booknboob.com Blog

Some might say that I’m a mess.   That I can’t let go.  Or, even that I’m just a bit weird. (Or maybe a lot weird.  I can’t really speak to what people say about me.)

Still, I’m experiencing one of my life’s little pleasures right now:  a stomach-twisting bout of anxiety.

As often is the case, I can’t quite pinpoint what is causing me to feel this way.  I’ve felt that way off and on since yesterday’s post:  feeling guilty about slamming the babysitter, making a poke at Creationism, afraid that people will comment and say that, duh, your child is autistic, or comment and ask me how I could write about autism is such an insensitive way.  (I mean, I did use the word crazy.  But, I wasn’t referring to autism as crazy.)

I woke up with anxiety.  Decided to catch up on some mama friends’ blogs.  The anxiety mounted as I read:  maybe I’m not such a great mom, I don’t do things the way they do, I can’t keep up with my own flippin’ blog.

I couldn’t even spend the time to look for one of Paul’s butterfly photos.  I had to settle for the a close up he took of a fly.  Hey, maybe that’s more fitting.

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First let me take back my last post’s comments about my child.  He really is an awfully good kid.  But, he was having a heck of a 45 minute screaming, throwing, banging, pushing, gasping for air sort-of fit.  It was pretty disconcerting.

But, that’s normal, right?

Normal.

Hmmm.

My day care provider just sent me home with a book about autism insisting that Silas get evaluated.

How’s that for normal?

My instinct is to throw the book back in her face and tell her to get out of my child’s head.  I just don’t see it.  He’s met all his milestones, he’s huggy and lovey and sociable, and gets along with other kids.  Sure, he gets repetitive at times.  He does run in circles at music class.  And there’s no question that he’s a sensitive kid.

But none of those things add up to autism.

Still, there’s that part of me that is second-guessing myself.  The part that has seen him “act out” at play dates.  The part that makes me wonder if I’m one of those “there’s-absolutly-nothing-wrong-with-my-kid” parents.  The type that blame the teacher for the child’s outbursts.

Still, these are the people that sent us for a $400 (after insurance) EEG because they insisted that he was having absence seizures.

His EEG came back normal.

So, the question is, do I have him evaluated just in case?  Do I sit for hours on the computer and sifting through library books to see if I see any sign?  To try to convince myself that he’s going to be somewhere on the spectrum and that he needs help?

I know the day care wants the help with him.  But, is he really that much of a handful or are they hypochondriacs?

I don’t know.

I lean toward the hypochondriac theory.

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And my back.

And my butt.

I’ve been working on my f-ing portfolio for three GD days.

Straight.

Why, oh, why am I swearing in, what the fuck are they called, acronyms?

It must be the two year old.

Yeah, the one who said “shit” and “damn it” at day care the other day.

The one who was picked up and carried out frothing and screaming at music class this evening.

The one who a friend just commented was so “damn well behaved”.

Honestly, he is a good kid.  Just picked up some bad habits from his father.

Anyhow, back to my butt.  I am so, so, so, so tired.   I even worked on my paper while I was in the bath tub for Christ’s sake.

All to find out that my margins were all wrong and I have 15 pages for one of my entries when my limit is 11.  Sounds like more friggin’ work coming my way.

I love it.

No, really.  I. LOVE. IT.

So, if I’m so slap ass tired then why am I here?  When I’m never here.  Why?

Well, it’s the alternative to chopping my right arm off.

Plus, several new people, some without my prompting,  joined this blog’s Facebook page.

How can I continue to disappoint?

Why do I keep insisting on writing only one line at a time.

I am annoying myself so bad right now.

But, my son, you know the real helluva angel, is really annoying me.    He’s throwing one hell of a temper.  So now I have to go.

I’m sorry.

No, really I am.

Yes, I’m here.  Here.  Here.  Here.

And, that’s only because I’m overdoing it.

I’m polishing off Silas’s plate of healthy, uneaten food (center cut pork chops with a light mustard cream sauce, brown rice, and very lightly sauteed zucchini slices) and drinking my second glass of (not so posh) wine while he sits on the floor mixing corn meal into the sugar bag with a butter knife.

And, I’m not stopping him.

I’m not sure why I’m not.  But, I’m not.

So, there.

I’ve started several holiday posts with no success toward completion.  But they started out really damn good.  If I do say so myself.  So, yeah, at least one of them is in the wings.   Waiting.  Waiting. Waiting.

I hope you had a delightful holiday!

