She had to have been.  You're telling me she kept an immaculate house, raised her children, loved up on Ozzie, went through teething, cooked fabulous dinners, all while wearing pearls and a smile.....and she was completely sober?!?!?!

Sigh.  Yup, broke into another bag of chocolate chips as an emergency stress reliever.  It's as close to valium as I'll ever come, but my hips are asking me to find another coping mechanism.  I will be as big as a flippin' house by the time Junior hits the terrible twos. 

He's crying again.  Off I go.................................................

I freely and fully admit that b.c. (before child) I was the ultimate maniac driver.  Felt that speed limits and stop signs were merely suggestions.  Tore down the highways as fast as the car in front of me allowed.  No car?  That much faster.  A good road trip equalled good tunes, caffeine, and a high rate of speed.

Now that I have the cutest little chunk of baby love in the back seat, I am a brand new woman.  I get OUTRAGED when people roll through stop signs, shake my head in disgust as I watch other drivers jockey for position on the freeway.  (Hey, let's face it: if you are on the 405 anytime after 1:00 pm, you are doomed, so sit back and relax.)  Just yesterday, in my own little neighborhood, a grandma-type person was blowing past a stop sign when I had to honk to let her know I was there (and, incidentally, had the right of way).  I have a policy not to honk at old people, just a respect thing, but then this little blue hair has the nerve to flip me off!  Did Grandma really just flip me off?!?!

But I just sighed and took it like a man.  I'm pretty sure it was Karma.  (Or is that car-ma?)

Well, health and holiness went out the window today -- I swore impressively and often, and consumed massive amounts of left over Easter candy.  I think my nerves have garned a huge rush of testosterone; I have been foul mouthed and foul tempered all damn day.  And while I firmly believe chocolate is a panacea for everything, I am now officially nauseous.

Tomorrow I load up the cutest baby ever and drive 50 miles to the adoption agency for our final visit (read: inspection).  Then we can proceed through the courts and make it all final! I pray that I don't a) get lost - I'm going solo, and I follow directions according to food landmarks.  Say "turn right at the Dairy Queen" but for God's sake, don't tell me to "Go East." ; b) that I can find something respectable and decent to shove my chocolate coated ass into; c) I don't become irreverent - something I tend to do when I am nervous.  And they happen to be a Christian agency.  For fuck's sake, I'm doomed; d) that Junior doesn't do one of his infamous poop-all-the-way-up-to-the-neck numbers as we pull into the parking lot;e) that they don't revoke my Mom card just as I am starting to get the friggin' hang of it!

You don't get to be a nurse for almost 20 years and not learn a few tricks of the trade to survive.  Gallows, irreverent humor runs rampant; you often refer to a patient by bed number instead of name; you try not to personalize the tragedy that you see all around you, and never, never, "take a patient home" with you.  In other words, work stays at work; as soon as you walk out that door, leave all thoughts of those patients and their suffering behind.  Do not take it home with you.

I have gotten quite good at all of these coping mechanisms, you have to if you are going to do my kind of job (especially at County).
But today, there was such sadness, it was tangible.  And haunting.

Bed one:  30 years old, auto accident, massive internal injuries.  Pregnant wife killed. Drunk driver who hit them -- without a scratch.

Bed two:  19 year old kid whipped out a sawed off shot gun and pulled the trigger as his girlfriend, who just broke up with him, was walking out the door.  Allegedly, his last words were "What will make you stay?"  The left half of his face is gone.  Completely gone.  And now she never leaves his bedside.

Bed three:  22 years old, got in a bar fight.  A random punch made him hit the pavement in just such a way that it caused brain death.  They harvested his organs this morning.

Bed four: 16 year old kid, drive by shooting.  Died just before shift change.

Bed five:   32 years old father of twins, stabbed by his wife.  "If she calls, tell her I love her" was the last thing he said before they intubated him

I could go on..

I worked back to back double shifts this weekend, and I am exhausted.  But I can't go to bed just yet.  It will be too crowded.  Because damn if I didn't take every one of those patients home with me tonight.

Her real name is Laura June, but I call her "The Junester."  This nickname is a nod towards June Cleaver and The Terminator.  She is as sweet as can be, but you wouldn't want to mess with her. 

My mom is noble woman with a hearty soul, a razor sharp mind, and a wicked sense of humor, but more frail (and a tad more cranky) now that my Dad is no longer by her side.  When Dad was alive, she fretted and clucked over him with one breath while letting out exasperated sighs with another.  When he died two years ago, it just took the wind, and maybe the purpose, out of her sails altogether.  But being The Junester, she has carried on.  It's that stoic, Mid-western, drop of American Indian blood in her. She's hunkered down, joined a bunch of volunteer organizations, and lunches with the ladies once a week.   

