Walking on Broken Glass

It is not a good time to be a piece of glass in my house. Or to be a pair of bare feet for that matter. I don't know what it is, but as of late I have been breaking a lot of things. A lot of things that shatter into little pieces that can hurt you if you step on them. And there is always a little piece left to step on. I don't know what it is, but when glass shatters, at least in our house, with our tile floors, it does not matter how thoroughly the floor is swept, and mopped, and vacuumed, there are always one or two minuscule pieces of glass left lurking to inflict harm. Ryan has stepped on one of these pieces, I have not. I think I am the one that really suffered though, since I had to listen to him complain, and then clean the blood spots off the carpet.

It isn't like I haven't broken stuff before. I can destroy a set of wine glasses with the best of them, especially if they are nice ones. However, lately random glass things have been breaking in my hands. Last week I broke the eye dropper for my facial serum (yes I am old), a porcelain picture frame, and TWO jars of differetnpickled things (we eat a lot of pickles).

Tonight I was reaching into the fridge to grab something and I knocked an almost full bottle of wine onto the floor. In slow motion I watched it break into a million pieces. Now, I don't know about you, but WE DO NOT WASTE WINE IN THIS HOUSE. I thought about licking it up for a moment, but then realized I would badly cut my tongue, and that it would probably not be a good lesson for my new daughter. I mean, she'll learn about my personality soon enough. Anyway, back to the breakage. It took at least an hour to clean up the mess. I wanted to make sure I got every piece, just in case in the middle of the night Meg decides she wants to start crawling. I thought I had it all up. Of course, when I walked into the kitchen a moment ago there it was, that one small green piece, glinting up at me.

I guess that I could read all kinds of things into my increasing butterfingers: that my new motherhood is making realize how fragile life is, that my new motherhood is making me more clumsy because I am so focused on my daughter, or that I am more concerned about safety because of the babies. Yeah, I guess it could be all of those things, but I'm not that deep.

I am thinking that if this goes on I will have to replace the floors with bubble wrap. Or at least ban all glass items in the house. Damn it, we can't have nice things! I guess I can learn to appreciate box wine out of sippy cups. And pickles can be transferred from their jars to Tupperware before they cross the threshold. I mean, at least until Meg is old enough to wear shoes and weild a broom. It's the least I can do to be a good mother, and to keep Ryan from ruining the rugs.

Meg Warp

I don't know if any of you are aware of this, but babies are a huge time suck. I had a whole list of things to do today, like shampooing the carpets, starting on the long list of thank you notes, finishing birth announcements, and, of course, blogging. I actually had an interesting topic picked out that is not baby related. When I got home at 1:30pm I thought I would start on my tasks, after holding Meg for a minute. The next time I looked at the clock it was 4:45pm. And I didn't fall asleep. I spent all that time just looking at her little face.

Forgive me? Yeah, I thought you might. I just hope that Meg continues to use her cuteness for good and not for evil. I mean, that face could even make me vote for Palin. She wouldn't even have to have a good reason. Of course, that makes it sound like anyone could ever have a good reason for voting for Sarah Palin.

Yeah, I'm rambling. Time to go look at Meg again.

The Race Card

I don't know if you've noticed, but Meg is black. Or African American if you prefer. Whatever you want to call it, Meg has a very different skin tone, and very different hair than Ryan and me. I would love to say that it doesn't matter, and that no one really questions it, or says anything, but that would be a lie. In fact, the first thing most people ask (after commenting on how Meg is the most beautiful baby in the world, of course), is to ask the ethnicity of her birth parents. When I say they are black, sometimes they ask how dark they are, and how dark we expect Meg to be.

Yeah, I know. It's 2009.

It isn't that I think people are being racist. Well, maybe some of them are, I don't know, and in this case I want to give people the benefit of the doubt. I think people are actually trying to be complimentary when they say that "black babies are always the most beautiful," or that she has a perfect "Nubian head."And it could just be that I am being overly sensitive, expecting people to be racist, and so looking for it in any comment. After all, they can't make comments about how much she looks like me or Ryan, and they have to say something, so the race question is an easy one. Also, I think that we have spent so many years trying to pretend that race is not an issue, that we are all "colorblind" that people are not aware of when a line is crossed or something inappropriate is said.

