Wednesday, December 31, 2014

.Until Next Year.

I don't do resolutions...I can only do right here and right now. So here's a little snapshot of how I'm heading into 2015. Catch ya on the flipside, loves!
















Friday, December 26, 2014

.Morning Chores.

It's been a while since I went out and did chores. With the little man running around, most of the time I stay in and baby-wrangle. So this morning, since he's with his daddy, I pulled on somebody else's coveralls (mine are way too small now) and went out to toss some hay at the critters.

I felt like a little kid again, shuffling through the snowdrifts in my new Christmas packs. Despite the cold and the wind, the sun was shining and every thing was sparkling...goshdamn it, I love this place. 

I gave smooches to horse noses with whiskers covered in icicles. I busted ice in water tanks. I puked behind the squeeze chute, because apparently icy wind does not help a cough. But hey, that's not the first time I've done that. And grandma and I had a little too much fun on the tractor, because she drives that thing like it's a dune buggy no matter what's on the ground.

So now my face is red and my lips are numb, and it's time to get ready for my town job. I do miss spending all my time outside and with my animals, but babies have to eat and free-spiriting doesn't pay too well. Pretty quick, Sam will be old enough to bundle up and bust through snowdrifts in his new Christmas packs, and he'll be able to go out with his momma to throw hay at the critters. I really hope he'll appreciate snowy mornings and what it means to care for his animals. 

Then I'll have done my job.

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

.Now and Then.

Now and then, I kick myself for being such an open book. Times like now, when I feel like a crumpled up piece of paper that somebody threw at the trash can. When the mad is gone and nothing but the raw hurt is left, I wish I was better at putting up a tougher shield.

But I am not. So I'll take the hurt. I'll let it throb in my guts and rise up like bile in my throat. I'll put it down into words like I always do, little as they may mean to anyone else. I'll let myself feel lost. I'll pull the blankets around me tight as if they could stop the cold that comes from the inside. I'll thank God for the fucking flu that means pretty soon I'll be knocked out on NyQuil instead of awake and praying for the phone to ring.

And maybe it's the fever talking, but I'll hold out the tiniest of tiny hopes that this isn't really another ending. The hopeful heart gets broken more than it gets held, but also gets another chance now and then.

Monday, December 22, 2014

.Thinking to Myself.

God, I feel like a rubber band that's being stretched too tight. It's my job to hold everything together but no matter how strong I've been eventually it's going to become too much. If I snap everything will be scattered to hell and back; but if I show weakness, I'll get thrown away. There's no room for weakness.

If I could just rest for a little while...will you help me hold it together? Unwind me for a bit, just one wrap or two and I'll come back as strong as ever. Should I break, though, the pieces will be mine and mine alone to pick up.

There ain't no rest for the wicked, but I promise I'll be good.

Thursday, December 18, 2014

.Good Morning Sunshine.

I never was a morning person until I gave birth to one, and now I'm all about that early-to-bed, early-to-rise business.

It's still dark when that little voice pipes up from the crib across the room. There's no snooze button on that alarm. Feet on the cold, creaking floor (where the hell did I leave my slippers?), scoop up and snuggle the baby close until I get the thermostat turned up and the furnace groaning to life (his face is pure sunshine, and he pats my cheeks). Turn the burner on under the tea kettle, then turn it back off because who knows how long it'll take to wrestle Sam into a fresh diaper and get his breakfast fixed and in his squirmy belly...I can't count how many times I've boiled that thing over.

When the baby's dry and fed, and Curious George is holding his attention (although I'm not sure that felonious little monkey is the best role model), I finally sit with my tea cup in hand. God bless caffeine. From this chair, I have the perfect view -- the morning sunlight is just peeking pink and orange over the tops of the foothills, dusting the frosty backs of the horses as they stir and snort their request for breakfast. The goats aren't even awake yet.

