hold until we could make it out to pick it up. The helpful girl who had talked to me on the phone was working that day and assisted us in retrieving the new crib. We were also purchasing the Summer custom fit gate for wide openings. (We have a, you guessed it, wide opening that goes into the great room and no standard gate would do.) When we realized that the giant wonder-crib would block back seat passengers from exiting the car until it removed, we decided to grab a bite to eat and pick up the crib after. We paid for everything and left, on the hunt for sustenance.

Enter Mr. Mysterious-So-and-So. Stage left.

I was terrified that, since the day had already gone so well, we were going to return to find that the baby store had probably been blown up. Nope. Smooth sailing. The crib was packaged so well that, after taking it out of the box, it was still protected so as not to receive a single scratch on the drive home. Hopefully.

Fast forward; we survived the drive home. Barely. Richie was less than impressed with being stuck in back with only a view of his new bed. Fortunately, we arrive home with time to spare before bedtime for the little one. Time to assemble! The crib price was decidedly in direct correlation to how many pieces and parts were included. Even so, the process began easily enough. Richie was determined to test my skills as a crib-assembler, and attempted to destroy all progress. I ought to recommend his methods as a way of insuring the absolute safety of nursery furniture. It wasn't until the mattress support that any problem became apparent. The problem turned out to be human error. My son probably could have figured out to match each "a" sticker to the other. I, on the other hand, had to stare at the crooked mattress support for who-knows-how-long, before realization occurred. Ok, so I'm no master crib-assembler. There go my hopes and dreams. Still, I think I'll live.

Due to my mattress support fiasco, Richie's bedtime passed by while he amused himself by sitting in the tray that fits in the track of his toy box. A quick diaper change, shimmy into pjs, and Richie is ready for bed. As per our usual routine, I turn out the lights, turn on the lullabies, cradle my angel, kiss his forehead then his nose and lips. I tell him "Sweet dreams. Mommy loves you." and I lay him down. I'm pretty sure that Wendy Bellissimo designed baby heaven, and Richie seems to think so too. He's thrilled with his new crib! He sleeps through the night, no problem. He even wakes up in a chipper mood!

So, I've decided I am going to win the lottery and buy Wendy Bellissimo cribs for everyone!




Wendy Bellissimo Honey Crib and Antique Firetruck Bedding

I murdered Vera Rivkin

When one meets a man worth blogging about, I suppose there's nothing else to do. Seeing as how I can't stop repeating the fateful story of Mr. Mysterious-So-and-So, I might as well get it out.

It's really not as interesting as it may seem. Except, of course, for the fact that I can't forget him. Attractive, young, and more interested in my son than me. My twitterpated little heart could contain itself all but for an embarassingly silly, and painfully wide, grin. My expression screamed with all blood that ran to my face, "Please ask me for my phone number!" He just kept talking to Richie, furthering my interest. Richie babbled back, an unusual act. If it hadn't seemed strange, even borderline crazy, I might have pinched myself. Instead I made a much smarter choice, I stared. I fully believe in the intuition of children. Absolute innocence lends itself, if to nothing else, than to alert of the slightest bit of evil. I know, evil is such a strong word; in times such as these is it that inappropriate? Richie's detection system sounded no alarm.

I did nothing to perpetuate any sort of future contact. I welcome this blissful memory into oblivion. I do not want to end up feeling so cold that I refuse the warm presence of another person. Yet, I am not willing to begin something I'm not ready to even think of. It is simply refreshing to know the possibility survives, when Nathan can not find the daddy desire for his own son. It's not that I believe the whole fate gimmick to be "real", but what more fitting name to such coincidence? You see, I met Mr. Mysterious-So-and-So while in San Antonio picking up Richie's new crib from Babies "R" Us. Richie needed a new crib because of the previously owned Jardine crib spraining his leg.

Like I said, fate.

It's a pretty idea anyway. Except that when you consider the true nature of "fate" it actually resembles more of a twisted conspiracy. Was Richie doomed to hurt his leg? Even before that, did I maintain the injury by purchasing a defective crib? Or was all this already set in motion the day I got pregnant? After all, babies need cribs. Although, Richie spent months in his crib with no injury at all. Is fate powerful enough to cause physical changes to a piece of wooden furniture? Maybe this began even before that.

Paranoia disguised as such a pretty conspiracy.

I take a peek, now and then, at a snapshot of this life. I look back at the carelessness and the ease with which I offered my heart, to find it twice broken. Everyone I know has a different story. No shock value there. I don't see the big picture as much as moments. They all have their moments. Of course, when the commodity is love and the price is forever, I find my scrutiny falling upon the married. Which happens to be all of my friends; married with children. I could have been like them. I could have married Nathan. I still can't blame him. All my expectations dissolved when I refused his proposal. I assumed so much when I made my choice. Am I smarter since the divorce or just sad? Sadder. It's impossible to say if I made the right choice. All it takes is a kind stranger and I sit alone at night to question a past I can not change.