Little feet, little hands, little baby

My dearest Emily, The past few months have brought so much change for you. Watching you develop is amazing! Just a little while ago you could only express yourself with chubby smiles, clumsy hand gestures, and mournful wailing. But now, now you have all of this character pouring out of you. Each new event with you is an adventure and doing the same old stuff again just leads to new discoveries. We ended October with a trip to the zoo in Houston. It was here that I truly realized your future as a debutant. After grabbing our attention with indignant shrieks about our inability to properly identify the jungle cats you very calmly informed us all that it was neither a lion nor a leopard but a "key cat." You did this with a disdainful haughtiness unsurpassed even by Queen Mary when inviting her subjects to eat cake. I think my favorite part of November was discovering how polite you are becoming. We can prompt you into a "please" and almost all of your "thank yous" come of your own volition. I love the way they burst out of you as you excitedly receive whatever it is you have asked for. Grandma and Granddad worked so hard with you on table manners and have been successful in getting you to request that you be "es-cuesed" from the table upon meal completion. It is really quite cute. The most heartwarming instances of your decorum occurred over the Thanksgiving weekend. I spent Friday night after you went to bed making a wreath for our front door. You helped pick out the materials so it was a very pink holiday decoration. Upon waking you Saturday and showing you my creation you clapped a hand on either side of your face and exclaimed "iss so pwetty!" I got a response of equal rapture when I changed into my skirt and top for Granddad the Great's birthday/Thanksgiving Lunch Extravaganza. I truly felt pretty. I have to say, though, that your taste in music is a little questionable. I never would have imagined that at the tender age of two, one could memorize the lyrics to "Oops I did it Again." I have no problem with Britney Spears. I am, in fact, quite the fan. However, must we really listen to it over and over again for the duration of every car ride at the risk plaintive shrieks and tears for withholding this musical treasure? I really think not. Plus, it is just disturbing that you look at me with those big blue eyes and liltingly proclaim "I not dat inncent."

Solicited Advice

The problem I see is that you write the way you think instead of with a focused message.Stephen King, not the most literary, I know, says that if you want to write you have to read four hours a day and write four hours a day.

Is it Thursday already?

Why yes, yes it is. This week has flown by after taking two days off to start, work on and finish my criminology paper. I could attribute my procrastination to being that busy but really I'm just that stupid. In the end though, I'm pretty happy with the results. I turned that paper in at the literal last minute. It was due by 4:30 yesterday. I typed my heading and flew out my front door at 4:15. The four block drive took the longest seven minutes EVER. I parked on Southside and RAN to the Academic Building. I ran. Yes, the girl who believes running is an affront to the nature of the modern biped double-timed for a whole six and a half minutes. My lungs nearly burst as I took the stairs up to the third story and had the TA initial my paper as turned in at 4:30:47. Oh yes, 13 seconds from being late. Do they give out prizes for cutting it that close? I think they should. I ran for more than six minutes I deserve a cookie or a tiny gold-plated statue or a damn sticker. After that I walked in a deep breathing, burning lungs accompanied by hacking sort of way back to my car. I'm sure I sounded like I'd been a chain smoker for 20 years.

The second major goal of my two days as just a student and not a working parent was to get my passport. Allow me to burst out in skeptical laughter. I turned in my paper with 13 seconds to spare, do we really think I made time to get my passport. Negatory. However, on my way to pick up Emily I did manage to get the picture for my passport taken. Now let's ponder this for a second. I had a day off. I did school work all day. I had just finished running. Of course it looks like a glamor shot. How could it not? I am recovering from a bad haircut, am broken out enmasse from stress and had on no makeup. Wait, I had on lip-gloss. That's something. Regardless, it is possibly the worst passport photo taken in the history of identification photos. I look every bit the stressed, harried working student mother of a toddler. I love it. It is the perfect sort of picture to kick off my trip to the Caymans in January. It just screams "this girl is bound for romance in the islands." Yeah, yeah, I know what you are thinking: everybody takes bad ID photos. I do not. This is the girl who painstakingly curled, primped, make-uped and dressed for every drivers license photo. I am a disgrace to myself. But one who can laugh.

