Andrew turned two on Tuesday. Two?! Sometimes time pases so fast that it seems like Andrew has been with us forever, like I can’t remember life without him, and other times it seems like I just found out I was pregnant and how in the hell did this toddler end up here (and who is going to take him home)?

One of my many intentions when I was pregnant was to document things, to remember and to be able to show my children what life was like when they were little. I recognize that I have done that through this website and through flickr, but it doesn’t look the way I thought it would. I wanted to write monthly newsletters, like these beauties, but I haven’t, and now, like so many other things I intended to do, I am overwhelmed and I don’t start. However, instead of continually beating myself up for being a bad mother and not getting yet another thing done, I am going to write something now, on his second birthday, and be glad of it.

Dear Little Buggy,

You ate a cupcake on Sunday at your birthday party and, inadvertently I’m sure, turned in to a stereotypical two year old. I am going to assume that you will soon return my little boy to me and write while operating under that assumption.

I wanted you so much. I watched other people get pregnant easily, even when they didn’t seem to want a baby, and I waited for you. I met you and I expected things to be a certain way. And then things were different than I planned, and I blamed myself. I had everything planned and I believed that if I could just be good enough then you would turn out the way I expected. I believed that everything that made you Andrew was somehow wrong and that if I was good enough then you would be like every child in a book, every child I thought I saw in other people’s kids. I wanted you to be different and I thought that I could turn you in to someone that you are not.

I was wrong to do that. I met you again and I saw that you are Andrew. My Andrew. And I could not love my Andrew more if I tried, I would not have you any other way. I am still learning to be your Mommy and when I fall short, little buggy, the blame lies with me, not you - never with you. So please be patient and I will try to do the same.

I love you.
Mommy

You can see my favorite pictures from Andrew’s second year here.

From Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon the selected poems of Pablo Neruda (lent to me by the lovely Heather) I share this with you:

I have learned about life
from life,
love I learned from a single kiss,
and I couldn’t teach anyone anything
except what I have lived,
whatever I had in common with other men,
whatever I struggled for with them:
whatever I expressed of them all in my song.

-Ode to the Book (1)

My dad always taught me that Prior Planning Prevents Poor Performance. Someone should have taught that to the person who put the following phrase on the sign of their church:

Classes de ingles begin next week. Call for more information.

I’m just guessing, but I think if the people can read the sign they probably don’t need the classes.

Honestly, people. THINK.

I know that some of you (Mom) don’t watch Zefrank on a regular basis. This is not good. C’mon people, he is linked in the sidebar, you should have looked by now.

If you haven’t seen it, watch the show with zefrank: 01-22-07 now.

My favorite part (apart from Aunt Edna’s chest hair) and new quote of the day is: “Pragmatism? It’s the opposite of hope.”

On Writing:

I am writing, a lot. Real, good, important stuff that will someday end up here. But, for now, the pages are piling up and I can’t think about making them into coherent posts until I get everything out. It is exciting and scary. So much of thing things I write, even the serious things, are first drafts. Some of them are shitty first drafts. If I post them that way it means I don’t care. I’m okay with that. But this project needs some love. It needs editing and a number of drafts. It needs to get printed out and marked up with a red pen and then it needs to get worked over again. I am energized by this feeling, this caring about the quality and content of my writing. I like to write. I need to take time and embrace that.

On The Mandatory January Cold:

-Mine is on its way out. Throat Coat and Emergen-C are kicking ass and taking name.
-Andrew’s cold seems to be about the same, maybe a little bit better. But now he is covered with this light pink spider-web of a rash. I know that kids often get rashes when they have a virus, so I am not too concerned. Ours is a house of oatmeal baths and hydrocortisone. The rash is annoying and it makes me wonder about letting him out in public, but we will get through it.
-Justin has a sinus headache. He is on his own.

That is all I have for now.

My brain doesn’t work. I am in the midst of the obligatory January head cold. (I looked it up in the rule book and apparently you can not be a member of our family without participating) Andrew has it worse than I do right now, last year I ignored his symptoms and he ended up with pneumonia, hooked up to a nebulizer. A Very Sad Boy. And some very overwhelmed parents.

So this year I am taking preventative action.

We are dosing up on Emergen-C (I’ve convinced Andrew that it is pop) and airborne while flooding our systems with all variety of fluids. The little boy actually napped today without medication so I am cautiously optimistic. I know that my Gypsy Cold Care and Throat Coat will come through for me as far as symptoms go. Now I just need to clear the fog out of my head.

Well, did you? I have been wanting to keep a list of books that I read for a while and I finally got it together. I love books and am always on the lookout for more. Check it out and tell me what you are reading.

I have a lot of reasons why I haven’t been writing lately. Like most excuses, they contain some truth but also serve to cover certain failings.