Like it or not, race is still the central dividing line in this country. Being Caucasian, Ryan and I have had years to not have to really address the issue, or say we are involved in the fight for civil rights without actually having a stake in it (well, we've always had a stake in the the fight for equality, after all, who wants to live in a world with racism). All of that changed the day Meg was born. Now we have a big stake. Well, actually, she's only six pounds nine ounces right now.

Ryan and I are handling the race issue in our typical ways. Ryan is approaching it cerebrally, reading articles and books, and talking about how to introduce Meg to the discussion on race, and how various prejudices will impact her life, and ours. I, on the other hand, am taking a simpler approach: I am focusing on the day to day aspects of Meg's ethnicity, worrying about her hair and skin. Oh, and if anyone tries to hurt my daughter, or tell her anyone is better or worse because of her because of her race, I plan to punch them, hard. Ryan says that will teach Meg that differences can be solved with violence, and so I told him that will make sure she is out of sight before the punching begins.

Actually, I don't know how I am going to handle the race issue, which is probably why I am so full of rambling bravado about it. All I know is that right now I look at my perfect daughter, and I couldn't care less what color she is, as long as she doesn't turn purple because that means she isn't breathing. However, I know that I am going to have to care about what color she is, because it is part of who she is, and because, like it or not, it is a big part of how others will see her. To try to ignore it, to not realize her hair and skin are different, and must be treated differently, would be a disservice. So would not preparing her to face ignorant bullies trying to bring her down using arguments that have been disproved hundreds of times before.

I know I am up to the task. I have already ordered books galore to help her understand, and every hair product under the sun to make sure she is well kept. Oh, and we might as well get stock in Cetaphil lotion for the amount we use on her skin. These will be the first tools in my arsenal, which I am sure will get bigger as Meg gets older. For now though, I figure the best defense is a good offense. I just answer people's questions directly and honestly, and hold my baby tight.

Animal Kingdom No More

I thought Sally would be happy about Meg's arrival. After all, with a baby in the house it is exponentially less likely that will we torture her ever again in order to wish our friends and family happy holidays. Also, I know that Sally is a big fan of all dropped food, and is well aware that kids are the biggest provider. While Meg does not yet look like a kid, I thought Sally, being the brilliant dog she is, would know that Meg is in the larval food dropper stage. I really thought Sally would be happy.

Oh, how wrong I was.

Sally, it turns out, is not a baby dog. Now, she isn't one of those rabid baby hating dogs that some are, tearing apart rooms and posing a threat to children. No, Sally is much more aloof and calculating than that. Her approach has been that if she ignores Meg, she will go away. For the past 19 days Sally has looked directly at Meg a total of 4 times. She has sniffed her butt three times -- which I took as a good sign -- until, after the last approach, Sally curled up her lips like she had just smelled the core of hell.

While Sally ignores Meg, she does let us know just how she feels, albeit in her own way. When Meg cries at night Sally gets off the bed, tossing us a "that's your problem" look as she goes. She also (save for one occasion, documented for the courts below) refuses to sit/lay with the person holding the baby. That person is covered by an invisible baby shield in her mind until Meg is put down -- even if said person is holding chicken as well. Yes. Sally is willing to ignore chicken for her cause. Her resolve is that strong.

There are really only two things Sally likes about Meg: formula and stuffed animals. Sally is a big lover of milk, mostly of the cereal bowl on Sunday mornings. This last Sunday Ryan decided to have a sandwich instead, so there was no milk, but there was a bit of formula left into the bottle. Into the bowl it went, and Sally found a new favorite. Now she licks the sheets, and the burp clothes whenever she smells it on the cloth. I think she would lick Megs lips -- if she were actually to admit Meg exists.

Of course, the fact that Meg does not exist in Sally's mind means that all of the stuffed animals being brought into the house are for dog use only. For the most part we have been good about keeping them away from becoming Sally's bitches, putting them into the crib where Meg will eventually sleep. However, the other night we got a little sloppy. Ryan's brother and his wife brought over an enormous white bear. We set it in the child bouncy seat, and then left the house for dinner. When we came back it was all over.