I kept it together so well my mother asked me if I was popping pills.  (Thanks for the vote of confidence.)

I wasn’t.   Popping pills.

So, yeah, I feel like all went really well.

Now Silas has poured corn meal on the floor and is mixing chocolate animal crackers into it.

I’m a bad mother.  Very, very bad.

But, I’m posting, aren’t I?!?

And, it’s like, abstract art.  The mess that Silas is making.

I’m letting him explore his inner Picasso.

Or, whatever.

So, this is where the post ends.  I started it over a week ago.  Haven’t had the time or gumption to finish it.  But, a friend recently said that the key is to post not necessarily to finish the post.  So, here is the first of many unfinished posts.  Expect little direction and nothing profound.  But, expect.

(For the record, I eventually cleaned up the kitchen floor and got Silas to bed.  Not exactly in that order.)

I think I’ve acquired wrinkles since I’ve last been on this site.

I don’t really know what has kept me away.  Another lapse in creative spark.  My sad little slut of  Muse gone packing again.  My mind a virtual mish-mash of uninteresting and pathetic loops forever destined to repeat, repeat, repeat.

At least I can say, for the most part, I haven’t been depressed.  Yippy-friggin-yee!

But, tonight, an ordinary night albeit cloudy night, I am breaking the seal.

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I only have a brief moment.  I’ve started to really hit the books/computer hard as a National Board candidate.  So, you may be seeing even less of me.  (No, no, don’t cry.  Please.   Stop.  I mean it.)

I still haven’t had time to complete my muffin top extravaganza.  But, it’s coming.

Oh, yes, it is.

Instead, I’ve continued to be plagued by guilt about Silas and the whole hospital ordeal.  It just seems like a really sick, ugly shame that I had this major family disconnect at the same time that Silas was so ill.   Of course, it wasn’t intentional.  But, you know, the whole road to hell and all that.

Still, and I don’t know if I can put what I was going through into words (or if I even want to put it into words), I’ve learned from that bitter lapse of familial bliss.

(If you’ve been reading you might be noting that “familial bliss” might be a poetic stretch of the imagination.  But, still.  You know what I mean.)

Anyhow, I don’t know if it was seeing my boy so sick or if it was my mom coming to relieve the stress or the fact that I’ve been regularly taking my medicine, but I’ve been through a major change.

I’ve been able to relax and enjoy!

And, with a two-year-old that’s just vital.

I’m not going to go into all the cute little things that I’ve watched Silas do lately.  About how particular he is and how he throws his head back when he laughs.  Honestly, all the wonderful is pretty much summed up in the picture.  (Yes, I finally broke down and posted a cute picture of my son.  Does that mean I’ve turned all warm and fuzzy?  Still, can you even try to resist that smile?!?)

So, I guess the good part of fucking up– as long as no one was seriously hurt along the way– is– yes, I’m going to be totally cliche and am going to try to use at least one more set of hyphens– is– okay, I don’t really have anything to add but the hyphens– is that you can, indeed, learn from your mistakes.

I’m sure I’m not the first parent who was overdoing it at work, was feeling stressed at home, and who decided to put the blinders on in a desperate act of self-preservation.

The good thing is, I’ve re-prioritized.

So yeah, that’s why I haven’t been here.  It’s not because I’m reading trash novels (well, I am) or because I’m watching trash T.V. (no, I’m really not– unless you count Thomas as trash) or because I haven’t a thing to say.

I haven’t been here because I’ve been playing with my boy.  (Well, and I’ve been working on my Nat’l Boards while he sleeps.)

Anyhow, may you live each day like it’s 1999.  Or, whatever.

Love the one your with.

~Em

So, I’ve let time lapse again.

Silas was in the hospital with pneumonia.  Of course, it was very daunting and worrisome and I had this tremendous sense of guilt weighing on me.  Paul had been staying home with him this time (I had just been out with Silas for a week when he had the flu) and I didn’t fully realize how sick he had gotten.  I had had a cold and I thought Silas just had my cold and then wham! he was in the hospital.  In fact, when Paul called to let me know that he decided to take him back to the doctor I just commented that they would give him more antibiotic so I didn’t really see the point.  Ummm…   I was wrong.  And, luckily, Paul was there.  He was right.  And, then we were in the hospital.

Silas is fine now.  Nothing an IV and some rest couldn’t cure.  Still, when your baby’s sick.  It’s just exhausting.

And then we’ve still got all the same old pressures at home.   The money trouble and the unfinished house and the stress.