The tired doesn't even register anymore, except at night when I tuck into bed under the big afghan my momma made me. And even then, it just feels like a day lived fully. When the baby's snoring and my last goodnight has been said, my heart flutters with contentedness and love. The demons that still live inside me don't get much of my time anymore. Someimes they rise to the surface to fight with sweet dreams for my attention, but at the end of the day there's too much waiting for me on the other side of sleep to revel in their company for too long.

Thursday, December 11, 2014

.The Sea Into Jars.

If it weren't for us sinners Jesus would've died in vain, and somebody's got to keep the preachers in business.

But I ain't no God-fearing woman.

Why should I fear my Father? Those who are hard to Love need Love the most, and His is unconditional. When I am lost, He finds me. When I am running, He opens His arms wide and calls me into them. He is home when I don't know where I belong. He is strength when I have no more to give.

I can always tell when He's getting ready to throw that Good Book at me.

When I don't pray like I should, not even my heart can find the words and what comes out of my mouth is nothing I can be proud of. When I don't spend enough time with my Bible, I find myself taking the wrong roads even when I can clearly see where I want to go right in front of me.

No, I don't fear God.

I trust Him above all else.

And I trust this bursting heart He gave me -- if I follow it, I cannot go wrong.

"...you need trust in your heart to have trust in others. Without foundations buildings fall."

Friday, November 28, 2014

.Hurricane.


What's the use in wanting? I talk too much, feel too much, am too much.

And no one stays longer than a season for when my weather turns cold and ugly they depart for sunnier places where flowers always bloom, forgetting that the cold won't last forever.

Forgetting or not caring, but I can blind you with the shining of my soul if you just wait for the spark; as fast as the storm in me rolls in, the clouds part.

Make the best of my rainy days, for nothing grows without rain. Dance in my puddles, let me sing you to sleep.

Every paradise sees a hurricane.

Saturday, November 22, 2014

.Muses.

You can't be afraid if you're going to be a writer. You can't have shame, you can't have doubts. There's no caution in art...only passion. You write what you know; you write what you want to know. You make the adventures, and make them grand. You make people fall in love and you make them fall apart.

That's life, too; all those moments when you have to make the choice between listening to the voices that say you shouldn't and the electricity that starts your heart back up when you've lost the inspiration to really live.  

What do you want to write? What do you want to live for?

Sunday, October 5, 2014

.Love, Part Three.

Love is the root of all things.

It is the reason we cry at weddings and break-ups, the reason we cry at births and funerals. We symbolize love with a heart, because the heart is the organ of life -- love keeps us alive, and there are more kinds of love than there are kinds of anything else in the world.

I don't use the world lightly. When I say, "I love," it's because that something or that someone genuinely makes my heart skip a little beat.

I love my Momma. I love my son. I love my horse. I love my dog. I love Jesus. I love a good, honest sin. I love tea. I love makeup. I love sleep. I love October. I love sunbathing. I love high heels. I love slippers. I love my Dad. I love my son's Dad. I love all the people who have ever broken my heart. I love Home. I love Texas. I love the rain. I love the desert. I love being alone. I love the idea that someday I might not be alone anymore. I love total strangers. I love characters in books. I love my memories. I love my daydreams. I love lightheartedly. I love more deeply than can be fathomed.

The list could go on and on and on, literally.

And when I think of it like that, think of all the things that I truly love and all the happiness that comes to me in those things, and my heart is swollen with complete joy and gratitude, I cannot understand how anyone can even utter the word, "hate." I am guilty, of course, and my own hypocrisy on the matter makes me want to ban the word from my household because I don't want my son to know the meaning of it.

Love things. Love people. List the things you love, just for the hell of it. When you're hurt and there's been a shadow cast on you, think of how powerful it is that you have the capacity to love so much that you can feel pain when it's gone. (I'm pretty sure I got that from an episode of South Park.)

Most importantly, never stop loving -- your family or your shoes or the seasons or your church, your job, or your football team, whatever it is that makes your heart skip a beat -- because it's easier to find happiness in the love you give away than it is in the love you hope someone else will give you.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

.Me, In The Words Of Others.