We just let her have it. It was easier that way. Also, we figured it was a small price to pay considering that Sally is reacting the best out of any of the animals. One of the cats, Alice, placed a perfectly severed mouse head on the porch the day after Meg was born. The worst part? No gift receipt. At least he brought a present though. Our other cat, Rita, couldn't figure out how to write a formal letter of complaint about the baby, so she just peed in her room. We have since put up a baby gate at the door. People come over and ask if we are already baby proofing. We respond that we are just asshole cat proofing.

I think all of them will start to appreciate Meg when we bring the chimpanzee home next week. We don't really want one, but it's cheaper than finding a nanny...

Mommy Blog? NO!

I really don't want this to be a Mommy blog.

Not that I have anything against Mommy blogs. There are some that I enjoy very much. Of course, there are also others that make me want to slit my wrists and start pushing for the sterilization of everyone on the planet. It's how I feel about most styles of blog though, whether they be about celebrity gossip, home decorating, sex, or NASCAR (haven't really seen a lot of those though). No, it's not the genre as a whole that makes me want to eschew being a Mommy blogger, it's just that I never intended this blog to fall into that category. Just because I have a child now (and a really cute one at that, really I feel bad for other babies), and I like to talk about her, I don't see why I have to move to the Mommy blog ghetto.

Maybe it's the name "Mommy blogger." It implies that there is nothing more important in that person's life than their children, and writing about the cute things they did. That they are defined by their children. Look, I love my daughter, and there is definitely nothing more important in my life. However, there are a lot of other things that interest me, and that I want to write about. For instance, did you know that 2009 marks the 25th anniversary of the movie "Goonies?" Yeah, I have been working on a witty piece about that crappy flick and how everyone around me loves it for some time. Or, how about the fact that Tara and I have decided never to go hiking together because it might end with one of us killing and eating the other. And I am not talking about climbing Everest, I'm talking about walking up to a small lake in the mountains. That could be a multi-part post. Oh! Or how about television shows where the main character is a total douchebag, but you still watch because of the supporting cast? "How I Met Your Mother," anyone? That post will be comedy gold!

Hmmm.

Meg is definitely more interesting than all of those things.

Oh, and she did the cutest thing in her sleep last night when she yawned and then put her hands over her head like she was a professional wrestler! You should have seen it!

Fuck. I might be a Mommy blogger. At least for the next six months. Can you blame me, though? Just look at this face...It's just not fair to ugly babies. I know. And you can totally tell she wouldn't put up with that "Goonies" claptrap either. Nope, She's going to be a "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure" fan, just like her Mom... Maybe I can get a post out of it!

A Different Libby

I have been a Mom for almost two weeks. How time flies when it is all spent looking at a little sleeping person. I still am not used to the title of "Mom" and when someone says "You're a Mother" I usually stand there waiting for the last word of the sentence. While I am not quite inhabiting this new role like a second skin just yet, I have learned quite a few things about myself, and about how morphing into a Mom has changed me.

1. People interpret carrying a baby as a sign to make small talk. It does not matter where you are, or what you are doing, if you have a baby with you, people will approach and want to talk about said baby, or others of the baby kind. I could be performing brain surgery AND getting a pelvic exam, and if I had Meg with me someone would approach to talk about how small she is, and how their babies were so much bigger.

2. No one wants to talk about me any more, and I really couldn't care less. I like talking about myself. I know, that comes as a surprise seeing as I have a blog named after me and all. However, since Meg was born the closest anyone has come to asking me about myself is to inquire how much sleep I am getting because of her. I don't mind though, because in my mind there is nothing more interesting than Meg. I don't even look at myself in pictures any more to judge how crappy I look. Instead my eyes just instantly go to Meg, and she always looks awesome.

3. I can do a lot of stuff in my sleep. I already knew that I can eat in my sleep, and talk, make phone calls. In the past two weeks, though, I have learned I can also change a diaper, swaddle a baby, make a bottle, shower, dress, and do my hair, and drive to work. Oh, and I am pretty sure I produced most of today's news in a strange state of REM. I'm not sure if I am writing this post in my sleep. I will let you know when I wake up.