I had really just wanted to write about my muffin top and instead life threw some heavy things my way.  Again.  And, again.  Oh, the unrelenting nature of it all.

Then I get depressed, then I second guess myself and then I have this problem where I think that everything I write needs to be funny or thought-provoking or profound.  I give myself wicked cases of writer’s block  when I don’t think I can capture the essence of what’s going on in my head.   Or, when I think people wouldn’t be interested in hearing me hem and haw over and over again.  (Oh, you mean, like I am right now???)  I probably could have written a brief piece in the hospital or during Silas’s nap after we got home.  But, it was just too big and too dreary and I was sort-of down and I just couldn’t.

But, here I am.  I am here.  Without anything really profound to say.  Just here.  And, now that I’ve been here, now that I’ve cleared the air once again, I can get down to finishing my muffin top piece.  Because pieces about belly fat are inevitably full of profound, thought-provoking, and humorous moments.  Wouldn’t you think?

So, it’s 9:30.  I’ve got a whiny son with a temperature and a whiny husband with a cough.  My house is beyond looking like vagrants live in it.   (I’m not being cute here people.)  And, I have a stack of papers to grade up to my knee.  (Still not being cute.)

Worst thing: I’m annoying myself terribly.  (And, I don’t know how to use punctuation!!!)

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It was inevitable.   And, don’t think I hadn’t thought of it.  I know that the name of my blog has the word “boob” in it.  At the time, the time when I was actually reading books (book) while (n’) a child sucked milk from my breast (boob), it seemed like a cool idea.  I still think it would make a smart t-shirt.  (I’ve already picked out the design.)  And, despite the potential porn-seakers, I guess I really don’t want to change.  

But, of course, today marks the day when a smart-aleck blogger– Mike the Bull of all people– decided that I didn’t have enough boob to live up to the name.  (Visit him at http://www.mikethebull.com/ And, yes, he writes about dog balls.)

So, why the hell not???  Let’s dedicate the next few minutes to, well, boobies.

(In case you were wondering, that is my under-wire popping out.  Just like it was–unbeknownst to me– as I talked to my principal this afternoon.)

So, yes, today, ironically, the day that book n’ boob was finally called out for it’s lack of boob (and sadly, I must say, book as well), my own little fun bags tried to break free.

In an environment where melons, speed bumps and hooters are on the very constant forefront of the minds of at least 1/2-2/3 of the population (I’m a middle school teacher), it is not, in any way advantageous to have one’s ta-tas on display.  At least not if you’re trying to be a professional.

I was thankful, however, that no one asked me about the large, round metal instrument that was protruding from my cleavage.  Maybe they didn’t notice…

Anyhow.

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They say to write what you know and write what you feel.  If I’m feeling depressed, it’s hard to write about anything else even about Silas’s new obsession:  the word and act of farting.

photos by my husband, Paul

Last weekend, I started a post in which I was describing a ho-hum afternoon:

It’s gray outside.  I’m still in my pajamas.

I’m trying to approach this fact with a glass half-full mentality.  It’s a luxury really.  To be in one’s pajamas at a quarter past one…

…Still, how do you conquer the afternoon in which you just can’t make it to the shower?  You know the type when you just stare at the yellow walls. Just stare.  Maybe wash a dish or two.  Get tired.  Continue staring.

That’s the kind of afternoon that I’m having.

…I’m completely unmotivated.  Not even to eat really.  And, now with Silas asleep and Paul setting up for his big gig,  it’s just you and me baby.  And since you are not even really real.  Then, well, it’s just me.

So, again, today, this is the kind-of afternoon I’m having.    Except that today is sunny, I was in my pajamas until 2:30 not 1:15, and Paul is working instead of preparing for a gig.  There is an obvious pattern here.  Of depression.  On the weekends of all things.

Today, I woke up late (blamed my medicine), missed church (blamed Silas’s low-grade fever), waited for Silas to take his nap so that I could get some work done (because our house is trashed and I’m behind at work), found it challenging to get anything done because I abhor the state of our house (Amityville), moped about (of course), talked on the phone with little to no enthusiasm (most likely spreading my ugly state of mind), and then finally decided to forget the house and the work and to lie on my bed an read (Ahhhhh….).

And, voila, a little bit of happiness ensued.

Why couldn’t I just have read on my bed in the first place?  It’s as if I have to have an excuse to do something pleasurable.  Like I just can’t allow myself to be happy.

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