I’m behind on everything. Reading. Writing. Creating. Working. Mixed tape for C-girl.
(Well, except for Lost and Project Runway and America’s Next Top Model. ThankyoubabyJesus for DVR! And, btw, what do younguns call “mixed tapes” these days, being no one uses tapes anymore?)
And my OCD self hates feeling like I’m dropping the ball and sucking at everything I try to do lately.
The past few months have been brutal. Sofia’s been sick about twice a month. (Up from once a month since she started day care last August. Being a preemie, if there’s a germ out there, she’s going to pick it up full force.) Fortunately, she’s not come down with anything seriously threatening, but still enough to warrant trips to her doctor, urgent care and the pharmacy.
And when Sofie’s sick, it’s only a matter of time before Tim and I are sick.
(Oh yeah, throw in during that time a week-long trip to visit my familia in Kansas City. Tim started the trip sick.)
It’s hard to not become resentful of Tim at times like these. Afterall, he’s the one who wanted a baby. Yeah, I agreed (after many years of protesting), but I would never have pressed the issue; he was the one who was vocal about his biological clock ticking. I know it’s irrational to fall into the mentality of, “If you want a puppy, you’re going to have to take care of it because I’m not going to…” you know, Sofie not being a puppy and all. But I do often find myself going down that line of thought, as well as stating such to Tim.
I love Sofie an inexplicable amount. And I believe I’m a good mom. I’ve stated before though that I believe I’d be good - damned good - at many professions. Many of them though, I just have no desire to assume. I think this Mom job is one of them.
I’ve always thought of myself as more the cool aunt type anyway. I’ll hit happy hour then come over and smother you with mojito-flavored kisses and presents resulting from a martini-induced shopping spree.
I’m able to separate in my head my dislike of being a mom with my love, affection and devotion for Sofie. It’s along the same lines of an ability on which I’ve always prided myself: on the job, I’m able to separate business from friendship. Of course I have friends at work - some of my bestest friends, but when a task needs to get done, I’m not going to pick you to be on my team just because you’re my friend. You have to be able to get the job done, or I’ll call your ass on it.
I’m beginning to think though that this ability of mine truly can’t - and shouldn’t - translate to my “professional” relationship with Sofie. Shouldn’t my relationship with Sofie be much more holistic, defying my absurd superpower to separate business from pleasure? Yes? No?
I don’t want to eventually scar Sofie into thinking I don’t want to be her mom. I mean, if I have to be a mom, I’m glad I’m hers. It’s just that I find myself not wanting to be a mom.
(Don’t worry folks… It’s not like I’m going to run away. My Horatio Alger-slash-obsessive-compulsive work ethic - and Sofie’s ridiculous cuteness - won’t allow me.)
Sigh. If only I could click my heels and find myself back in the days of happy hours, lingering cafe visits, geeking out on my computer, and endless hours of window shopping.
When does this mom thing finally get to the rewarding “I can’t imagine life before I was a mom/I wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the world” days? Because, believe me, I CAN and DO imagine and remember. Just as I remember how much it f*cking hurt to shoot a tiny 1 pound 12 ounce baby sans medication out of my hoo-ha. All those women who say that once they gave birth and saw their larger, watermelon sized babies, any brain cells that registered the pain of labor floated away… wtf? Either I am an alien unwittingly living on another planet, or I’m surrounded by aliens who have settled on my terra firma.
Stepford Moms women have really good drugs. If so, I wish they’d share, or tell me the cross street where I could score some. Stat.
Especially since it’s worrying me to find myself knowingly shaking my head and saying, “I SO know what you mean, dude!” while witnessing my comrade in reluctant parenthood, Scott Baio, on his show Scott Baio is 46 and Pregnant.
Hm. Perhaps this is karma’s way of giving me a schadenfreudistic bite in the ass?Filed under blahblahblah | Comments (7)
Now, y’all know I LOVE me some bacon and I LOVE me some chocolate.
Ergo… Bacon chocolate?
Breathe…engage your five senses, close your eyes and inhale deeply. Be in the present moment, notice the color of the chocolate, the glossy shine. Rub your thumb over the chocolate bar to release the aromas of smoked applewood bacon flirting with deep milk chocolate. Snap off just a tiny piece and place it in your mouth, let the lust of salt and sweet coat your tongue.
Mo’s Bacon Bar: applewood smoked bacon + Alder wood smoked salt + deep milk chocolate, 41% cacao
Consume within 8 weeks
Uh… HELL no.
So. so. wrong.Filed under bacon, blahblahblah | Comments (8)