The morning of September 11, 2001 was a pretty normal one.  It was a Tuesday, and Tuesday meant that I closed at the library that night.  I’m a morning person by nature and instead of doing something healthy and productive with my 23-year-old self, I sat down on the couch drinking a regular coke and eating pop tarts.  Ten years ago MTV and VH1 still played music videos and I would use my free weekly morning to catch up on anything recent.

God forbid I go work out, or watch the news or something useful.

So I’m watching one of the music channels and all of a sudden the news cuts in.  MTV and VH1 are based out of New York, so if something interesting is happening in New York their local news will occasionally cut in.  But, only if it’s really important.

I looked up in time to see that a building was smoking.  Apparently a plane had crashed into it.  I figured it was just a small private plane.  I wasn’t listening to the tv, simply watching.  My brain couldn’t comprehend what was happening, so I changed the channel.

News was on every station, except the movie channels.  That was the moment I realized something was wrong.

I headed over to one of our local channels, probably channel 5 which is NBC for us and I trusted them to report things accurately.  I turned it on just in time to see the second plane crash into the second tower.

I remember gasping, and sitting on the couch with my hand over my mouth in complete and utter shock.

I started to think if I knew anyone who was traveling that day.  Was my dad and step mother home or were they traveling?  My future father in law travels over seas a lot, was he home or was this a travel day?  Yet, I couldn’t get up the courage to call anyone.  I was too afraid to find out.

Eventually my husband, at the time boyfriend, came out of the bedroom.  He also had a late start that night, but he usually worked nights.  He wandered out, kissed me on the forehead, looked at the tv and asked me what movie I was watching.

That was when it hit me.

I looked at him and told him I was watching the news.  Planes had crashed into the World Trade Center Towers in New York.

I can’t remember when the news about the Pentagon came on.  I watched though as the towers fell, one after the other.  I just went numb.  And then the flight in Pennsylvania crashed.  It just felt like the hits kept coming.

The news was going on and on about where the next attacks could be:  Los Angeles, Chicago, the White House…nobody knew and the world was just guessing.

Eventually I got dressed and drove into work where it was so quiet.  The library was never that quiet.  Two of my three bosses were in the break room watching the news.  The third was trying to locate family who was supposed to be traveling that day.

When I got home from work that night, I turned on the news again.  I don’t know why, at that point it was like a perverse need to see what was happening.  To continue to watch the devastation.

Ten years later, I can close my eyes and still see people running from those buildings as they burn, as they collapse.  I can still hear the news reporting that civilians took down flight 93 to avoid it becoming another attack.  It breaks my heart.

The only thing that gives me peace, is the idea that I have a child now who may never have to know that kind of fear in this world.  And not because of overly bumped up airport security.  Maybe, just maybe he will never have to watch people fall or jump from a burning building because they have no other means of escape.  Because, while I may not have been there to live it, I watched it.  I saw everything that the news had to offer.

My heart and prayers go out to the people who lost family and friends that day.  My heart and prayers go out to anyone who went through that day.  May your dreams not be plagued every night by what you saw.

Funny story:  we went to the bank to see about getting a loan to pay off some of the debt we’re in so we can one day buy a house (it’s a vicious circle, but we figured one big payment instead of 35 payments per month).  When we told the bank person we rented and how much we paid in rent, she looked at us and asked “have you considered owning?”

My husband tells me that the look on my face when she asked that was priceless.  I can tell you what was going through my head…hate, pure and simple.  As soon as she said that (with her knowing full well how bad off we are) I asked her if she would give us a home loan.  She said we’re too high risk.  At that moment I considered ways of killing her.  According to my husband, the look on my face gave this fact away…noticeably.

Our meeting ended rather quickly at that point, and as it turns out, you can’t get a personal loan without some kind of equity…like in a home.

Ha ha ha. 

Oh irony, how I love thee.

So anyway, we live in an apartment.  I was woken up at 3:30 this morning because our downstairs neighbors, who are relatively new to the building (and oh so young) (hush, I’m aware that 32 isn’t old, but I think these two are just barely legal to buy alcohol), started blaring their stereo. 

I fear that I have turned into the kind of neighbor who will go downstairs and pound on their door and demand that they turn the radio down.  I’m already dressed in my crazy finest (in case you were wondering, Nightmare Before Christmas pajamas, fuzzy slippers, and a blue zip up hoodie.  The rat’s nest that is my hair really seals the deal, along with the remainders of the mascara I couldn’t get scrubbed off and need a sandblaster to remove).  Mostly I’m afraid they’ll wake the baby.  I could really care less if they have a radio on or not.  Except that the place where the music is originating from is right below my son’s room.  I heard the music and lyrics quite clearly from my room…and the living room.  When I walked into my son’s room I felt like I was at a concert. 

