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frustermacated

I am stressed and probably depressed. School is nearly over and I really don't want to go anymore. There are dozens of emails about what we're supposed to be doing to prepare for the show and I really don't care. I don't want to volunteer to do any of the work. I just want to go in and set up my space and wait for the opening.
I'm building a website for myself. It's something I've wanted to do for a long time. It's hard to get the time to focus on it, so it's half-done.
I've been trying to get my laptop, external dvd-burner, and camcorder to all work together so I can make some videos of various fun times & baby. It's not working. Everything says that it is working, but the dvds will not play in any type of machine.
I need to take a shower.
We need some groceries.
I only have one pair of pants that fit me post-baby. I have more than a dozen that I bought last spring to fit my new slimmer body.
I have to go sit through a Q&A today to understand how to pay back my school loans. I'm pretty sure that if I don't go, I'll still have to pay them back, so what's the point?
I'm going to take a shower now. It's a start toward something positive.
the sun is out.

the last project at last

I described the silly photo project I'm working on. I think it's not as scrapbook-y as it began. By scanning and reprinting/refitting/reworking the original collage images I believe it evolves into something more artistic. What do you think?

wrong night

After a long week of being home exclusively with baby z (it is spring break, and there is nowhere to go) I was finally going to be taken out to dinner. Pete arranged a friend to come and sit for the evening. She was going to stay the night and then spend Saturday with me baking bread and tending to z while pete rolled around in the woods somewhere.
I did not eat lunch in anticipation of a someone-else-cooked-for-me meal. It's not that we don't eat out, we probably go out more often than any other new parents have ever dared to. But I was hoping for a divine dinner at a tiny Italian restaurant and some happy conversation with my man.
I finished some quick chores around the house. The laundry was put away, the dishes were washed, the bottles prepared. I clicked on the lamp in the guest room.
To pass the time and ignore our growling stomachs Pete and I played catch in the front yard while z napped. We checked the clock as the time ticked by. We checked our phones for missed calls.
I talked Pete into showering and putting on clean pants while we continued to wait. I changed my clothes, fluffed my hair and even applied mascara.
We watched tv and complained about our hunger. Pete called our friend several times without result. As 9pm approached she finally called and wondered why we expected her on Friday when she had arranged with Pete to come on Saturday evening.
About an hour later the Pizza Hut delivery guy knocked on our door. We ate too much and fell asleep on the couch watching 40 year old virgin.

In Defense of My Relationship with My Dog

Yes, I have become one of those people who took the phrase "adopting a dog" literally. When I'm not calling him by his given name (Monty) or his primary nickname (Little Dog or Little Tiny Dog, depending on my mood), I call him Baby Dog. He actually responds to that name, too, along with Bark-Faced Baby Boy.

And yes, my husband and I let our dog get away with virtual murder. He jumps up on every guest who enters our home, and he jumps up on us when we've left him alone for even a few minutes. One of the two of us holds his bone so he can chew on it while we're watching TV. He occupies the center of our bed, sometimes curling up so tight against my stomach so that I think: This must be sorta what it feels like to have a baby pressing on your bladder in the latter months of pregnancy. (That may be the insanity talking, but still ...)

I know it's not the same to have a dog as to have a baby, but when I'm listening to my baby-bearing friends talk about their wee miracles, I have to restrain myself from saying, "My puppy does that too!"

I know he's not a baby. He's a dog. But here's my defense:

I don't have a baby to brag about, so I brag about my dog. In many ways, raising a puppy doesn't seem all that different from taking care of a regular kid. I've cleaned up shit, pee and vomit. I've stayed up all night with him when he was sick. I've taken a gazillion photos of every last cute thing Monty does: his expanding size, his first haircut, him with his favorite toy, him curling up on the couch with my husband. I even saved some of his baby teeth. The major difference seems to be timing. I had to get up every two or three hours to attend to puppy's needs for only a month or two, and babies need that kind of attention for much longer.

Also, Monty doesn't talk back. He's got a sassy little face, but I'll never have to hear him say the words, "I hate you, Mom! You're so mean!"

So, you might say, just get on with it and have a baby already. Great advice, and how I would like to take it. You'd think that after I've been off birth control for more than two years, a pregnancy would just have happened already. I spent my entire 20s trying to prevent an unplanned pregnancy, because who wants a baby when you've got a busy social calendar? But when you've been married for almost seven years, your friends, your parents, your siblings and everyone else who even tangentially knows you probably wonder if you're just going to settle for the dog. (Monty did receive a Valentine's Day card from his "grandparents" addressed to their "grandpuppy." Mike and I buy "from the dog" cards for each other on holidays. Yeah, it's pretty pathetic.)

I've come to conclude that getting knocked up is very similar to getting ID'd for liquor. After you turn 21, stores and bars stop carding you for booze, and you think: Damn, I could have been getting away with this for a LONG time now! I was probably ripe for the ovular picking in my 20s, and now that I'm almost 34, I'm thinking that I'm going to have put a lot more effort into this project -- taking my temperature, timing sex with ovulation, even (ack!) delving into fertility treatment.

Which leads me to my second point ...

I think parents should just admit that they envy my relationship with my pet. After all, I get to sleep through the night. Mike and I still go out whenever we please for dinner or a movie or whatever, without having to hire a sitter. We can leave for the weekend, and Monty will happily go next door to live with my neighbors and their dog. If the dog drives me crazy, I can leave the house or put him in his crate. Pull that shit with your baby, and the Department of Children and Family Services starts getting interested in your parenting methods.

The upshot is, I don't have a baby. Yet. All I have is this dog. Maybe when I have an actual baby of my own, I'll stop thinking of this small animal as my child and start thinking of him as just a pet. But somehow I doubt I'll ever drop the "Baby Dog" nickname.

I guess that's just the kind of crazy I am.

super fun

This morning, while it was still dark, I stood in the kitchen and did some messy watercolor paintings in my current moleskine. It was just me and the soft noise of the rain. It was hard to stop, but I was getting tired and then baby z needed me anyhow, so I put my brush down for a bit. I look at the little paintings a few hours later and even though they are still messy and wild, I like the colors and their uncontrolled nature. Most of all, I like that I did something for a little bit that was my very own.

I can't write

so I blog instead. How's that for insight?