4. You can never have enough onesies. At this writing Meg has approximately 10,346 onesies. She has enough that she could wear four a day 70 years and never repeat. I know this because she wears about four a day, and we aren't even through half of them -- and those are just the newborn size. There are a multitude of reasons she goes through so many onesies a day, but the main one is the fact she is a messy eater. She cannot go through a bottle without spilling some on herself. It makes me so proud. I can hardly wait until she is spilling on Old Navy shite t-shirts just like me.

5. Being a parent is better than I ever imagined. I actually stole this one from Ryan, but I would say I have to agree. After all the years of trying to have a family, having one really rocks, though not necessarily in the way I thought it would. It's less about me, and more about us. I don't know. I don't think there is any way to really explain it without sounding like a Hallmark card written by a douchebag. It's really hard, and if I think about the whole "rest of our lives things" I get freaked, but I feel like I am doing the most important and rewarding thing I have ever done. See? Totally douchey.

I am sure I will learn a myriad of other things in the coming months and years. For instance, I will have to learn to do Meg's hair, which is, honestly, the task that freaks me out the most. I have already ordered a number of products and books to help, but I am still worried. Maybe I'll just ask the next person who stops me on the street if they know how to do African American hair...

Sleep

Man, can this kid sleep.

They say that parents should sleep when the baby does, but I don't think I can sleep 20 hours a day. And I really like sleep. I can take a four hour nap in the afternoon, and then go to bed at 10pm. If sleeping were a sport I would at least be a qualified amateur, and that's if coma patients were considered competition. I got nothing on Meg though. She is a sleep child prodigy.

As I sit here typing this Meg is sleeping in her bouncy chair. She has also slept today in her bassinet, on her changing table, and, of course, in the arms of her father, grandmother, grandfather, and myself. Since 8am she has been awake for a total of about 45 minutes. She has slept through diaper changes, feedings, loud music, construction next door, and a recreation of the moon landing done by Sally and the cats. Just kidding, we haven't been listening to music today. Oh, and don't think that because she is sleeping so much today she won't sleep tonight. She will, and she will only wake up three to four times to eat and visit.

Doing what she does best...

I would be worried about her sleeping patterns, thinking she is a baby depressive, if I didn't know that the only time babies grow is when they sleep. Meg needs to grow. She was still under six pounds at her doctor's appointment on Thursday, and none of the newborn clothes fit her yet. Last night I put her in a onesie to go to sleep, and an hour later notices she had completely squirmed out of it -- through the neck. We have all of these gorgeous little outfits, and they all drown her. I tried to put them on the cats, but they aren't having any of it. Meg has to get bigger so we can put on a fashion show.

While she may be sleeping, Meg is far from boring. She puts on the best show in town. She coos, and purrs, stretches, kicks, and sings. Really, she does everything but the second finale from "Rent." It makes it really difficult to sleep when she is being so cute. I sleep with one eye, and ear, open. I don't want to miss anything.

I can't believe she has turned sleep into an art form. Active, and passive altogether. Our beautiful puzzle, and she does it all with her eyes closed. How lucky are we?

I Forgot to Title This Post

Last night I got four non-consecutive hours of sleep. Today Meg had her first doctor's appointment. So, I think you can forgive me for not understanding the difference between irony and ironing right now. In lieu of anything witty, I am totally going to cop out and show you pictures of Meg's bath last night... It's a cheap shot, but I am tired enough to take it.

Not happy at first. Oh, and yes, I wear elastics on my wrist. If you had my hair, you would too.

She kind of warmed up to it, but still gave us the stink eye.

The towel is still a little big.

Mom (still not used to that) does the bathing, Dad does the comforting.

Sally is glad she didn't get a bath, but she still is waiting for the baby to go back from whence she came.

Okay, total cop out post is over. Maybe if Meg does not decide to hold a rave tonight I will be able to put a sentence together tomorrow...