1. Our laptop has The Plague, or maybe Cholera.
2. Either way, it is some sort of disease that everybody has heard of but nobody remembers how to fix.
3. Justin is working on it.
4. Slow progress is occurring.
5. There is still 8″ of snow in our backyard.
6. This should make for good writing opportunities, but mostly I have been doing this.
7. I have also been reading.
8. A Lot.
9. I go through phases with blogs and books.
10. Sometimes I find all sorts of new things that I love and can’t keep my eyes away from and other times I stick to the same old thing that I know by heart.
11. This is one of the former.
12. It is exciting.
13. I am trying to write something BIG.
14. It is too big right now.
15. It is getting away from me.
16. It is a shitty first draft.
17. In the mean time, I struggle to write vignettes.

Draw your own conclusions.

Just so no one gets the wrong idea (silly cousin), I love playing in the snow. I do not love being an adult, worrying about all the things that could go wrong in the snow.

Andrew, happily, has no such worries…

One of the things I like best about the Pacific Northwest is the temperate climate.

This does not fit my definition of temperate. It was fun the first time, now it is getting ridiculous.

The Mama Bear in me usually lies fairly quietly, watching the world go by and flexing my claws every once in a while. But today I had the opportunity to watch her come out a roar, just a little bit.

Andrew and I escaped the rain by going to the mall with the intent to climb on the Train Slide and run off some extra energy. Unfortunately, others had the same idea. The train was literally swarming with small, yelling, cubs. Andrew talked excitedly about the train all the way there but when he saw the crowd, he changed his tune. “Afraid. Loud. Feel afraid.” We talked about it a little bit and decided that we would sit together and watch the kids for a while before we made a decision to stay or go. We sat on the bench that surrounds the train and Andrew acclimated to the noise. He laughed when the kids came off the slide and even dared to walk over and touch one of the train wheels. After he accomplished this feat of daring, he climbed up on the bench and began to flirt with the mom sitting a few feet away from us. She smiled at him and made small talk with me while he ran back and forth between us.

This was fine. I prepare myself for this sort of social interaction before I leave the house.

And then, as Andrew made his way toward her she attempted to pick him up and encourage him to go play with the other kids.

I almost lost my mind. Andrew almost lost his mind (it’s good to know where he gets it from). It was all I could do to keep from screaming at her, “What the hell do you think you are doing?” Apart from the whole, don’t touch my kid/stranger danger issue, there is the very real fact that I had just spent the last 15 minutes getting Andrew to a place where he could leave my lap and that was all compromised by this woman thinking that she knew what was best, assuming that every kid is the same and that there could be no possible repercussions from her pushing my son to participate in something that he wasn’t comfortable with. Granted, she did not see the meltdown, she arrived just as Andrew was getting down to touch the train wheel. But the fact remains, she was completely out of line. I know that she was out of line in touching my kid, there is no question about that, but what about her intentions? Were they out of line too?

And here is where it gets tricky. I start doubting myself again and the voices in my head perk up, He needs someone to push him, God knows you will never do it. He has to learn to deal with these things, it’s like sleeping through the night - he just needs to figure it out. In my moments of clarity I remember that this child was given to me to parent - not to anyone else. I remember that he is learning and that I need to give him space to be himself, even if that doesn’t meet the perceived expectations of others.

I have so much love for Andrew, but I can’t figure out how to love him right.

I make fantastic New Years Resolutions. Keeping them, well, that’s a different story.

Throughout the process of recovery, I have struggled with the question of responsibility. As in, “How much responsibility do I carry in the process of change?” If it is all my responsibility, then I am crushed under the weight of my consistently bad habits and weak-will. If none of it is my responsibility, then I am wasting my time and I might as well Eat, Drink and Be Merry for tomorrow I die. When I finally started believing that I was powerless to change on my own, the pendulum swung and I abdicated any responsibility I might have assumed in the process of Getting Better. And while there was much needed freedom and peace, for a time, in that mindset, I know now that - like every other bloody thing in my life - the truth lies in finding the right balance. I am powerless to change, but my decisions have consequences. Left to my own devices and schemes I will self-destruct, but without a plan I will flounder around in the same place for the rest of my life. The concept that we are powerless to change ourselves is not a prescription for apathy, but for humility, for a right understanding that the life we are given is a gift to be used wisely, and a gentle reminder that given the opportunity we will fuck things up at every turn. And so the light bulb clicked for me on Tuesday night as we sat around Lottie’s Lounge talking of resolutions (or not) and Beth spoke not of resolutions, but of aims, general directions that she would like to point herself in for the coming year. I thought of the many times I had, on New Years Day, sat down at a table with a paper and pen and written specific instructions on how my life would improve, about how the next 365 days would be different from the last. And I thought about how many of those lists actually accomplished anything. I remembered how those lists looked the same every year: lose weight, save money, be more outgoing, find a new job, a new house, a new life. I wondered why we even bother writing new lists every year. Would it not be easier to just make one great list, laminate it for preservation and keep it in a safe place to be brought out with the party hats and champagne flutes every December 31? Thinking that things are going to be any different … ha! I’ve heard insanity defined as doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result. Sobering.