But I have noticed of late that she seems to have this incessant need to give me things.  Not heirlooms, or that whole legacy thing, but just random stuff, as if to assure herself, subconciously, that she is still needed.

I do need my mother still, adult woman of 41 that I am.  When should I plant my herb garden?  Do I boil corn on the cob with the lid on or off?  Why is the baby so fussy?  Do you think he is teething/gassy/feverish/fine?  I tell her and try to show her that all the time.

But still she gives me things. Today it was some hairspray ("it's too stiff," -- although half the can is gone), some tabasco sauce (?), two articles she thought I might like (thoughtful), a box of stuffing mix, ("I make my own!" ~ which begs the question then why did she buy it in the first place), two tupperware containers (empty), 3 cans of soup ("I had a coupon") and some candy corn (which I loved as a kid, but doesn't agree with my adult stomach, if you know what I mean).

I have tried telling her I don't need or want any of this stuff (babies tend take up a lot of room, and it gets frustrating, as we are already stuffed to the gils) but to no avail. I have even half-heartedly teased her "Hey, you don't have to buy my love, you know!"  And yet she keeps giving this random stuff, stuff I don't want or need, but finally figured out to take anyway if it makes her feel useful or needed or helpful in some way.  

And when I am old and gray and alone with memories, I hope Junior does the same thing.  Because I will, without a doubt, be just like my Mom.

Okay, he is a good man, and I love him dearly, which is why I vent here.

1.  Here's an idea: why don't you try actually taking out the trash instead of artfully stacking it on top to see how high it will go?  Are you entering a contest of some sort?  Is there some sort of prize?

2.  Yes, I see you have "helped."  But I'm afraid your congressional medal of honor is on hold until I have the answers to the following questions:  Have you not lived here as long as I have?  Did you not know where to get the dish when you wanted it?  THEN WHY DON'T YOU KNOW WHERE IT GOES WHEN/IF YOU EMPTY THE FRIGGING DISHWASHER?!? 

3.  Thank you, darling dear, for "giving me a break" from the baby -- I had an absolute blast at the grocery store, washing bottles and doing laundry while you watched soccer with Junior on your lap.  My "break" was truly thoughtful of you.

4.  How come my version of giving the baby a bath includes not just bathing Junior, but also drying, dressing and feeding him, as well as mopping up the bathroom, rinsing the tub, and picking up the wet laundry.  How come your version is -- well-- bathing Junior?

5.  Please, please, for the love of friggin chocolate, please, quit telling me to "take a shower, I will feel better."  I encourage personal hygiene, trust me, but six minutes under running water is not a panacea for all that ails me.  (See #1-4 for a clue!)

6. Why exactly are your dirty gym shorts on my side of the bed-- near my pillow?

With love,
Your Wife

Just saw FF's spring picture.  DAWNIE and Heather's websites are true works of art. So I know it can be done -- but why can't I figure out how the hell to post a picture of Junior?  I would love to share his drooling cuteness.

Salamat! (Tagolag for "thank you.")

Metabollically challenged women should NOT buy chocolate chips in bulk at club member stores and tell themselves it's for baking only.  You are just fooling yourselves.

One should probably eat something before a three hour funneral, or really loud, embarrassing stomach growling will accompany "Amazing Grace."

Sometimes, it's not your hormones.  Sometimes, the other person really is just an asshole.

Buy stock in No-Doze.  Junior is teething.

SAD:     

Realizing half way through your day that you are wearing one of your husband's tennis shoes

SADDER:

Realizing that said tennis shoe fits

DOWNRIGHT PATHETIC:    

Wearing the damned mismatched shoes for the rest of the day anyway!

Damn if there wasn't another $%&*@(# practice husband sighting on television tonight.  Although I am trying to cut back on my crap T.V. consumption, I did tune into E! News tonight (hey, I did work double shifts all weekend; I think I earned it) and sure enough, there the bastard was, in the background of a Michael Jackson story.  (The bastard being the practice husband/Earl/Sleeping with the Enemy, not necessarily ol' Michael.) Incidentally, I myself have been to the Neverland Ranch years ago, and it really is a pedophile's paradise.  I'm just saying.  Anyway. 

I am afraid I will just have to give up my beloved mindless celebrity gossip for a little while, until M.J. goes back to Bahrain or where ever it is he hangs.

Now I must go fire up the Dixie Chicks "Earl Has to Die (Goodbye Earl)" to purge the bad taste in my soul...

Two years ago today, my best friend in the whole world died of breast cancer.