Yet the child hasn’t stirred yet.

Maybe I won’t have to be the crazy fist shaker after all.  That would be nice.

So, I had the baby.  A boy, we named him Logan.  He’s adorable and perfect and everything I could have hoped and asked for.  I never knew it was possible to love someone so much.  With that said, he’ll most likely be our only child.  The combination of time it took for me to concieve him and the events that followed his birth mean that in all likelihood, he will grow up an only child.

I was an only child and I turned out ok…for the most part.

He came early.  He arrived on my mom’s birthday, which was just funny.  I was positive he was going to be born on my dad’s (the two are a week apart from each other) but my boy had other plans.  He was also a C-section due to his size and the fact that I was in very active labor with no progress in the dilation front.

I didn’t like the hat they put on him in the hospital so I had the hubs bring one from home, it says “mmmm…boobies.”

The nurses were more like lactation nazi’s, which doesn’t help make you comfortable.  They were sweet though, especially once the postpartum hit.  And it hit hard.  And then it took me three months to admit that it was bad.  Really, really bad. 

Really, really, really bad.

(For anyone who may be interested, I’ve been thinking about doing a full disclosure post, but since I don’t want to bore the three of you to tears or drown you in mommyhood, I haven’t decided yet.  Guess it depends on if anyone gives a rats ass.)

Anywho, I’m medicated now.  Most likely will be for awhile.  In all honesty, being on antidepressants is the first time I’ve really felt like myself since I was about 20.  I don’t feel so angry and anxious about every little thing.  I’m no longer convinced that my child, husband and family hate me.  In essence, I stopped sweating the small stuff.  Which is nice.  I like enjoying things that deserve to be enjoyed and not sending myself into a frenzy of anxiety and panic over the things that normally get worried over. 

So, he’ll be five months old the day after Christmas.  He sits up quite nicely, just started eating solid foods and is strong.  We had a scare when he was about a week old, but the test results came back ok and the doctor doesn’t seem concerned over anything when he goes for his check ups. 

I go back to school in the beginning of January, and I’m not looking forward to that.  I wish we were in a financial position for me to be able to stay home, but we aren’t.  We aren’t even really in a financial position for me to be in school, but I’ve gotten this far goddammit and I refuse to repay a loan for something I didn’t finish.  I need to get something at the end so that I can make money to repay that damned loan, and maybe get us out of the pickle we’re in right now. 

I won’t whine and complain about how hard things are, because we’re still ok.  Not great, we’re not even really staying afloat, but we have a roof over our heads and the ability to pay for extra things like cable and internet access from home, so I won’t whine.  We’re (mostly) healthy.  Granted I’ve had some health issues, not to mention a trip to a doctor that made things worse before things got better.  Got a second opinion, and that one made more sense so that doctor became my family doctor (woo hoo, lucky her!). 

I have been keeping up with what everyone is writing, I just need to be logged into WordPress to make comments and some days, that became too much effort.  Or I would go to make a comment and the baby would start to fuss or cry or required some kind of attention and when I got back to the computer my session had timed out or I forgot what I wanted to say.  I should also say that the same thing has happened when making myself a cup of much needed coffee. 

Insomnia is the only reason I’m able to make this post now.  And despite the fact that my child sleeps through the night, I refuse to take anything to help me sleep now because of everything else that I’m on (so many other things).  If he does wake up, I need to be able to get up with him and provide for him.  I’ve been on Ambien before, nothing good ever came out it. 

Ok, maybe one thing.

I had a craving (need) for a slurpee today, so I stopped at 7/11 to get one.  I’m standing in front of the machine, trying to figure out what flavor(s) I want to get.  All of a sudden I hear this god awful squealing, to be honest I thought someone was hurt, and felt hands all over my belly. 

This woman had hands more hands than I thought possible.  She was like the human octopus. 

It was creepy.

I felt/feel violated.

The worst part is I didn’t get my slurpee because I just wanted to get away from her. 

My question is this:  what if I wasn’t pregnant?  Has she done this to a bunch of random women?  How many of them were actually pregnant?

Pregnancy is not at all glamorous.  Not even a little.