Hangin' Tough

Many people have commented that motherhood is making me soft. Last night a woman from work came by to see Meg and said "You know, everyone who has seen you since the birth has said you've gone soft. I think they're right." I know she probably meant it as a compliment, but I still had to punch her in the throat. Tara told me that I might have to go back and recant previous posts because my attitude has changed so much. Again, another throat punch. Even my own husband has even jumped on the bandwagon, telling me that I keep posting about Meg I am going to have to change the name of the blog from "Libby Logic" to "Libby Lame." I didn't punch him in the throat. That would be too obvious. I want him to live in fear for a while.

I just can't help myself. Meg must be made of Prozac or something, because she just takes all the stress out of my body. I can't help but smile, and laugh, and make up stupid songs in her presence. I find it amazing how quickly time passes when I am with her, and how I can just spend hours looking at her face. This morning she looked at me, and I think really saw me for the first time, and I just melted. However, just because I am sweet around Meg doesn't mean there has been a tectonic shift in my soul, and that all of the bastards will be getting a free pass from now on. That's why I was almost happy when Ryan got a parking ticket yesterday morning. Better yet, it was an undeserved parking ticket. So, this morning, I kissed Meg good-bye, and went to kick some ass.

My number was 72. When I arrived the hearing officer was on 68. I had 4 whole cases to work up my righteous anger. The temporary permit was properly displayed! We are taxpayers! The government is improperly levying fines! Does he know I work for the news media? These statements were just part of my plan. I was considering launching myself across the counter like a spider monkey, but Tara said it would Ryan would be pissed if I got tasered six days after Meg was born.

Finally, number 72 was called. I went to the window, feeling every hair on my body stand up with the thrill of coming conflict. The hearing officer smiled at me. Dick. I plopped the ticket, and the temporary registration, opened my mouth and -- the dick cut me off. "What have we here," he said, "it looks like you may have gotten this ticket improperly." He typed a few keys on the computer, and stared at the screen. I knew what was coming next -- the bureaucratic run around. I girded my loins. "Yep," he said. I tensed. "I can see the tag in the back window on the meter maid's photo. She must have missed it. We'll waive this. Sorry."

I was shocked. Stunned. I had worked up a good head of steam, and now it was all for naught. I picked up the registration, and turned to go, disappointment oozing from my pores. Then, suddenly, I felt joy. I was happy this man had waived my ticket, and so happy about the world that we live in, and happy that Meg is in it. I turned, and now the hearing officer tensed, unaware of what I was going to say.

"Want to see a picture of my daughter?" Luckily, he said yes. Or else it would have gotten really ugly.

The Cult of Meg

One of the best things about having Meg home (other than how marvelously world rockin' her arrival has been), is how our community is rallying to welcome her. As I type this there are six people in our living room trading off holding her, and praising her every attribute. And this is day three of visitors. you should have seen Saturday afternoon. We almost had to hire a valet. Oh, and I am not being rude being on the computer, because they don't care if they see me or not. Actually, I am pretty sure I could leave and things would be fine. Meg is the star of the show, and I couldn't be happier. Honestly, if I could climb with Meg to the top of Mount Olympus and hold her out "Lion King" style for all the world to see, I would do it. People have called saying that they don't want to intrude, and that they want to give us time to settle in before they come see her, and I tell them all the same thing -- "we don't want to settle in, we want to celebrate."

My parents are (of course) frequent visitors, as are my sisters, and Luke. I think he and my Dad are having a contest to see who can hold her the most. The other night Luke insisted he couldn't leave because Meg had a hold of his finger. Not to be outdone, my Dad not only came over at lunch time yesterday, but did a "drive by holding" last night on his way home from work.

For her part Meg seems not to mind the hubbub. In fact, I think she sleeps the deepest when the house is the fullest, probably because everyone is so anxious to see her awake. She's a tease like that. She doesn't mind it when people unwrap her slightly to see her beautiful long fingers and toes, and sometimes even spreads her arms out without prompting as if to encourage people to "ooh" and "ahhh." She is a master of turning on the cute, and just when you think she can't pummel you with it more she slams you from the top rope with a sleepy smile or a long sigh and coo.