“I could see why Archimedes got all excited. There was nothing finer than the feeling that came rushing through you when it clicked and you suddenly understood something that had puzzled you. It made you think it just might be possible to get a handle on this old world after all.” 
― Jeannette Walls, Half Broke Horses

“I suppose I really seemed mad, then; but it was only through the awfulness of having said nothing but the truth, and being thought to be deluded.”
― Sarah Waters, Fingersmith

“You have a spine of steel and fire in your eyes... To have such a quality, one must be shaken to the foundation of one’s soul and put back together. I want to know how you emerged from hell made of steel and fire.” 
― Moriah Densley, Song For Sophia

“But she had learnt, in those solemn hours of thought, that she herself must one day answer for her own life, and what she had done with it; and she tried to settle that most difficult problem, how much was to be utterly merged in obedience to authority, and how much might be set apart for freedom in working.” 
― Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South

“Being a woman is a terribly difficult task, since it consists principally in dealing with men.” 
― Joseph Conrad

“I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.” 
― Anaïs Nin

“I would always rather be happy than dignified.” 
― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

“Better to be strong than pretty and useless.” 
― Lilith Saintcrow, Strange Angels

“I hate to hear you talk about all women as if they were fine ladies instead of rational creatures. None of us want to be in calm waters all our lives.” 
― Jane Austen, Persuasion

Friday, September 12, 2014

.Even The Moon.

I know I don't have much to say these days.

All the tortured-soul things I could spin sentences about once upon a time have kind of spun themselves out. No heartbreaks, no misadventures, no done-me-wrongs left; let's face it, batshit crazy has kinda been my thang for, well, ever...and batshit crazy makes for good stories. What does a girl write about when she can't write about chainsmoking and whiskey and doing all those gloriously debauched things that make a her simultaneously hate herself and feel invincible in the morning? 

I can't say. I don't know. A zebra can't hide her stripes, and my particular brand of dysfunction is as "me" as my green eyes...to sweep it under the rug completely would be to reach Stepford-wife levels of fakeness and I just cannot do that. I also can't go back to being Momma-Before-She-Was-Momma. There's a little boy who deserves far better than that cuckoo-bananas bitch.

So I keep my crazy a little more just-for-myself. It's in the perfume I wear that's just a little too sexy for daytime, in the black nail polish that I reach for more often than not; it's in the "hey, remember when?" conversations I have with old friends, and the last bittersweet thoughts I have of Metallica and Marlboro Reds before I fall asleep almost every night. It's in my iTunes playlist where you'll find more heavy metal than mushy love songs, in my favorite Tim Burton movies, and in the fact that my favorite words are still very unladylike ones that I say as often as possible when tiny ears aren't around to hear them. It's just half a bubble off plumb...

...but hell, even the moon has a dark side.


Saturday, September 6, 2014

.Conversations With Myself.

"Powder your nose, paint your toes, line your lips and keep 'em closed."

You're spending more time on social media than on life, delete the apps and pick up a freaking book.

There is really no need to drink THAT MUCH Mountain Dew, and cookie dough is not the breakfast of champions. ((Except on Saturdays, because...just because.))

Seriously girl...moisturize, moisturize, moisturize. You already stay up an hour past your bedtime to read that book every night, what's another 10 minutes? You look like Rango.

FLOSS, for shit's sake. Mouthwash doesn't cut it, and your dentist WILL notice.

I don't care if you only scribble out three words today and you misspell one of them. You need to write.

Little Sam doesn't hate you. His gums hurt and he doesn't feel well. Just hug him tighter because he needs his momma more than ever.

That mascara makes your eyelashes look amazeballs. Put on two coats. Every day.

I know wearing that stubby french braid all the time sucks , but your hair's growing so fast. Don't give in.

You may not feel like it but you're doing a good job. Though it always feels like there aren't enough hours in the day or dollars in the bank, you've got a happy baby, a good ink pen, and your bills are paid on time. 

Everything is a process. Keep going -- don't quit yourself yet.