I have a wedding to go to in mid April, I will be 6 months pregnant.  My dress looks like this:

It’s a maxi dress (if that means anything to you) and is actually quite long on me so I need a little heel.  The sweater I’m going to wear with the dress looks like this (mid April, could be warm, could be cool/cold, I was a girl scout and we’re always prepared):

I’m not entirely comfortable in high heels, the highest I usually wear is a kitten heel.  Unfortunately the heels I have will not go (they are just too silver and I’m starting to retain water…in my feet so my black ones won’t work).  I’m thinking black would be better, hoping for a wedge heel and something that won’t break the bank.  All of the wedges I’ve looked at have the cork heel, is that ok to wear with this dress?  Does anyone out there have any suggestions for me? 

Please help the shoe clueless.

1. You volunteer to go out shopping with your friend, and her two small children, who don’t enjoy their stroller…at all.
2. You find out that your friend’s sister and her one small child are coming with, who also greatly dislikes his stroller…and car seat.
3. You don’t turn around and run away as fast as you can…

And if you survive those things and then end up at a Mexican restaurant where this happens…

1. The oldest of the three children (he is 4, and reminds you every 20 seconds) loudly proclaims that he will not eat the quesadilla that was ordered for him (“It’s just like grilled cheese, you love grilled cheese!”) then proceeds to throw the plate.
2. The oldest child’s brother decides he has had quite enough thankyouverymuch, and then throws his plate because he just saw his brother do it, his sippy cup and then his mother’s plate onto the floor.
3. The cousin, after witnessing the other acts of aggression, decides he wants to do this as well but luckily the adults have grown wise after two other throwing incidents.  Yet he proceeds to start screaming, loudly, in a very echo-y room.
4. You cannot order a margarita, or even a shot of tequila.

You may enjoy S&M.

Over the years my husband and I have slowly replaced things that were once someone else’s.  Coffee table, dining room tables, bookcases…you get the drift.  One of the first things we bought as a married couple was, and at the time I believed this was absolutely brilliant (past me was a fucking idiot), a futon.  We had the ability to purchase an actual couch at the time and we went with a futon.  Seriously?  I kinda wish I could go back in time and punch myself in the mouth.

Well over the last few months getting up from said futon has become a challenge.  Turns out I don’t bend or fold the way that I used to.  Let us say that bending over to tie my shoes is becoming a thing of the past and I look forward to the weather warming up so that I can wear slip on shoes more often.  So, can you imagine what it must be like to get up from a futon?  Has anyone ever owned or even sat on a futon? 

Sure, at first it’s sorta like:  ”Hey, this is kinda nice!  The mattress is all squishy and my butt is just sinking into it.” 

Then it goes to:  ”Wow, arm rests are kinda like leaning on a piece of wood, must be because I am.” 

Which quickly morphs into:  “Shit, I gotta pee.  How the hell am I supposed to get out of this thing?  It’s like sitting on a torture device.”

Maybe that’s just me.

Keep in mind that when the mattress was brand new, it was great.  We had plans to replace the mattress every so often, but then that went out the window.  Then I was getting annoyed because one side was always drooping more than the other side.  Then I started to hate the cover, and a new cover is kind of expensive even if you buy it from Ebay.  Then you need a ton of pillows to keep from having to lean on the uncomfortable arm rests and before you know it you have more throw pillows than available sitting space.

Ridiculous.

I begged my husband to concede and go shopping for a new couch with our big fat tax return (not bragging, it really wasn’t that great but it’s the best one we’ve seen since I stopped working).  I could tell he wanted to, but at the same time he must have remembered how bored I got with the process the first time we tried it.  Because honestly, the futon is my fault.  We were shopping for a new mattress (which we had gotten) and I decided I wanted the couch replaced.  Well, as opposed to going to someplace like an actual furniture store, we went to Mattress Mart or something like that, picked out our mattress and I got distracted by the futon.  I decided it was one stop shopping, paid for everything, scheduled delivery and went home.  Lazy.

Anyway, we did it right this time.  My husband actually had to drag me out of the first place we went to because he sensed me settling, again.  I applaud him and love him for this.  Last night, not so much.  Last night I wanted to flay him.  We went to six (count em) places.  I’m fucking Goldilocks because of all the damned couches I had to sit on last night.  The worst part was, he wouldn’t help me up unless I really couldn’t do it.  He wanted to make sure I could get up by myself because he won’t be home every night to get my ass up and out of the couch.  Therefore, my dream of a squishy couch was out.  He sat on everything I liked, and gave me his honest opinion. 

This didn’t keep me from attempting murder at the sixth store when he informed me he liked the couch at the third store the best. 