Meg's cuteness even forced Tara to book a last minute ticket and come in from LA. Funny, there are times I can't even get her to return a phone call. She has been a great help though, holding Meg while we run around the house getting things done, and cleaning up in places we just haven't had time to. The only thing that concerns me is that there is nothing in her suitcase but a Snugli, duct tape, and chloroform.

Oh, and the gifts! I really would not be surprised if someone showed up with gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Ryan has been meticulous about washing every piece of new clothing that comes into the clothes, and that means Meg already has more laundry than we do. Seriously, as of today, we could dress Meg in a new outfit every day for the rest of the year. That is quite amazing considering we only had one onesie in the house this time last week. People keep asking me what we need and I keep telling them I cant imagine we will need anything for this child, ever again. Yes, I know that probably is not true, but whatever else she needs cannot fit in this house right now.

While I do love the visitors, my favorite times are late at night when it is just me and Meg. Every night Ryan tells me to wake him up, and every night I just let him sleep. He has the mornings with her, and so 4am is time just for me and Meg. We talk, and stretch, and sing, and just enjoy being together. It makes the exhaustion well worth it.

Welcome, Meg. We are so glad you are here.

The Baby That Changed Me

I am lying here on the couch with my dog, my laptop, and my daughter. Words cannot express the joy and contentment I am feeling. Really, I think her breath must contain Prozac. All of the cliches are true. The world feels different. Time goes faster. I don't care about eating or sleeping, I just want to be with her. And really, how could I not? Just look at this face...
Her name is Mary Ellen Grace, but we are calling her Meg. She was born on Thursday at 12:36pm and weighed in at 6 pounds exactly. She is 19 inches long and most of that is legs. She has long fingers and toes, and LOTS of hair. She doesn't like to take big feedings, preferring just to "snack" every hour. It is a practice we are trying to change.

So in love. So Mushy. Don't even mind it.

Update: Update

Papers are signed. We take OUR DAUGHTER home tomorrow.

Update

We are here at the hospital, waiting to sign papers to make a beautiful baby girl legally ours. I cannot express how hard the last 36 hours have been. First of all, we thought we had two weeks until the birth, and second, we just can't wait until the uncertainty period (will the birth mother sign, won't she) is over. We want to take what we hope is our baby home.

We are not the only adoptive parents here. In fact, most of the rooms on our hall are for mothers placing babies; you can tell because they put a little gift package sign on the door. It's heartbreaking and amazing all at the same time. Here are these women doing the hardest thing they will ever have to do, and here are couples who are getting the gift they have been waiting for, in some cases, their whole lives.

The birth mother is wonderful. I almost feel I have bonded more with her than with the baby. Of course, that may have something to do with the fact Ryan won't put the baby down. The birth mother is smart, talkative, funny, and opinionated. I adore her. Last night we sat and trash talked TV shows until the nurses kicked Ryan and me out. Through all of this I really hope she knows how much we love this baby, and how grateful we are to her. We will always remember her, and not just because the baby has her dimple when she smiles.

Thank you for all your kind words and offers to help. I will post pictures when we get her home. Ryan will be in all of them.

Journalistic Integrity

I work in an industry that can be both ridiculous and sublime. In times of crisis people turn to the news to keep them informed, and let them know how to stay safe. The news also let's everyone be a part of important historic events, like the Obama inaugural, no matter how far away they may be. However, lately things have been trending more to the ridiculous. I think we all know what I am talking about. Really, the amount of coverage given to Michael Jackson's death made me believe he might rise again three days later. Of course, there are moments when the news becomes absurd due to common human error.

I don't know if it is a blessing or a curse that something as simple forgetting to use spell check can lead to public humiliation for the people involved. I mean, on one hand, it definitely makes you more careful. On the other hand, there is the public humiliation. While typos accidentally bring the wrath of the public though, dancing with a paper bear is just begging for it.



The people who put that story on the air consider themselves to be in the same profession as Edward R. Murrow and Tom Brokaw. I am thinking Murrow and Brokaw would probably disagree. Maybe not the people at Fox News though...

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have the Jackson funeral on DVR and plan to watch it until I have fully lost faith in humanity.

