Now, he’s trying very hard to repeat everything that I say. It is pretty adorable. He’s got shoe and juice down pat, and he’s works very hard at naming colors. It is so cute to watch him work is mouth around green.

It is not about soaring feelings of love.
It is not about great sex.
It is not about common interests.

In the end, it is about time spent.
Upholding your end of the bargain.
It is in the little things.

Did you remember to get toilet paper? Why did you leave the can opener out?

It is about small gestures.
A smile when your eyes meet.
A pat on the hip as you pass each other in the kitchen.
Really listening.

These are my little things.

don’t let dishes stay in the sink overnight
keep house uncluttered
replace that rug that travels across the floor
unplug appliances when finished with them
keep the water kettle filled
keep the ice tray filled
always remember to turn the oven off
never leave the range unattended
make sure dryer door remains closed
make sure facets don’t drip
wipe up all standing water on counter tops
don’t drag kitchen chairs on the floor, pick them up instead
don’t overdo heater or AC use
always have macaroni salad and oatmeal cookies in the house
spend as little on groceries as possible
don’t bump the furniture as you walk past
remember his favorite recipes
always warn when food is hot
don’t complain too much about little aches and pains

See how all the little things add up to a big thing?

My follow-up appointment was for the following Wednesday. This time I was able to drive myself, though it still hurt to sit so I was grateful that the office was a short drive away. After the examination, the doctor determined that there is nothing wrong with my spine. Good news. What I have is irritation of the right sacroiliac joint, the joint wherein the pelvis joins the sacrum.  This is the joint directly beneath the “back dimples” that some people have. He also said that I have a “wonky” pelvis (his term, another reason I like my doctor) which has caused a leg length discrepancy. So basically my pelvis is twisted so that my left leg is “shorter” that my right. I’m basically having to step down with every step, which doesn’t help the wonkiness. My doctor prescribed yoga and pilates to realign my pelvis as well as recommending that I perform the runner’s stretch more deeply on the right side for the next six months. He said that I should recover completely with hard work as I am still, in his words, “young and flexible.”

A few years ago, when I moved up here to attend university, I lifted a heavy box while bent over and twisted at the waist, a variation of the same foolish moved performed by my father years before. I had lower back/hip pain for months after that, but it eventually resolved itself. I had a few minor flare-ups after that, but nothing noteworthy until my third pregnancy (second baby). At about 34 weeks I spent the day cleaning my house and cooking in preparation for a weekend visit from my best friend and her husband and a barbecue the following day. With this pregnancy, I was all belly and projected miles out in front, and by the end of the day my back/hip was sore and was walking all wonky, having to lean far to the right to lift my left foot. I was still able to function pretty much normally. This lasted three weeks and disappeared as quickly as it came.

My husband reminded me that of the 36 months we’ve been married, I’ve been pregnant for 22 of them. (In between my two babies, we had a failed pregnancy that lasted 2 months.) So basically for the last two and half years, I’ve been on a hormone roller coaster ride. These hormones, as well as passing two 9+ pound babies through my pelvic girdle, have caused my wonky pelvis.

Last Tuesday, as my back/hip pain subsided, I began to develop sciatica which at first was just annoying, but became painful. Doc said that he wasn’t concerned about it, because the sciatic nerve is probably irritated by the inflammation in my SI joint. But it has lasted a week and makes it painful to stand for too long, and sitting down for any length of time is right out. This makes it difficult to do my job (transcription) which requires me to sit at a computer. I figured out how to do it lying down, either on my back or my stomach. I had just started to get some freelance work when I was struck down with this. The sciatica is subsiding and is being replaced by foot numbness. I’m just hoping that these are simply the stages of healing.

I’m still finding it difficult to sit for any length of time, my hamstring burns and my foot goes numb. Nights are difficult because the pain and irritation in my SI joint wakes me hourly, and I can only really sleep on my stomach with a pillow beneath my hips. I tend to sleep best when I can shift positions freely. I’m doing yoga and pilates daily and really enjoying that. I’ve always loved exercise, and I’m already feeling the benefits of it after only two weeks. The doctor didn’t mention this, but I know that loosing the last of the baby weight will help. I can feel the strain put on my joints by that extra ten pounds. Every day is a bit better and I’m confident that I’ll be running that 5k in January. Race day, here I come!

