This is part of my practice I guess. Write something. Anything at all, just to get the cogs in my brain turning. Any writing is better than reading emails and mommy boards. After I clear this junk out of my head, maybe I’ll write another paragraph of fiction, LOL!

It is 7:10 and I have only just sat down with my first cup of coffee. Dylan will be awake any minute now. I actually don’t even have that much time anyway. I have to get our stuff ready to go to the Y.

Yes, I have joined the YMCA!!! They have free child-watch which Dylan absolutely loves. And their treadmills are like running on a cloud! I like to go in the late mornings, when it is mostly older people and other moms. There is a nice absence of beef-cakes at 10 a.m. I’m still finding it really weird to exercise in front of other people since I have been doing it at home for so long.

Dylan is getting older, his naps slowly diminish every month like the days get shorter in the fall. He will be two this summer. And then someday he wont be taking any naps at all. And Good Lord, I want to do this all over again with another? Yes, at least one more I think.

This, my friends, is why there is preschool!

Parenting (and keeping a sane mind while doing it) is a constant state of revision. Nothing works for very long and then you’re on to the next challenge, the next puzzle to figure out.

We kept our bedroom door closed this morning so that maybe Dylan wouldn’t hear our alarm clocks. It’s now 7:30 and he’s still sleeping. So now what to do about the neighbor who starts up her janky car about now every morning and runs it for 15 minutes?

This week I am learning to own the consequences of my own choices. All this came from one of the epic discussion/debate/fights that Jim and I have most Saturday mornings. I don’t know what it is about Saturday mornings, but that is when they usually happen. Saturday mornings, or when we’re in the car and driving near Mound Road in Warren. Who knows?

This weekend, our discussion/debate/fight was about how I can never accept criticism without then turning it around and telling him what he’s done wrong. I don’t know how that spawned the following realization, but it did – that it is NOT my husband’s fault after all! Whatever it is, is not his fault.

I have my own alarm clock. It is not my husband’s fault if I don’t wake up in the morning to write. I can wake myself up. I can make my own coffee, carry my own grocery bags and open my own doors. Just because he buys cheesecake doesn’t mean I have to eat it, although most likely, I will decide to eat it anyway. I can drive my own car, and as much as I enjoy my husband’s company, I can go out on my own sometimes too.

I hear a Pull-ups commercial in my head singing I’m a big girl now!

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the things he does for me, but somewhere in these past five years, I have stopped doing things for myself. I have taken what I wanted from feminism and but left the challenging parts.

So this week I have been setting my own alarm for 5:45. I hit the snooze button twice before resetting it for 6:30, and hit the snooze button one more time before I woke up, which was entirely my decision.

But in this brilliant self-accountability adventure, I have discovered that the earlier I wake up, the earlier Dylan wakes up! It’s maddening! Just as soon as I’ve settled down with some coffee, and even think about working on something, he’s awake!

I swear I am being perfectly quiet, but I think he senses our awakeness and wants to join in. Either that, or it’s both of us hitting our snooze buttons for an hour straight

Waking up early, before the baby, makes all the difference in the world. Just taking that one hour before he wakes up to gather myself. And now my brain is awake, on fire with ideas and creativity. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that there are beautiful plump snowflakes falling outside, and Dylan is happily watching Sesame Street.

Dylan is in this phase now where he CRIES when he wakes up in the morning. From the very second he opens his eyes until he has his sippy cup of slightly warmed milk in his needy little hands. It’s really not a pleasant thing to wake up to. He’s such a happy kid the rest of the day, but just that trauma of the morning really sets the day off on the wrong track. But I can deal with it after I’ve had my coffee and a chance to think. I think women can deal with anything after coffee and a chance to think.

So this rush of creativity and ideas leads me to this: I think my short story collection might actually be a novel. Not even a novel-in-stories, but just a regular old novel. And a good thing too, since there is no market for short-stories, and every time I tell someone I write short stories, they look at me like I have a slimy alien growing out of my ear.

Of course, here you are absolutely obliged to roll your eyes at me. Everybody is writing a novel. Everybody has a first chapter. Really, they do. I know it. I’m fine with it.

And then there is this: how do you write a story about someone who travels somewhere you’ve never been, without actually traveling there yourself? There being Japan. Because I have a toddler and such adventures are not really in the budget these days.

Milk from cloned animals is “virtually indistinguishable” they say. The “virtually” meaning that there is at least some difference, or they would be saying it is “absolutely indistinguishable.” I’m not saying it should or shouldn’t be done, but I am saying I want the right to know which milk it is, so that I might choose to drink it or not, and choose to give it to my family or not.

Send a letter to your Congressperson or Senator!

I voted for the soon-to-be first female President of the United States!

And I’m taking my hubby to have his kidneys poked and prodded and stones knocked out. And we are both nervous about that.

And I hope that Dylan is a good boy while we’re waiting. He usually is while we’re out, if there are nice old ladies to flirt with.

And to my writers group, I am sorry, but I am obviously not a writer this week. Maybe next week. Hopefully next week.

That is all.