Panic at the Nursery

I was going to blog today about the absurdity of the Michael Jackson funeral, and how I just can't wrap my head around this absolutely insane outpouring of grief for a man that has been largely ridiculed and villainized by the very people now praising him. I think it's the product of a perfect storm of absolutely no other news and Jackson's ability to sell tickets, no matter what the situation. I was going to write about that, I really was. And it was going to be funny. Really funny. However, those plans are being thrown out, due to the fact I can't really focus on anything else besides the fact that we might be getting a baby, and the fact I am totally panicked about it.

For almost three years we have been working towards this moment. We have spent thousands of dollars on medical treatments and then adoption agencies, and thousands of hours in emotional turmoil over the fact out efforts have not been successful. Now, we are just weeks away from quite possibly becoming parents, and I am freaking out. Oh, and I am not just freaking out because we might not get this baby. I mean, don't get me wrong, that is causing me plenty of grief. The fact that we will not know if this baby is ours until at least 24 hours after her birth, and that at any moment the rug can be pulled out from under us has me constantly hyperventilating. Beyond that though, there is a greater fear -- that we will actually get to bring her home.

What if it turns out I don't really like children? I mean, I do like them, but what if it turns out I only like them in small doses? What if three hours after bringing this baby into our home I am waiting for someone to come and pick her up? What if I don't bond with her? If I always think of her as some kid who came to live with us, and not our own daughter? Worse yet, what if she doesn't bond with me? What if she hates me? I mean, it's hard to believe, but some people don't like me. She could be one of those people.

Oh, and then there is the fact I have gotten exactly NOTHING done that I wanted to do before the baby arrived. I have not lost any weight. I have not cleaned out the room. I haven't socked away near enough money. And now I feel like I don't want to do any of that. I'm kind of in a coma, and it feels like all I can do is think about the fact I am going to die.

I know they say having a child makes you immortal, but really, I feel the most mortal I ever have. The fact I could soon have a child shows I am aging, and reaffirms the fact I will die. Oh, and now I have to worry about this baby dying as well. Not just the big death either, but all the little deaths that we suffer throughout our lives, that this child will have to suffer, that I won't be able to protect her from suffering.

I think you can now see why I am not writing about Michael Jackson.

I am hoping all of these anxieties are only temporary. I am hoping that the joy and excitement of having a child I felt when we first began this process returns, and perhaps intensifies when she becomes a part of our family. That's what I hope. Until that happens I will just be taking deep breaths, and trying to keep calm. Oh, and maybe I'll finally start setting up the nursery. No promises though.

Generic Vacation Post

I am back from our road trip through Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming. For more than a week it was just me, Ryan, and Sally in the car, touring around, seeing friends, fishing, hiking, and eating everything that wasn't poisonous and we didn't have to kill with our bare hands. It was really nice to be away, and I was surprised at how fast the time went by. Now, all I have to show for it is a new roll of belly fat, and pictures. Lots and lots of pictures. And most of them are pictures you all probably have in your vacation scrapbooks -- even if you have never been west of the Mississippi river. Because, let's face it, any vacation involving the great outdoors requires that certain photos be taken.

1. The Random Landscape Do you know where that picture was taken? Yeah, neither do I. I mean, I know it was taken somewhere in the Utah/Idaho/Wyoming/Montana area, but other than that I am stumped. I don't even know why I decided to take a picture of it. Was it the clouds? Or the color of the shadow on the mountain? Or the green valley below? It is a mystery for the ages.

2. The Distant Animal Shot I don't know if you can tell, but those are black bears in the picture above. At least, that's what the ranger told me they were. Oh, and there were about a million people pulled to the side of the road to see them, and only bears get that kind of attention in Yellowstone. Elk will actually give you five bucks and let you sit on their backs if you take their picture, but bears are like the Angelina Jolie of the wild. I took this picture zooming in as far as possible with my little point and shoot, and then ran back to the car to show Ryan. "Where are the bears?" he asked. I pointed to them. "The blobs?" Yes, the blobs.

3. The Wildflower Close Up Because every snarky bitch has her soft side, especially if her camera has a setting meant to be used exclusively for photographing flowers.