I ended up laid up in bed all weekend, and my poor husband had to rearrange his plans for the weekend. He had planned on working Saturday because they were rolling out a new program or something or other (I really need to pay better attention when he talks about work). He ended up just going in long enough to get everything he needed to do his work from home, after getting our toddler up, feeding him, and making sure I had everything I needed.

And there I lay, on my back on a hot pad, studying the ceiling tiles. When I was laying down I had no pain. I felt like I should just be able to jump up out of bed and prepare my son’s lunch or make some oatmeal cookies for my husband. But when I tried to put my body into a standing position, head over shoulders over hips over feet, or any position wherein I had to support the weight of my upper body or put my weight on my right foot, I got zapped. It felt like a bolt of electricity jolted across my lower back, up my spine, and blew the top of my head clear off, leaving my limbs tingling. It is needless to say that answering nature’s call was excruciating, and I avoided doing so until I absolutely had to. I also avoided eating and drinking so that nature wouldn’t call on me.

I have been blessed with very good health my whole life. I’ve never experienced anything worse than a bad reaction to poison oak that required a trip to the doctor for antibiotics. (I am excluding childbirth here. It was voluntary and doesn’t really count as an illness.) I’ve never broken a bone, or needed to see a doctor. I have had what I thought was pretty bad back pain before (which turns out to be related to my current problem), but I was still able to function. But this was ridiculous! I hadn’t even wrenched anything as far as I could tell. I merely went about my motherly tasks, and bam! I’m suddenly an invalid.

Sunday I managed to stand and in much pain walk to the bathroom. I stunk, I needed to bathe, and I felt a long soak in hot water, along with the weightlessness, would help my back. I’ve never been more grateful that my husband is big and strong. I’m 5′ 9″ and still carrying some baby weight, and the man basically lifted, hefted, carried me around all weekend. I needed his help to undress, to get into the tub, to get out of the tub, and to get back into bed.

All weekend my husband kept telling me, “If it’s this bad, shouldn’t we take you to the emergency room?” All weekend long I kept telling him,” Back pain is not an emergency. I just need to rest. It’ll be bearable in a couple days.” As the hours ticked by and there was no improvement, I said this with less and less conviction. My father, an auto-mechanic whose back problems were caused by foolishly lifting a freakin’ automatic transmission (translation: bigger and heavier than manual transmissions) and twisting at the waist, used to have back pain flare-ups, and he handled it by laying on the living room floor on a heating pad for one or two days.

My sweet husband made an appointment for me to see a local DO that a coworker had highly recommended the following Monday. I was sure that I’d be well enough to drive myself to the clinic while the man stayed home with the children. Didn’t happen. My wonderful father-in-law (the same father-in-law who watched the newborn Jr for four months while I finished my last semester of college) came over at 7:30 am to watch the boys, and I hung onto my husband’s neck to walk through the house and out to the car, he bearing the bulk of my weight.

By the time we got into the clinic, and waited to be called into the examination room, my back had tightened up so badly that the technician brought out a wheel chair to wheel me in. When the doctor came into the room, a youngish man with Harry Potter hair and blue eyes, he shook my hand and said, “I can see you’re in a lot of pain.” I nearly broke down right there. I’d been trying to be brave and optimistic all weekend, but having someone acknowledge how much pain I was in was almost too much. He attempted to perform an examination with me in the wheel chair, but almost any movement brought on the electric jolt of pain I described above.

He prescribed a muscle relaxant and an appointment the following week, once the worst of the pain had subsided. Taking Flexeril meant being unable to nurse my baby, but I wasn’t much help to him in my condition anyway, so we bought some formula and picked up the prescription. The doctor said he believed I had a bulging disk and gave me a few stretches to do that were supposed to help.

Once home, after making our slow and painful way back into the house and blissfully laying on the bed again, my husband headed off to work and my father-in-law took my toddler for the day. So my 7 week old and I spent the day in bed again, alone. After a few hours, I managed to crawl/walk into the kitchen and back. At that point, I was counting every small blessing.

This is a benefit that has arisen out of experience. Having been through a baby’s first year before, I know that nothing lasts forever. Those sleepless night will pass, and I will sleep through the night again. With my first, I had this feeling of being tied down whenever I needed to nurse him. I regret this so much, because with my second I have learned to enjoy this time. I know that special cuddling time will all too soon be over. My firstborn feeds himself and has way too much energy to spend half and hour in Mom’s arms. Also, the crying gets less of a rise out of me this time around. I am fortunate because both of my babies are easily consoled.