Friday, June 13, 2014

.Watering My Own Grass.

I feel like ranting tonight. That's what happens when you fight back at depression...all the crap you've been holding in and shoving down has got to come out.

Here in the last couple of days some couple's wedding party photos have been popping up here and there on my Facebook feed. Obviously a few characters from the past have escaped my slapdash, anxiety-fueled delete-and-block sessions because I sure as hell don't want to see any of those mugs on my iPhone screen.

They're people I used to know; some of them, I used to care about with a good-sized chunk of my prickly little heart. Others are the ones they care about, the ones I'd near self-destruct trying to compare myself to because they took what I thought I had. Man...so much ugly history in one amateur shot. For half a second I thought I'd be sick to my stomach, then I came back to the real world.

What the actual f*ck was I thinking?

Looking back, all that time period was to me was five years of pain and confusion and a drinking problem I passed off as just being young and having fun. It was stupid. It was a polluted, piddly little cesspool of revolving-door drama where everyone dated everyone's ex and hung out at the same two stupid bars getting soup-sandwich drunk and trying to make someone else jealous. Going further, all I ever was to the group of people I once would've done anything for was a filler of space, perhaps a bandaid for some bruised ego. I was good-looking, pretty sharp and kind of funny, and my self-esteem was just low enough to ignore everything glaringly wrong with that picture. 

I thought I'd be happy if I could find a place to fit in there; if I could only prove I was worthy of being a part of them, grass being greener on the other side and what-not. But their yards are littered with TRASH. It looks like they're having a hell of a party over there, I guess, but I wouldn't want to be the one picking up after them when the party's over.

I'm over here working on my own itty bitty lawn. The grass is just starting to grow, but the sprinklers are on and I've started planting flowers. My grass has baby toys scattered on it, and a spotted dog. I'm working hard to make it nice, and to make it my own. 

If I sound bitter, I absolutely am. Not at them, but at myself. How could I let that happen to me? How dare I let them treat me that way! How dare I become the kind of vicious person who would bite back at them and give them fuel to burn me with? Then again, that self-loathing and insecurity lead me to the place where my baby came from, and without him I'd still be lost.

The only face in those pictures that matters to me has the same nose and ears and blue eyes as my son, and the few memories I have there are ones I just have to learn to live with. The rest of them, though, can stay the hell off my lawn.


Tuesday, March 25, 2014

.Updates From The Bath Tub.

I never post anymore because every time I sit down and try to write, it ends up being very mom-y and this is not a "mom" blog. At least that's what I tell myself as I'm furiously backspacing. I have such contempt for those blogs; aren't their lives just a big freaking ball of rosy sunshine? My kid has a rash on his head of undetermined origin and a couple days a week I practically bolt out of the house, drive as fast as I can to the nearest gas station, and hide out in my pickup and cry while inhaling some kind of Hostess snack. 

Pin that on your perfect Pinterest-board life, Super Mom.

I f**king love my son; intensely, overwhelmingly, rabidly, with-every-last-frayed-fiber-of-my-being love him. I would rip off my own arms and feed them to the wolves for that boy. And it is the intensity of that love that makes motherhood such a trying experience for me. 

He cries. He wails. He hollers and bellers and shrieks. His tummy always hurts. He's so demanding and nothing ever seems to soothe him or make him happy. He can't help it...he has his mother's puny constitution. A lot of the time there is absolutely nothing I can do to ease his pain or to make him smile.

Good Lord, it makes me want to throw myself under a passing cow truck. I'm his mom for shit's sake...that's my job. The whole purpose of my existence is to care for that little man and provide for his every need. In my mind, to fail to soothe him is the most epic failure I could ever perpetrate (clearly he also gets his penchant for dramatics from me). Sometimes all I want to do is paint my nails or go brush the muddy crust out of my horses' ratty tails or sit in the bath until my fingers are prune-y. But that sweet little boy just cries. 