4. The Waterfall I am almost certain there is a federal law that all waterfalls, no matter how large or small, must be photographed by anyone who passes them with a camera. I don't know why. I mean, it's not like we don't all know what they look like, or what the water is doing. None of them are especially unique, yet the idea that it is WATER and it is FALLING makes use all go for our instamatics. It's like we can't believe rivers have to obey the rules of gravity.

5. The Landmark This is the north gate of Yellowstone. You know, just to prove that I was in the park, and not taking nature photos just in some field. THEY ARE ACTUAL NATIONAL TREASURES, NOT KNOCK OFFS!

Those are just five of the more than 2-hundred pictures I took during the trip. Do you want to see the rest? Yeah, me neither... Go look at your own.

Hate PETA? Blame Libby

Today's guest post comes from Susanne over at Married Geeks. She also has a background in media, which gives her an excellent insight into just how crappy a person I really am. She also lives in Nevada, which means she has a lot of time on her hands when she is not playing Keno. I think those two facts come together nicely in this piece. Enjoy.

The whole news story about PETA being upset with President Obama for swatting a fly is one of the most ridiculous things I have ever heard in my life. Seriously? This shit was headline news!?

As I was reading these riveting “headline” news bits about how PETA was issuing statements about Obama’s “execution” of the fly, I thought here is a perfect opportunity to blog about some absurd topic and really put PETA in its place. We all know PETA peeps are preposterous, so it was an easy target, I know. I even swing to the left, but damn, these people are so far gone to the left they can’t even step out of their front door in their plastic shoes for fear they will step on a gnat, can’t even drive their leather-free cars because heaven forbid they hit a bee on their drive to get their raw food supply, and they can’t even do beer bongs at their bonfires for fear of spewing it back up on some unsuspecting ant that, let’s face it, was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

I sat down to do my research and found some really great articles like the one about how British scientists have come up with the perfect way to swat a fly. I was going to talk about the real news flash, you know, that flies are almost as big of a nuisance as PETA is! I wondered if there was a group of scientists out there that would invent a swatter of some sort to smack the stupid out of these people.

And then. Then I decided to actually go to PETA’s website to see this rant first hand. I’d go to the proverbial humanely-treated horse’s mouth to help me get all fired up, so I could get all smack daddy with their collective fur-free asses. And what did I see? An explanation that said THE MEDIA had hounded THEM for a statement the second the sound of Obama’s smack on his arm stopped resonating through all the news media geniuses’ heads. Granted PETA’s statement was moronic, claiming “the president isn't the Buddha and shouldn't be expected to do everything right.” Well, no shit, vegan Sherlock. If he were perfect, he’d be Libby, right?

So, I say if you are pissed off that the little fly that could(n’t) was headline news, I say we blame Libby, not PETA. After all, she’s all jiggy with the gnat-squashing, bee-murdering, carnivorous media.

Checking In

I am still on vacation, visiting America's natural treasures, and supposedly disconnected from the world. However, Ryan went to get sparkling water to mix with my box wine and I discovered the hotel has intermittent wi-fi, so I thought I would make sure none of my guest bloggers have burned the place down. Oh, and I thought I would share just a few of the awesome things I have seen during my time away. Don't worry, I am not talking about the majestic mountains, or the cuddly bears; I mean, we have seen that shit, but who hasn't. I am talking about things like this...

Is that the best sign ever? It not only lets you know that the road is uneven, but it reminds you of the fact that, no matter how well things many be going, life will always suck. Oh, just in case that isn't enough for you, there is this sign too...

It was specially made for Lindsey Lohan's first national park visit. I wish I were kidding. Moving on, the absolute best thing I have seen on this trip was not in any of the parks, and WASN'T EVEN MADE IN AMERICA! Feast your eyes on this little beauty. I mean, unless your name is Tara and then you will just be ruining your birthday/slash Christmas present. That is how awesome this little item is...

There are no words, I know. You just have to stand back and experience the awsomeicity of that canteen. I was hoping to see a real unicorn in the park, it turns out they are extinct.

Okay, time to get offline, go sit on the porch, and feed the mosquito population of Idaho. Enjoy the final guest blogger tomorrow, and after we have all celebrated America's birthday by blowing up small parts of it.