I have grown accustomed to the idea of being a mother. I’m comfortable with it now, but any woman can attest that when you have your first baby, your life changes profoundly and permanently. I could write reams about this experience, but suffice it to say that this was one of the greatest struggles of my life. It was a good eight months before I began to feel like “myself” again. But this time around, I’m not dealing with such deep-rooted existential angst. Hence, a happier, calmer, more patient mama.

My baby was six weeks old yesterday. Already it seems like he’s been with us forever, and we’ve quickly grown into a new routine at home. It has been a wonderful six weeks. The first week was the hardest, mostly because my labor lasted 40-plus hours, and I was already exhausted. I averaged about 4 broken hours of sleep a night. The third night home, I slept not a wink. My husband was home for the week and was amazing. He took care of me and our toddler, making sure that the transition was an easy one. I concentrated on making sure baby got a full tummy each feeding and eventually we settled into a three-hour cycle of eat, wake time, and sleep, with no wake time during the night. Now at six weeks, our daily cycle is pretty much the same, but baby sleeps from 8/9 pm to 6/7 am with one or two feeding times. It’s been lovely.

Baby is a bit of a gourmet. I think he’s going to be a foodie when he grows up, because he eats so slowly, savoring every mouthful. He’s a little more efficient now, but for the first month it took a full hour to feed him. It’s cute and sweet and amazing, but sometimes I want to get things done. I have thought about using a sling during the day so I can be mobile while I feed him, but I know that the forced rest is good for me. If I’m too restless, I’ll read a good book and I’ve actually finished four or five in the last six weeks.

Baby is rather serious. He spends most of his awake time looking around, his little brow slightly wrinkled. But around two weeks ago, he started to simply light up whenever a face came within his field of vision. He gets the hugest toothless smile that goes all the way up into his eyes, and he talks to whomever is giving him the attention. His little coos and gurgles are the sweetest sound in the world, and I’ll often spend a half hour altogether entranced by them.

Most of the time people comment on his seriousness and expressiveness. Nearly everyone says, “He’s got such beautiful coloring.” He and his brother could not look more different. Junior got his looks from my side. He’s very fair with fine blond hair and brilliant blue eyes (even though I have dark brown hair and eyes, I have a lot of northern European blood). Baby looks like his dad who has Basque blood. He has dark curly hair, super dark brown eyes, and beautiful olive skin. I have my little golden boy and my little brown boy. They are both super handsome.

Things I want to remember:

• The way his little warm body melts into mine when I hold him.
• He loves to be held.
• Like Junior, he’s not that interested in a pacifier. I think that neither of them really saw the point.
• He’s much less frustrated by tummy-time than his brother was. I foresee that he will have greater patience than Junior.
• His smiles and coos.

My firstborn is doing so well. He adores his baby brother and can hardly walk past him without give him a kiss and a gentle head-butt. He’ll sit and stare at him and touch his little body parts. He also wants to poke him in the eye for some reason, but we avoid that.

Junior is nearly 22 months old and still doesn’t speak much discernable English but “talks” every waking moment. He babbles to whoever will listen and if there’s nobody to listen, he’ll talk to himself. It is the funniest thing. He loves toys that he can sort: blocks, legos, my old key chain collection. He loves books, and his favorite is Where the Wild Things Are. I think he likes it because of my silly attempts at sound effects. He’ll get very excited right before we get to the part where Max says, “I’ll eat you up!” because I always pretend to eat him up. This is the one activity for which he’ll sit still and let me actually cuddle him a bit. He’ll sit in my lap for hours and look at books. He is fascinated when his dad plays Wii games with his dad and brother, and will really get into what’s happening on screen, jumping up and down and shouting. It’s hilarious.

Junior is such a helper. He loves to throw things in the trash for me (on the flip-side, he loves to empty the recycling bin). He helps me move clothes from the washer to the dryer and tries to help me fold. If he notices that something is out of its accustomed place, he puts it away (even if it’s something he knows he’s not supposed to touch). I’ll give him a damp rag when I clean the bathroom, and he goes to town on the walls and door. He loves to empty grocery bags.

Right before Junior was born, my in-laws gave me a video camera and I’ve been very grateful to be able to capture some of these moments that I don’t want to forget.