Long story short (too late!) we bought a new couch.  It’s being delivered on Thursday and I couldn’t be happier.  We got it with stain guard, how fucking grown up are we?  Paying extra money for stain guard…I’m so proud of us.  There was a moment where we were going to get the couch and love seat (OMG, a matching set?!) and then reason returned and it occurred that we needed to have money left over for other things, like food and bills.  But who knows, we may be able to get the matching love seat someday. 

So, anyone need a futon?

How would you react if your once very cold in-laws are suddenly all warm and fuzzy towards you?

Everyone is trying to tell me that babies change everything, which yeah, they do.  I still can’t help but be suspicious of the food that is suddenly being brought over to me, and the flowers that are arriving at my door and offers to buy anything we need for the baby, not to mention the year-long membership to Costco, the stamps for the baby shower invitations and the invitations to random meals (they have never wanted to have a meal alone with my husband and I before, not ever, not even for a birthday).

I want to be the kind of person who can take this all in stride and enjoy it, but…

Part of me wonders if I made it all worse in my head and they weren’t actually that bad.  Maybe they’ve been trying to reach out for years and I was just too stubborn to notice it.  Maybe it was me…

Then again, I just got a phone call from my sister-in-law telling me everything I’m missing from my baby registry, so maybe not.

But then I wake up on Wednesday and I feel like complete and utter crap.  I wasn’t hungry, so I didn’t eat (no lectures on how a pregnant woman has to eat something).  A couple hours later I feel a little crampy and I figure it’s from hunger so I eat some crackers and drink some root beer (why root beer?  Who the hell knows).  I still feel like crap after eating and I just figured I waited too long, but at least when I get sick it won’t be that there was nothing in my stomach. 

Well, I did get sick.  In the shower, it was awkward and gross but also possibly the best place and way to ever get sick because at least you’re already surrounded by water.  I feel even worse after my shower (counterproductive, I’m not used to that as far as my showers are concerned) so I go and lay down for an hour.  When my husband wakes me up I beg him to just leave me alone.  He doesn’t.  Instead he reminds me that I have demon children to look after.  Therefore I drag my sorry ass carcass out of bed and try to eat again (nope, I don’t learn, at all). 

I have applesauce and water this time.  I pick the children up and I start to feel lousy again.  I consider calling the demon children’s father (he’s closer than the mother) but decide against it.  About ten minutes after that decision, I regret it.  Yet, like an idiot, I continue.  The father gets home, I go home and start to pray for death.  Around 5:00 I take a sip (that word, sip, is very important) of water.  Five minutes after that sip, it makes the return trip.  This is the point where I start to panic.  Because it isn’t just me anymore.  I would continue, call it a diet, suck on Pepto like it was going out of style and go on with my life.  But, all of a sudden I have to be all responsible and think of the person I’m carrying. 

Dammit.

I call my husband, he says call the doctor.  I call the doctor, he says come to the hospital.  I go to the hospital, and the awfulness continues.  I don’t keep down anything they give me that night.  I have an IV in my hand, which is in a vein that was just barely accessible because of how dehydrated I am.  

The good news is that I got to hear the baby’s heartbeat again, very normal (144).  By the end of all this, I will actually get to hear the baby’s heartbeat a total of four more times.

At midnight, I get admitted to the hospital.  At 1:00 am, I’m moved to a slightly more comfortable room.  And then I get woken up every two hours for more injections and the changing of saline bags.

When the nurse asks in the morning how I slept, I try not to jump out of the bed and tackle her.

On the plus side, if you’re ever stuck in a hospital, TNT is pretty much the network of choice.  They have 24 programming and, from what I remember, no infomercials.  I’ll have to remember this when I go back into the hospital under slightly more voluntary conditions in a few months.

It should be noted, that the minute I was told I was being admitted I started crying to my husband that he just needed to take me home.

At 5:00 am a doctor comes in to tell me that my doctor will be coming by to see me, and that they (the hospital) is going to try to give me food.  I wait until 11:00 to see the doctor and another hour after that to get a meal.  After getting my meal, and keeping it down like a good girl and finishing the last saline bag they gave me, I was released at 4:00 pm with a prescription for anti-nausea pills.

Then I get home, eat half a sandwich, drink a huge glass of water and go to bed at 7:00 pm.  I wake up at 6:00 am, feeling only slightly better.  I push myself to go to a charity event (St. Baldrick’s, not sure if this is national or not, pretty sure it is though; I was the one shaving heads this year, woo hoo!).  I go to it, come home and everything goes wonky.  Yet, I still have to go with my husband to do the taxes so I can’t give up quite yet.  We get the taxes done (we get money back!) and go home.  I take a shower and go to bed at something like 8:00 pm. 