My mom and grandma are always telling me to just go do what I need to do, he'll be fine. They love hanging out with Wee Man. But I get this horrid raging guilt because I'm the one who went and got myself knocked up therefore I am the one that needs to be there, 24/7, to feed him, change him, rock him, play with him, bounce him, put his woobie back in his mouth...that is my responsibility and I can't stick my family with it.

It's ridiculous, of course. If I were to try to keep up with that charade I'd literally die of the exhaustion and heartbreak. Maybe someday I'll get it through this blessed rock-hard skull of mine. His Grandma and Grandma-grandma happily change diapers and give bottles and burpings while I go walk with the dog or drive to Sonic for a Dr. Pepper. I take baths long enough for the water to at least get cool before I get done, and sometimes at 4 in the morning when Sam will just not go to sleep, my own mommy dries my tears and tucks me in to bed and rocks my baby so her baby can sleep until the next feeding (postpartum depression absolutely feeds on exhaustion). Then I wake up in the early morning when there is just enough light to see my son smile that gummy smile of his at me, and I go about it all again. 

I'm not sure I'll ever be able to stop expecting so much of myself as a mother. I did as much before motherhood and suffered the same crippling effects when I couldn't make things go the way they were "supposed" to. In my mind, I'm smart and capable and so should just be able to do the things that should be done. 

Life doesn't work that way...this isn't a mommy blog.

Someday I'll be able to write again about things that don't have anything to do with having a child. Right now, though, that's what consumes me, so that's where the words will come from.

My bath water's getting cold...and I think I hear my baby calling.






Sunday, March 9, 2014

.Family and Friends.

This weekend, my son's dad came to visit him for this first time since he was born, and it was definitely a learning experience for both of us.

We never really had a relationship to speak of, and much of my pregnancy was spent at one another's throats about the situation we were in. He was there for the birth of our son (he lives in another state) and stayed with me in the hospital, but it was a very tense time and even in first few weeks after that I was very angry at him for a lot of things. Even so, he checked in every single day to ask how the baby was doing and I sent him pictures and videos, and I tried my level best to put aside my hurt feelings for the sake of my child. So when he told me he was going to be coming back home to Idaho to see Little Sam, I felt an overwhelming mix of emotions from anxiousness to excitement -- I wasn't sure how we were going to get along but I couldn't wait for him to see all the amazing changes our baby had already gone through in the six weeks since his dad had seen him last.

We decided that he would stay at my house rather than his parents' so that he would be able to get up during the night with the baby and spend as much time actually doing daddy things as possible. I wasn't entirely sure that I wouldn't smother him in his sleep, though he promised me he'd do his best to stay out of my hair. I wasn't convinced, but I knew the arrangement would be the best for Sam so I made sure the spare bed had clean sheets and gave the bathroom a half-hearted once-over with a Chlorox wipe.

It turned out to be the best decision we could make.

He learned how to make bottles and put Sam in his car seat, and how to give him a bath. He learned how to deal with Sam's fussiness, was there when our doctor diagnosed him with acid reflux and prescribed him medication, and he stayed up nights when Sam wasn't feeling well. When Sam could only sleep in his bouncy chair, his dad slept in the recliner while I slept on the couch, and when Sam was hard to comfort he rocked him to sleep and would sleep with him on his chest for hours, both of them snoring like freight trains. For a whole weekend we went everywhere as a little family unit. It was uncomfortable and awkward at times, but I remembered the good reasons that I had been so fond of him in the first place, and I watched him fall in love with our little boy and glow with pride when he showed his son off to friends and family. We were able to just be parents without any of the other bullshit getting in the way.

We are single parents. We will never be a couple. We have separate lives and that is how it will stay. But we are friends now, I think, and we are a family. His family is extremely welcoming and kind to me as the mother of his child, and my son is surrounded with love. I know someday that Sam is going to ask why his daddy doesn't live with us, but I don't fear that day as much as I used to because whatever the answer, he'll always know that Momma and Dad love him more than anything. He'll always feel that his family is whole -- even if it is a little different -- because we love him enough to put aside any differences that we may have had and put his best interests first. As a mother, that is one of the biggest blessings I could ever receive, and I will forever be grateful for it.