Setting the stage: The birth of my first child came two weeks (possibly three weeks) late and was an induction surrounded by controversy. Even though I was so late, my parents thought it was a mistake to be induced, that the doctor was doing it for her own convenience (it was during the winter holiday season), told me as much, and so caused no end of stress to me. But that’s a different story. December 19th, I went to the hospital for the induction. It didn’t take. I spent all day lying in bed waiting and had no more than happy little painless contractions. After much deliberation with the doctor and nurses and friends and after some prayer, we decided not to go ahead and break the membrane, but waited another week hoping that labor would start on its own. It did not. December 26th, we were back in the hospital where I was once again induced with Pitocin. This time it took with a vengeance. They started the IV drip at 10am and exactly 12 epidural-free hours later, I had a beautiful blue-eyed, golden-haired baby boy, all stress forgotten.

With my second child, I fully expected to go into labor before my due date. I deserved it, didn’t I? I had waited so (im)patiently for the birth of my first. But once again I miserably saw my due date, August 19th, come and go. I think I can safely admit that I moped. But only for three days, because I actually went into labor on my own! We got up Saturday morning as usual, had some breakfast and headed out to our favorite used book store to do some shopping. As I walked around I noticed that my usual BH contractions had a different, more serious ”flavor” to them. I said nothing to my husband. False alarm. Probably nothing. We visited the brother-in-law. Still having contractions. Still probably nothing. As we left, I told the husband that this may be it, but we continued on to the do grocery shopping anyway. We walked around Winco and the contractions got stronger and closer together and by the time we were checking out I was sure that this was it. When we got home, I told the husband that I’d lie down for an hour to see if they went away. This was at 3pm. They did not. They were anywhere from 4-11 minutes apart. I laid in bed all afternoon timing contractions. My husband was outside playing with S Jr and hanging out with his brother, trying to keep his mind off of it. By 7pm, there was no longer any doubt. The contractions weren’t really getting closer together, but they were getting really painful. By 8pm, our first born was at his grandparent’s and we were on our way to the hospital.

I was in pain, but very excited and happy. This was it! I was in labor naturally and only three days late. I was sure that I’d have my baby by the next day. We got to Labor and Delivery and were ensconced in the triage room by 8 pm. Then the nurse checked me. Six hours of labor and I was only dilated 2 cm. I could have cursed at that point. I stayed for an hour to see if I would progress. An hour later, I was still only 2 cm dilated. The nurse should have sent me home at that point, but she saw how much pain I was in and let me stay another hour. And then another. We walked around the hospital and that did increase the frequency and intensity of the contractions, but I was exhausted and weak from hunger, not really having eaten since breakfast. The nurse checked me again and there was still no progression. Not even a bloody show. Now I was seriously pissed. I could not imagine suffering through the night, trying to sleep, with contractions that intense and with no end in sight. My midwife had the nurse send me home with a pill to help with the pain (yeah right) and a pill to help me sleep and a promise to induce me Monday if things didn’t progress. MONDAY? The same Monday that was 30 hours away? Yep, that Monday.

Saturday night, I managed to sleep between contractions that continued to increase in intensity but still came between 7-11 minutes apart. They needed to be 3-5 minutes apart. Our son stayed with his grandparents and the poor husband had to occupy himself. There is not much a man can do to help, but knowing he was there was enough. It was super stressful for him to listen to me moaning all day long. He cleaned the house. My mother in law came over with some Tylenol and did the dishes. I spent all day in bed until I couldn’t lie down through the contractions any longer and I moved into the easy chair into the living room. I found sitting on the edge was the most comfortable I could get. At 4:30 pm I sent my husband to his parents to visit our son and get something to eat. By 5:15 I had called him back again. The contractions weren’t much closer together, but I couldn’t stand the pain any longer. I’d been in labor for 27 hours.

We drove to the hospital again. By 7 pm were were ensconced in the triage room again and were very happy to see that we had the same nurse as the night before. Her name is Colleen, and she is an angel. I was only 3 cm dilated. I cried. She asked if I had pain in my back. Well, yes, actually. Ah, back labor. That explains it. See, when you have back labor you don’t progress very quickly because the pressure of the baby’s head is on the spine instead of on the cervix where it can help to open things up. Oh, and back labor freaking HURTS. Now with each contraction, my husband would press his fist into my lower back which helped ease the back pain. He was glad to have something productive to do. By midnight Sunday, I still had not progressed past 3 cm. My midwife had the nurse give me IV fluids (I still had not eaten much) and a shot of morphine to help me sleep and hopefully relax enough so that the baby would turn himself. By 4 am the morphine had worn off (though it hadn’t really helped much) and I sat up in bed until 6:30 am trying to keep quiet so that my husband could sleep. When the nurse checked me at that time, I was dilated 4 cm. Finally enough to be admitted. That was something.