So here it is, my aim for the New Year, I am going to do things that make me feel good about myself. Not in a gold-star-on-the-chart sort of way, but in a look-myself-in-the-mirror-at-the-end-of-the-day-and-meet-my-own-eyes sort of way. And yes, this will probably involve an effort to lose weight and save money and be more outgoing, but I will not be crushed if those things don’t look the way I expect them to because this is more about a mindset than about results. This is about extending grace and forgiveness to myself, about re-casting myself, not as the villain but as the underdog. About rooting for myself and not feeling guilty when something goes my way. I am tired of being disappointed in myself. I am tired of wishing that things had been different or that I had been different or that I hadn’t been so damn stupid and messed things up again. I am tired of wondering what-if and wishing that I could just have one more chance to change things that happened ten or fifteen years ago. I am tired of these thoughts poisoning my marriage and my friendships and my day to day life. I am tired of not believing my husband when he tells me I am beautiful, because all I can hear are the voices of two stupid boys from the past who made sure I knew that I was not beautiful enough. I want to hear the voices of the people who have loved me or still love me telling me I am beautiful and believe that they speak the truth. I want to believe that caring about how you look is not a sin (no matter what some youth group leader might have said). That working to better yourself or your situation is not inherently selfish. That I draw lines and boundaries to keep me safe, not to hurt other people. That there are people in this world who care about me and who love me just the way I am. That they just want me to be happy, not to be different or better or someone else.

So much of this seems to center around food and appearance, but it is more than that. Food has been my comfort and my lifeline for many years, so I have a lot of habits to break. Yes, I want to carry less weight. But what I really want is to be healthy, to run and move and be comfortable in my body. To wear clothes that don’t pinch and squeeze, to not have to adjust my garments every time I move for fear that a rogue bulge might pop out. I want to work my muscles all day and be tired but not dead. I want to look at the years ahead of me and not be paralyzed by the thought of how much worse my rheumatoid arthritis is going to get, but to be confident that I am doing everything I can to hold it in check. I want to look in the mirror before leaving for a date with my husband and know that I, like Justin Timberlake, am bringing sexy back. And I want to not be embarrassed about that. I used to be sexy, I remember it. What the hell happened? I want to end the day with energy and the feeling of a job well done, instead of the regrets over time wasted and quantity of sugar consumed. I want to know my food and my body and learn to listen to what my body wants to eat. I want to take the extra time to make a meal that does not come from a box and enjoy the creativity and reward that comes with cooking good food and sharing it with good friends.

I want to learn to feed myself; mind, body and spirit. It’s a tall order. I am terrified that I just wrote it down. I don’t know where to start.

Alcohol and nicotine with the girls last night at Lottie’s Lounge in celebration of Jen’s birthday. (Not that Jen, this Jen - there are three of us, it’s confusing). Why there was a person walking around Columbia City dressed as a pint of Guinness that randomly walked in to the bar, made the rounds, accidentally felt Beth up, and left, I may never know. But the experience ranked extremely high on the scale of weird things that will come up in conversation for the rest of our lives.

We stayed up way too late, and 6am came way too early. But it was worth it!

On Saturday night Jen and Bryan hosted Dacia, Ryan, Justin and myself for enchiladas, games and the newly popular Coffee Nudge. This was our real New Year’s celebration, real because we left after midnight and I wobbled up the steps to our front door, feeling the effects of probably two too many Nudges. (But, oh, how good they are! It’s the brandy.)

The purpose of our gathering was to continue the game night started on Thanksgiving. Justin was especially excited as I will never play Carcassonne (or any other strategy game) with him at home. I HATE losing, especially losing to Justin. And I am not very graceful when I do lose, so we don’t play too many games when it’s just the two of us. But I forget how much I like playing German board games in a large group. (There Jen, I said it!) It is much easier to lose gracefully when you are in good company.

On Sunday night we made the family rounds to send off the various family members that were in town over the holidays. We had dinner at Justin’s folks with the whole family before Megan’s flight took off at 11:55pm and celebrated the New Year at about 6pm when the girls ran around like crazy people, blowing horns and throwing streamers. Andrew sat on my lap and said, “Afraid. Horns. Afraid. You’re fine.” It was pretty cute all around. Then we went over to my parent’s house and continued the game theme with a rousing game of Trivial Pursuit (now that’s my type of game). The best part about playing Trivial Pursuit with my family is that my mom gets completely loopy (alcohol helps, but is not necessary) and we spend most of the time mocking her. That is some good fun.

Today is a lazy day and then back to the old routine tomorrow. I’m still deciding about the status of my New Year’s resolutions. Somehow it seems that if I write them down, they become real, so I’m procrastinating on that today … I guess that’s not a very good start.

Happiness and peace to you in 2007.