Friday, February 21, 2014

.Love, Part Two...A Thank You.

So it's about 4 in the morning and I'm doing that paranoid-mom thing where I don't sleep because I have to get up every five minutes to make sure my baby is still breathing, and so I'm also doing a lot of being on the internet to occupy the time when I've not got my ear pressed to my son's chest. Just a few hours ago I posted something on the blog and the feedback it's gotten has been pretty overwhelming, so I had to write this to express my feelings about all of the positivity I've received in return for just saying what's on my mind.

I'm not very good at making things up which, as a writer, is kind of a shitty trait to have. I can't count the number of projects I've started only to have them fizzle out early on, and this blog is no different. It started out as a place for me to air out my soul and get things off of my chest...I had piles and piles of what I suppose you can call essays or poetry or whatever it is that I write and they were just collecting dust on my hard drive. As it went on I tried to do the things my blogging friends were doing; motivational posts, reviews of stuff, lists, etc., but the response for those things just wasn't good. Personally, I think it's because it was obvious I was trying too hard to be a "blogger." I'm not a blogger, I'm a girl who writes from my heart and puts it on a blog for the world to see.

The "poem" I posted was a true story. Everything I write is true. It's kind of a mirror for me to examine myself in, to put these things out there in the open forces me to be honest with myself. As someone who has been dealing with deep depression and anxiety for years and years, it's pretty easy for me to just bury myself under the covers and hide. It's pretty easy to blame the mental disease for everything instead of facing it and facing the issues I've had and fixing them. I'm fucking broken; it isn't easy to admit to myself or anyone else. I could chalk all of my misadventures up to youth and just having fun, but that would be a flat-out lie and that's against everything I stand for. All of the mistakes I've made and all of the bad judgement calls were because of my brokenness, because I was looking for ways to fill the voids inside or to distract me from the tangled mess of a person I am.
Or was, I should say.

I'm sure as hell not "cured," but I'm better. I'm finding my way through my own bullshit to see that I'm a person with a purpose in life, things that I'm good at, and something worthwhile to say. I'm not ashamed of who I am or who I've been. I've had dark times I thought I'd never get out of. I've had times where I've used alcohol as a band-aid. I've looked at relationships as a meter of my worth as a woman, and I've chosen men who were physically and/or emotionally unavailable because I myself didn't know how to have a normal, healthy relationship...or I just didn't want to be bothered with one. The fact of the matter is that the sole reason I am a mother is a combination of all of those things. I had a baby completely by accident, and it came about for all the wrong reasons. I am at this precise point in my life because up until this point I have lived my life entirely "wrong." But the question becomes this: Is it really "wrong" if it has led you down exactly the right road?

I know deep in my heart that I am on the right road. It is a bumpy road, with many twists and turns and no signs posted along the way to steer me in the right direction. I'm driving this one by feel alone, but I think God is guiding my hand on the wheel. I think if I keep following my heart I'll end up where I need to go. I think if I keep listening to my gut, I'll be okay. Each day I travel one more mile and take in the scenery, and I mend just a little bit. I will probably always be broken, I think some people are just that way, but it isn't a curse anymore. It's the map I'm using to find myself. When you're wounded and the wound turns into a scar, the scar tissue is tougher than the skin around it. I am tougher for my scars, and I'll wear them proudly as a testament.

Maybe some of the stuff I've written or will write will hit close to home for somebody. Maybe some with find it pathetic or dramatic, maybe it might be too much for some to bear. But that I've written something that so many told me they were touched by only proves to me that I've been doing at least one thing right...choosing to live my life with complete transparency and baring my soul at the cost of my pride, being vulnerable when my very nature is to shut myself off and protect all my tenderest parts.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I am HAPPY. It isn't easy, but it's worth every blessed second. I will struggle, I will fall, I will get back up and I will keep going.
And I will write about it, because even when I feel like I have nothing, I still have the words.