When we first arrived, we informed the nurse that we didn’t want an epidural. I had had my first son without an epidural and I should be able to do it again, right? Natural labor is best, right? Well, by that point I had been in labor for 40 hours and was only dilated 4 cm. I was in so much pain. My baby would wiggle throughout each contraction making the pain worse. I remember begging the baby to stop moving. I remember saying to him, “Why do you hate mommy so much?” The nurse tentatively suggested an epidural. She assured us the risks were minimal, my husband and I discussed it, and we decided to go with it. It was one of the best decisions we ever made. By 7 am the anesthesiologist arrived and I was hooked up. Talk about an odd sensation. I could feel the catheter as it moved down my spine. By 8am I was in a state of bliss. I was hooked up to an IV that was pumping fluids, penicillin (I tested positive for GBS), and Pitocin, the epidural was doing its thing, and I’d never been happier. There is video of me at this point, and I am positively glowing. The contractions were 2-3 minutes apart, I couldn’t feel a single one (not to mention my entire lower half), I had a cup of delicious chicken broth, and I could actually enjoy my audio book, P.G. Wodehouse’s Inimitable Jeeves.

This was evidently what it took to get the baby to turn because three and a half short hours later, after turning from side to side every half hour or so, my second son was born at 10:32 am, August 24th. At 10 am Monday morning, the nurse (Janet, another angel) had checked me and found that I was 10 cm. Finally! She had me give a little practice push, but quickly stopped me because he was about ready to pop out. My midwife was on her way over anyway and they began to prepare for delivery. Once she arrived, the baby was out in five easy pushes. It was such a different experience than the first time. With my first born I had to push with all of my might for a good 45 minutes. With my second, they actually told me not to push so hard. My first born was whisked him away to clear his throat and mouth and to wipe him down before I got to hold him. My second was placed onto my chest the moment he was born, and I held him as he was cleaned. After such a long, hard labor, his delivery was a merciful and beautiful one. The next day we were all released and came home to start life as a family of four.

They say that labor the second time around is shorter. Bull. They say that going into labor naturally is easier. Also bull. After having an epidural, I can no longer be a “natural labor” snob. Oh well. I have my beautiful boys and I am the happiest woman alive. It was 40 hours of hell, but I’d go through 400 hours for my beautiful new baby boy.

As I think and write at the same time, it occurs to me that my anxiety on this point may be partly related to the extraordinary pressures that women face in their lives. As wives and mothers we are expected to be so many different and sometimes seemingly opposing things. We are supposed to be strong, but soft; assertive, but not bitchy; kind, but not a pushover; intelligent, but not showy; empathetic, but not emotional. We’re to be Martha Stewart in the kitchen and a playboy bunny in the bedroom. We’re supposed to take care of the household, but also find time to take care of ourselves. The list goes on. (BTW, I do understand that men face their own set of struggles, I can see them play across my husband’s face at times, but these are the ones that I have to deal with.) I have so many things to take care of in a day, that sometimes I get nothing done.

I desire above all to be an example to my boys of womanhood at its finest. I don’t want my sons to be momma’s boys. I want them to grow up and not need their momma for anything but love and support. They will be taught to take care of themselves in every mundane way, from grocery shopping and cooking to laundry and house cleaning. These things they will learn. But more than that I want them to appreciate a woman who reads, who thinks about more than her appearance. I certainly won’t have to teach them to appreciate a woman who takes care of herself physically, that will come naturally, I’m sure.

I suppose also that much of my anxiety is based on how well I know myself and my own failings, the biggest of which are a tendency towards absentmindedness, poor listening skills (both of which are family traits), and a hint of laziness. Absentmindedness can be cute in small doses (“Oh how funny, she drove all the way to the store and got all the way up to the cashier before she realized she forgot her wallet”), but on a daily basis it can create problems, especially if you do things like leave the range on or the front door unlocked when you leave the house. Poor listening is never cute and completely aggravating, even for me. Laziness can be very hard on a relationship.