Long story short (Too late!!), I couldn’t get my shit in gear this morning to get to school.  I still felt really yucky anyway, so I figured it was for the best. 

Here’s where the last win comes in, when the Tudors started on Showtime my husband and I had just had to give up our movie channels in order to save money.  This made me sad considering how badly I wanted to see the show.  (What can I say, I have a thing for Jonathan Rhys Meyers and British history, the bloodier the better.)  But today, I got to catch up on the Tudors on On Demand.

I will have caught up on all three seasons before the fourth season starts in April. 

Woo fucking hoo!

I’m all for automatic water faucets, hand dryers and paper towel dispensers.  I wish there was a button you could hit with your hip on the way out of a public restroom that would open the door for you so that you don’t have to touch the door handle with your nice clean hands after some disgusting ape chose not to wash theirs.

*Side rant:  there really should be a rule that if you even walk into a public restroom that in order to leave it you must wash your hands.  I cannot count the number of times that I have used a public restroom (yes, eww, let’s all shudder with me now, but when you have a baby sitting on your bladder, you’d be amazed at the places you go) and gone to the sinks and washed my hands and watched some pig of a woman walk out of a stall, come over to the mirrors, check her make up and leave the restroom.  Part of me wanted to run out of the restroom and use an entire bottle of hand sanitizer on her, the other part of me just tried to stop dry heaving.

I love, to a point, that society is creating a world where you don’t have to touch as many oogy things.  I was never a fan of touching public restroom flush handles, I would more times than not use my foot.  Luckily those things always worked no matter how you hit them.  But now the potty’s have sensors that automatically flush for you, this is a problem though if you sit there too long because you made the mistake of getting the XL coffee from Dunkin Donuts and you have to pee what could be a small creek.  Those automatic flushes…hoo boy, and a little bit oogy.

Anyway, my point is this:  the one thing this world really doesn’t need is an automatic soap dispenser.  And here is my logic for this point; you can touch the one germ infested thing because, and this part is very important, you are washing your fucking hands!

Automatic soap dispensers, this is only my opinion, are feeding a hysteria and right now, Lysol is trying to cash in on it.  I bring you, the Lysol No-Touch Hand Soap System.  Go ahead, watch it, I’ll wait.

(Sorry, tried to add video but it just wasn’t happening, so here is the link to the video that Lysol has on their website if you haven’t seen the commercial yourself)

My favorite part is where the lady tells us that soap pumps have “a lot” of germs on them.  No shit Sherlock, that’s why you’re washing your fucking hands!  It’s not like I pump the soap onto my hand and then wipe it off on the towel and leave the room without adding water and doing the whole hand washing motion thingy.  And, I don’t know about you guys, but when I clean the bathroom and kitchen, hell even in between regular cleanings when I use those damned bleach wipes, I tend to wipe down my soap dispensers.  So maybe I don’t have “a lot” of germs hanging around on my dispensers.  And then, just for good measure, I wash my hands.

I realize that stuff like this plays into a germaphobes life, I can guarantee the next time I go to either my girlfriend’s house or sister-in-law’s house, one or most likely both will have them.  The killer part is, one is a preschool teacher, the other was a massage therapist.  These people come in contact with more germs than either of them wants to dream of.  My girlfriend’s boys are sick, all the time, because she over sanitized.  My sister-in-law who is about a month away from giving birth, has avoided getting sick her whole pregnancy.  When that kid comes out and gets his first cold, she is going to melt the fuck down.

Meanwhile, I touch people and their nasty hair all day.  I’m lucky if I get to wash my hands in between clients.  And, I’m forgetting to mention the two little germ factory’s I watch for a few hours every day.  If the boy could learn to cover his mouth when he coughs, well it would be an act of God himself.  So, needless to say (or maybe not) I have been sick many times during my pregnancy, and both baby and I are fine.

Anyway, back to the touchless soap dispenser.  If people are washing their hands correctly (some shit about the length of the song Happy Birthday is adequate, personally I use ABC just because I touch people and their nasty hair all day) then we don’t need to worry about the damned germs hanging around on the soap dispenser pump, do we? 

Have I gone over the deep end?  Am I the only one who thinks this is insane?  Please, let me know.  If I am, maybe I’ll go out and buy the no touch soap dispensers, because if you can’t beat em, might as well join em.