Thank you to every single person who reads this, or has ever read it. It means more to me than you will ever know. I truly love you all.

Thursday, February 20, 2014

.Love, I Think.

I used to love the chase.
I used to love late night text messages and last-minute plans, a swipe of C.O. Bigelow peppermint lip gloss and pulling on my boots at midnight for an adventure.
I used to love empty beer cans in the back of my pickup and Marlboro Reds from his shirt pocket.
A Metallica song came on the radio. "I should marry you..." he said when I turned it up and sang along.
"If you were smart, you would."
He was probably joking.
I was probably not.
I used to love the dark side of mornings, shooting stars over the desert punctuating thoughts I'd have been better off not having, and the highway home after nights that lasted too long.
"I'm going to be on the wagon...I'll call you when I get to town next time."
"I won't hold my breath."
And I didn't.

I never really knew what love was.
In my mind Love was bucking horses and pick up horses and big loops and years of conversations in a language of what-ifs and probably-nevers, Seven and Sevens, you-should-come-see-mes and maybe-I-wills.
In my mind love was a possibility.
I never wanted to know what was in his mind.
I still really don't know what love is.

"I heard you're gonna calve out."
"That's a hell of a way to put it."
"I'm gonna lose service...I'll call you when I come off the wagon."
"I won't hold my breath."
And I didn't.

I can't stand the chase.
The phone doesn't ring anymore and I barely notice it...a year's worth of wagons and works have gone by since I wore that lipgloss. I don't even remember where I left it.
Sometimes I find myself craving a Marlboro red and the scent of smoke and booze on a breath that touched my face.
A Metallica song comes on the radio. "He should've married me..." I say, then I turn it up and sing along.
If he was smart, he would've.
The baby's with his grandma and I'm going ten miles an hour over the speed limit to get home.
Home is finally where my heart is.
At least that's a love I do understand.






Tuesday, February 4, 2014

.My Baby Glowed In The Dark.

It's been a while...oh, blog, how I've missed you!

Two weeks ago, at 4:58 a.m. on January 19th, I gave birth to a big, sweet baby boy and, since then, I have had precisely zero time to do anything. I am exhausted, I cry more often than my newborn, and I perpetually smell like baby pee...it's heavenly. But here I am, reunited with my keyboard and looking for the right words.

There were 46 hours of labor and a very difficult and, unfortunately, natural, drug-free birth (screw you, failed epidurals), but thankfully most all I remember is literally grabbing my son out of the doctor's hands the moment he came out, and marvelling at how big his hands and feet were. What a creature! What a glorious creature! His whole immediate family was there to welcome him -- his daddy, his Mee-maw and his Gee-maw (my mother and grandmother), and his Poppy and Amuma (his father's parents)...all sleep-deprived and overjoyed to meet little Sam.

These are going to be some spurrin' feet, someday...

The next few days were pretty rough. Both baby and I were still doing pretty poorly. At the hospital he had needed to have his blood sugar checked before every single bottle (although thankfully he was not born diabetic and the issue righted itself after a few days of regular feedings) and had to be on a phototherapeutic blanket 24/7 because of a scarily severe case of jaundice which continued a full week after we came home, along with daily visits to the doctor's office to have his blood drawn. My poor baby glowed in the dark.

On his "Billiblanket"...or, I gave birth to the Green Lantern.

But now, 16 days later, all is right with the world. He has gained almost a full pound since his birth and has grown almost a whole inch. He eats like a champ, hates baths with a passion, and is already trying to grow his first beard. He looks more and more like his dad every day. He's already growing too fast. As for me, I'm ready to go back to writing, reading, working out, and riding. I still have a month of resting to go before my doctor will allow me to do the working out and the riding, but I fully intend to get back to being creative as much as possible. More than anything, I'm ready to get back out into the world and do some adventuring...

I've got the best little shotgun rider I can imagine, and I can't wait to show him how wonderful life can be here in the high desert <3 p="">

Totally sleep-deprived and blissfully happy.