So as I work through my failings with mindfulness practices, concentration, and pure force of will and determination, always picking myself up and dusting myself off after every mistake, I realize that I may never fully conquer my faults and be a woman without blemish, but every day I get a little closer and it gets a little easier. In the same way that I have learned how to be a human being, I will learn how to be a fantastic mother: through making mistakes, learning from them, and starting over.

This is my prayer. My boys will never go hungry and will always have clothes to wear and a roof over their heads. They will get a great education, not just reading, writing, and arithmetic, but also music, art, and the natural world (and then some). They will have access to sports and extracurricular activities if they so desire. They will be encouraged to develop their skills and interests. They will be exposed to the different ways that people all around the world live and believe.  They will have an example of manhood in their father and a example of womanhood in their mother. They will have good friends. They will be supported in the tough decisions that life will bring them.

To those of you men who have great mothers and realize it, what is it that made/makes them so great?

Now, due in two weeks, I’m waiting again. I’m taking evening primrose oil and raspberry leaf tea. I’m walking around as much as I can (the baby’s weight is mostly on my right side and this has put tremendous pressure on my pelvis causing rather horrible back pain). I’m also continuing my studies, working my three at-home jobs, taking care of the house, and running after a toddler. There’s not much time for rest, really.

Somehow all this activity hasn’t made the time go by faster. I notice every practice contraction, every twinge and wonder if it’s going to turn into real labor. Time to come out, baby. I want my body back!

And that’s pretty much my constant thought right now. Ugh.

I moved here to go to university to get my BA in English Literature, never intending to stay. In fact, my reasons for choosing that particular university are still rather vague even in my own mind. It was a rash decision, one I would regret if not for the many good things that came out of it. But, nevertheless, there I was. When I graduated, I intended to go back home and probably work where I’d worked before, having gotten the degree that I always wanted. I did not get the degree to increase my earning capacity (after all, I was single and could live happily on the $25,000 a year I made before), but to increase my intellectual, spiritual, and personal well-being. This I did.

Then the unexpected happen. Being 25 years old and never having had a relationship that even came close to approaching serious, I certainly did not expect to meet someone in the truck-stop turned college town I found myself in. But I did. About a month after moving into the dorms (btw, dorm living is probably great when you’re 18, but when you’re 25 and used to living alone…not so much), I acquired a job as a barista at the local Barnes and Noble. Sometime during my first week there, I walked into the break room and there he was. He was tall and dark, and looked just a little bit dangerous. He was gorgeous, and he had tattoos. I believed that he would never look twice at me. I was homeschooled, “wholesome-looking” (I’ve been called cherubic), and decidedly bookish. Well, long story short, looks are deceiving (he’s bookish too) we were married ten months later and began to build a life in the town in which I had never intended to remain.

My husband’s parents live here, he has the chance for a life-long career here, my babies were born here,  but I still feel like this place is merely a temporary placeholder for me.

The  answer came to me the other night. I miss the river. Granted, the very same river runs through the town I live in now. There are some very nice river trails here just as there are in Sacramento, but this town doesn’t take the same advantage of it. Sacramento has built a beautiful nightlife built around their stretch of the river: the Promenade, Joe’s Crab Shack, the Train Museum, Tower Bridge, etc. I love the old town with it’s cobblestone streets, board walks, and jazz clubs. I have so many good memories that involve the river: fireworks reflecting off of the ziggurat building, AAA baseball, smoking clove cigarettes on a bench while watching the water go by.

Perhaps the problem is that sometimes I miss the life I had there. Perhaps the problem is that my life now revolves around a toddler, a pregnancy, and a household instead of around hanging out with friends and gathering new experiences. Not to say that raising a toddler does not present itself with new experiences daily, but many are not pleasant and/or not very glamorous. Certainly not as glamorous as leaning over the railing of the Tower Bridge watching the water while listening to Springsteen. Marriage is  wonderful, but it’s not always about romance and sex, but sometimes is just about making sure we don’t run out of toilet paper and dog food or keeping the ice trays filled.

Is it my own fault? Who’s to say that I can’t take my toddler and my husband and go out and gather new experiences just like I did when I was single? Truth is, it is just so much easier to stay at home instead of gathering all the baby accessories together and loading up the car only to end up being completely unable to appreciate the experience because of a cranky child or the fear that the child will become cranky. I’m tired just thinking about it. I could go out with just some friends and leave the husband and baby at home (the sweetheart has offered), but it wouldn’t be the same without him. I don’t want to tell him about an experience, I want him to experience it with me.

No solutions here, just musings, ponderings, reflections.