In other news, Emily is quite possibly the cutest child ever. Our usual routine is, pick up, get home and skeeze out before making dinner. Last night Em asked to brush my hair for the first time. So there I knelt on the bathroom floor while my tot clumsily ran her tiny little comb through my too-short hair. She even picked out a pony tail holder and repeatedly placed it on top of my head before pulling it off and exclaiming "no Mama, thas not wite. I messt it up." It was the crowning moment of parenthood. She finally gave up when Donna arrived for dinner but those five minutes were just perfect. They can only be topped by our nightly ritual when I lay in bed with her (child rearing critics be damned!) and she strokes my face until she drifts off. Somehow those golden moments make it perfectly acceptable to put off homework and take bad photos.

And fly away to somewhere new

Is there a place where we could gowhere the sun is always just about to set?I want to sit with you and watch a flaming balldip into the sea on a backdrop of dim stars that are just waking.I could look at you and breathe air that smells like salt and vanilla and some unknown spice.There would be a balcony where we would sit and I would be stillbecause the waves would act out all that is tumultuous within meand pull it away into the sea.Is there such a place for you and me?

And you, you don't even know what it is that you're fighting for

See my new icon? Isn't it fitting? I made it this week. I loved the (cynical?) humor of it, but the more I look at it... *sigh* It just captures the essence of tomorrow so perfectly. Every night this week has led to less and less sleep under the dread that will accompany my alarm clock in the morning. Tomorrow was not supposed to come. I was not supposed to stare at another wedding anniversary. It should just be another day. I digress. Tomorrow symbolizes the casualty of the world over when it comes to approaching love. The ease with which people back away from promises of eternity. *insert bitter laugh* It wasn't supposed to be like this. I do still love you. I can't tell you that because it will just lead to a spiral of misinterpreted words. We cannot be, but I don't think you know that. It's ruined. I stopped trying. I backed away from forever because I was tired. And love is inconsequential. It means nothing to feel it if you aren't in it. One day I hated you. For a second I hated you with all I had. And then it all changed. You can't go back after a second like that. It's like everything in a room has been moved a quarter of an inch to the left. You can't see the change, but you can feel it. And I let it all change. I promised. I promised and then I ripped us both apart breaking that promise. Somehow you still have me, or something like me, on that damn pedestal. Let me down. There is someone better who will sit there willingly. You're still fighting with me over something that isn't real. You have no idea, really, what you are fighting for...

Here's to the liars and the cheaters...

Well kids, I think I've made a breakthrough. Maybe even, dare I say it, grown up a bit. See, I've been dating. Sort of.And it would seem that in the beginning, when Jesse first left, I had the very good luck of being sort of looked after by people who were respectable. Some were partiers, I won't deny that, but they always helped look after me, didn't really take advantage of how lost and lonely I was, let me cry and whine and call or come by at all hours, etc. But now...Ugh. I have gotten to a point with some people where I would rather be alone, nay long to be alone, instead of accommodate their company. I am fully aware that this is a rather snobby thing to say, but seriously. I am sick of boys who want our time together to be a secret. I am tired of being asked for blow jobs or fielding inquiries about my undertbritches. And for goodness sake, stop trying to kiss me and whip it out at the same time. No, bigger is not better. No, I do not NEED to have sex to make me feel better. UGH Is there no couth left in the world? I just want to scream. Seriously, I am better than this. I know I am. I deserve better. Respect the fact that I have a kid and no, I cannot just "put her to bed early." So not only am I more appreciative of my original support network, I am resolving to be more selective about my company. I have definitely interacted with some high caliber people and have enjoyed my time with them immensely. Okay, here's to the liars and the cheaters and drawing boundaries.

Emily!

Stars appear in my eyes at the exact moment a toddler turns to my friend, throws open her arms and says "hug!" They sparkle when she gets on the phone to tell my best friend "goonight bye. sweet dreams goonight," and he thanks me for letting him talk to her because he likes my kid.