Debbie Does Drivel

MASTER MANIPULATOR

Sometimes, when she'll be crying, I threaten to pinch her fatty baby butt until she really has something to cry about, and she'll appear to think for a second, and lickety-split change her tune and bust out the biggest smile you've ever seen.

Well-played, my child, well-played.

CRAZY LIKE ME.

Next Monday, I return to work. Very not happy about that. As a result, my daughter will have abandonment issues and never really feel loved, traipsing from relationship to relationship, wearing slutty clothes, trying to find affection wherever she can when all she really wants is her mother's approval. Clearly, my need to work is going to result in a future Jerry Springer guest star.

I'm having major problems with my blog, as you might guess from the vast void of nothingness that appears when you visit this page.

Guess that's part and parcel of this month. First, the root canal, then the front bumper that is ripped off by an errant curb bolt and now the nothingness-plagued blog.

Good thing Alexa will be baptized today. Maybe her impending purity can cleanse my prickly aura and balance will be restored to my problem-infested world.

I HOPE THEY PAY YOU IN HELL

I want money. I do.
But not insane amounts where I can buy a mansion, 8 cars, Playboy pool and private jets.
I would like enough money to buy a decent home with a pretty view, cozy rooms, nice backyard for barbecues and a swingset; enough so I could stay at home with my baby and pay for someone to give her TLC for 4 hours a day while I wrote a book; enough for a car where I don't break my back every time I load a car seat; enough so an unplanned root canal doesn't drain the savings account; enough so my husband doesn't have to work so hard and can afford to get a teaching degree; enough to send Alex to good schools.
I'm not greedy, I don't think.
I just don't want to have to worry about money anymore.

So it really pisses me off when I deal with people for whom no amount of money is enough; people who would take advantage of you so they can make more; people who "streamline" the company to be more efficient, when all it really means is there's more money left over for them.

I work for too many of those people.

MOMMY DIALECT

The other day I realized that I was a dork.
I don't want to make my daughter a dork.
My husband is a dork too.
Her odds are not good.

No, she is likely to be the third prong in our dork triumvirate. I wish I could turn it around. I really do. But I don't know any other way to be. It is completely natural for me to say things like this to her every day:

"Mommy lovey you. Mommy lovey you toe much. You suss a bubby. You're my bubby guwurl. Mommy yovey you toe much bubby guwurl. You my honey bunny bubby bear. I youvey you!"

In fact, I pretty much say that to her word for word every single freaking day.
And if I'm not saying that, I'm saying this:

"You hungy? Is my bubby guwurl hungy? Oh you so hungy! You my bubby guwurl and you so hungy! I yovey you!"

Most of the time she will look at me like I am DorkMom, DweebPants. So there is a small shred of hope for her.

FLASHBACK

Lauretta's mom picked us up after school. After a Little Debbie's snack extracted from Lauretta's enormous Italian pantry, we started getting ready for the 6th grade dance.
I feathered my hair and slipped on my G.A.S.S. dancin' shoes, dreaming that Greg Anderson would ask me to dance.

We stood in line at the gymnasium entrance, waiting for the doors to open. We paced outside in the early night air, then trampled single file down the stairs to the gym, where Journey and REO Speedwagon records played.

I hung out by the stage with Lori and Lauretta. Stacks and stacks of vinyl shook in orange milk crates. I stared out at couples dancing. Dust swirled and sweat shimmied. Finally (FINALLY!), Greg Anderson invited me to dance to a Supertramp song. I made lame jokes and refused to let him pull me close. "Goodbye, Stranger" came to an end.
I really really wanted Greg to like me and see through my goofy smokescreen. Instead, he cuffed me gently on the shoulder and walking away, said "You're such a nut."

Supertramp sucks.

I THINK I'M GOING MENTAL(ER)

Since I've had my baby, I find myself seriously affected by news of a child's death or injury. These things had always hit me hard, but now I find I can barely cope with the strong emotions these stories raise in me.

News of the three children nearly beheaded by their relatives, or of an infant found beaten to death sock me in the stomach. I could never imagine being the mother of these children. I'd never make it. I couldn't get through it. And yet, I do imagine it. It must be a psychlogical coping device OR I'm mental: but I find myself imagining the worst case scenario with my own child.

Like, what if an intruder broke into the house and tried to kill my baby? I visualize how he would do it and what I would do in return. OK, I think, I'll bash his skull with my marble book end; or I'll hit him in the nuts then squirt my Bath & Body Works lotion in his eyes.

I really think the whole thing through. I imagine what my baby would look like after she's been hit or suffocated or shot. It's horrible and I really debated coming out and admitting that here, but I need to say it.

I hope that, rather than being a bezerko psycho head case, I have a good reason for dreaming up these imaginary scenarios. It's as if I'm desensitizing my self. My body and mind cannot begin to fathom how I'd get through my life if something were to happen to my daughter. I need to spigot this realization out little by little because I can't handle the very real fact that I wouldn't be able to make it if she were gone.

If I imagine the most horrible thing in the world happening to her in in little pieces, it somehow makes me think I can control things if the worst came to pass. I've already thought through what I'd do. I'm prepared.

I used to think I could get through anything. A little time, a little regrouping and I'd be OK. I would not be unaffected, mind you; never be the same again if something were to happen to anyone I loved. But I somehow made it through after my mom died and a part of me knew I could. But if something were to happen to Alex? No part of me thinks I could get through that.

GET BEHIND THE CAUSE

Why haven't bathing suit designers realized that if they'd only lobby against the sale and manufacture of flourescent lighting, they'd sell a hell of a lot more bathing suits?
There should be lobbyists on Capitol Hill. Yea, I see it now: shade-walking flabby 30-somethings, sweaters tied around their waists, who never use public restrooms. What a formidable lot.