I think this must be my first political post this election campaign.

I like Hillary Clinton. I think she is strong and intelligent, while allowing herself to be both angry and vulnerable at appropriate times. She is, after all, a human being. And I think that had she been a man and gotten emotional (which happens all the time), nothing would have been made of it. No one would be questioning her strength or worrying that she might morph into a blubbering fool. I think that had she been a man and gotten frustrated and raised her voice (which also happens all the time) there would have been no talk of what hormones were coming into play.

Have we really not moved past this yet? I am very glad she won in New Hampshire, but I am furious that everything is coming down to did she win because she stayed when her husband cheated? did she win because she cried? did she win because the women voters identified with her and brought out the vote?

I am ashamed of us! I am ashamed that this brilliant woman wants to be our next president, is willing to tackle this MESS that will be left when the Bush administration leaves office, and we cannot even give her the respect she deserves as a human being! What a novel idea that she might have won because she was the best choice!

In other news, there is a lot of garbage going on in the state of Michigan right now that I do not fully understand. On Tuesday, I am going to vote for Ms. Clinton in my state’s primary election. However, she will be the only leading Democrat to appear on the ballot because the others have apparently thrown a hissy-fit (or someone threw a hissy-fit) and are boycotting our whole state. Just because we (=someone who is not me!) decided to have our primary a little early. We will be allowed to vote, but it will not count.

Like I said, I do not understand the inner-workings of all that’s going on, but this is how it appears to me. My vote will be ignored, because of some ridiculous grudge someone has on us, and that makes me mad. Is that even allowed to happen in America? Isn’t this against everything we stand for?

Of course, I welcome information, if any of you understand this better.

Because it’s Monday, and Mondays are crazy for everyone, even stay-at-home moms, we’ll do a picture post!

Roses. I know, who hasn’t seen roses before? But these are my roses, and that makes them special.

I’m feeling a little bit frazzled today. I’m organizing another Biggest Loser kind of challenge with my mommy friends, and I have about 33 ladies this time around. That starts today, and hopefully I’ll knock off another ten pounds this time (minus the four that I’m making up from over the holidays, of course).

Frazzled also because my baby was just tortured at the doctor! His 18 month check-up went perfectly until it was time to draw blood for lead testing. Not a little finger prick, but a real in-the-arm blood draw! In his little baby arms!!!

She couldn’t get his vein in the first arm, and she couldn’t get it in the second either. And after about 5 minutes of trying, I said, no, we’ll try again some other time.

Ugh! He was so sad

And then he still had to get his vaccines! (A different nurse, thank God!)

So that’s all. But the roses are nice. They’re pink, and happy, and doesn’t pink make everything just a little bit brighter?

You must all cancel what you had planned this weekend, and IMMEDIATELY go see Juno! It was rated 94% Fresh on Rottentomatoes.com! I have never in my life been to a movie where people laughed so loud! It was so clever, and adorable, and hilarious! Go! I mean, as soon as you’re finished reading this blog entry

Now, calamari. Last night was the first time I’ve ever been served calamari WITH the squidy parts. I didn’t know what to do. The tentacles were right there on the plate, breaded and fried along with the rings. I was in shock. Jim said he felt sick. I felt a little bit put-off, though I continued to eat the rings, because dammit, they were good! Light and crispy with a hint of lemon, mmmm…

But the tentacles??? Do people really eat these? It was like seeing a shrimp with the legs and head still attached – they’re bugs! Or how some restaurants serve fish just as it came out of the water, with the eyes and fins and bones intact. Or chicken with the skin on, and sometimes you discover a little bit of a feather! No thanks, too much reality for me!

He’s watching The Backyardigans and they’re singing. It’s a surfer-dude kind of song, and they’re doing a surfer-dude kind of dance. He turns around to look at me and he’s smiling, as if to say, what do you think? It’s pretty cool, huh?

Yeah, man, it’s pretty cool. I smile and dance my head a little. He dances too.

Five years ago today, I married my husband. It was a Friday, at lunchtime, and the courthouse was covered in a foot of slushy snow. We were young, maybe a little crazy, and barely 2 months more than strangers.

He called his mom before we went – my dad and sisters were there. I was wearing an outfit from Express, bought on credit, with chunky black boots, and he had his shirt untucked. We had no mothers there to tell us we would later regret not looking nicer. The priest had liquor on his breath (my sister picked him!) but he did recite one of my favorite marriage quotes, purely by chance, the one that goes, “Eve was made not out of Adam’s head to rule over him, nor out of his feet to be trampled upon by him, but out of his side to be equal with him, under his arm to be protected, and near his heart to be beloved.”

Our wedding was perfect. The union was simple, so we had nothing to live up to, but just as much to prove as any couple does. I have been made an equal, I have been protected, and oh how I have been loved! Five years later, he is more handsome than ever. He is brilliant and accomplished and charming. He still makes me laugh every day.

I don’t always make as much time as I should to let him know he is appreciated. So here in my blog, where it is my business to be as corny as I want, for all the world to read –

I love you Jimmy! Happy Anniversary!