Please get checked, ladies.  No excuses.

"I never needed love, like I need you.  And I never lived for nobody, but I live for you. Oooh, babe, lost in love, is how I feel, when Im with you"

When I was 17 and a freshman in college, I fell in love for the first time. He was blond haired, blue eyed, and by God, was interested in me.  I was convinced I would marry this 23 year hunk that made me as gooey as a marshmallow peep.

This romance was chock full of teenage angst , your classic wouldhecallwouldhecallwouldhecall --  thank god he called!  Then began the late night phone calls, the insipid nicknames, the whole nine yards. I thought Whitman samplers were like the finest Dutch chocolate, carnations were akin to exotic orchids, and drugstore Nina Ricci perfume was the most thoughtful gift ever.  EVER. 

We even had our own song - a one hit wonder (prophetic?) from the band Sherif.  When Im With You.  When my night in shining armor dedicated that song to me, the moment was forever etched indelibly on my naive heart and mind.  (I am a sucker for a cheesy love song, especially when it is devoted to me.)

"Maybe its the way that you touch me,

with the warmth of the sun

Maybe its the way you smile, and I come all undone"

Oh my god, was he the most romantic man that ever lived or what? We both came from big families, were raised Catholic, loved movies, Southern Rock, and long drives.  It must be fate, right?  He was not just The One, he was the Absolute One, and at the tender age of 17, I just knew it.

He took me home to meet his parents on our second date. We talked of marriage, babies, and how special our wedding night would be.  Lots of fogged up windows while parked down by the beach, but heavy make outs, no more.  (Refer back to that Catholic thing.)

"I never cared for nobody like I care for you

And I never wanted to share the things I want to share with you

Ooooh, babe, lost in love is what I feel when Im with you"

So imagine the complete and utter heartbreak when after almost 2 years of dating, the love of my (young) life called to say he was getting married. 

"I know, silly," I remember whispering into the phone, dreaming of the day when we would say I Do.

"Her name is Dana, and shes pregnant."

I hung up the phone without saying a word.  And I never spoke to him again.

Oh. The. Agony.

"Baby, I get chills when Im with you

Oh, Baby, my world stands still when Im with you"

Mother of God, the searing torture of my wounded, broken heart.  (I was only a junior drama queen even way back then, but I probably honed my skills on this one.) I would surreptitiously drive by his house late at night, (our song playing on the tape deck, of course) and cry at the slightest reminder of him; a tan pickup truck, the smell of finesse shampoo, or the godforsaken name of Dana.  I repeatedly and painstakingly went over every gift, every memento, every card and every letter of our courtship.  All while playing our song.  Yes, I had perfected the art of pathetic.

I probably spent a good two years listlessly dating pale imitations and never really getting over him.  My parents tip-toed around the subject, and even my brothers, behemoths at best, knew enough not to tease me over this one.

Even ten years later, when I got married to the practice husband, I heard my mom whisper to my aunt in the dressing room, "Well, I guess this means shes finally over you-know-who."  Yet there was a twinge, a familiar pain that momentarily tweaked my heart even on my frigging wedding day.  

"Baby, I get chills when Im with you

Baby my world stands still when Im with you"

Man, that stupid song could still catch me off guard if I heard it driving home late at night.  I would go ahead and indulge, guiltily, and turn it up.  Sing.  Remember.

So imagine the irony when Saint Hubby, the true love of my life, gave me a CD of Monster Ballads this past Valentines, and there it was, that song. Track 12.  When Im With You.  By Sherif.

Damn.

So I played the song. Played it a lot.  Played it over and over and over again, just like I had all those years ago.  But the words had taken on a vastly different meaning. I realized that the words, those cheesy, syrupy words that I had wrung my heart out on so many years ago had a brand new significance.  And infinitely more meaningful.

When I had played the song for about the 100^th time, Saint Hubby finally asked "Just what guy does this song remind you of anyway?"

I squeezed our son and replied truthfully, "This little one right here."

Saint Hubby and I danced with Junior giggling between us, singing together, loudly and off key, exorcising those demons once and for all.

"Maybe it's the way you smile, and I come all undone. Oooh, Baby, lost in love is how I feel when I'm with you..."

p.s.  Track # 9 = Tony.  But that's another blog

Okay, last night's post may have been a little petulant (but in my defense, I did forget to mention the 3 pairs of shoes in the living room and the wet towel hanging over the dining room chair when I was listing my laments).  I came home tonight to not necessarily a tidy house, but washed and dried baby bottles and a love note.  You can't really beat that. 

Sigh. It is sometimes difficult being married to Saint Hubby when you are a mere (and somewhat crabby) mortal....