It's Not Wrong That I Wanted To Clip It's Wings

I really, really, really, like really miss reading and writing posts during my down time. #FreeTimeIsAMyth #GoodThingILoveWork #AndMoney

Usually that statement would be said on Twitter but it wasn't because that thought meant so much more to me than 140 could ever get across.

Not that there wouldn't be many friends on Twitter who would instantly feel the familiar without the benefit of a post and reply with something in 'preaching to the choir' genre -- because I'm confident there would be plenty of people out there who would completely understand.

And not because my tweets are thoughtless (okay, maybe they are 90% 10% of the time) because my personal rule is to count to ten and read it again before sending anything out there -- and personal rules apply at least 10% 90% of the time. Twitter is important to me. Twitter is how I keep one toe in mah commun-i-tee. Twitter is integral to my sanity (not really). Twitter is my life-line during the day (really). But I also think Twitter killed the Bloggio Star. My comments became @s and the illusion of knowing what was going on out *there* felt like a reality on Twitter until making time for a quick flip through the reader lead me to feel more disconnected than ever.

But I digress.

That first statement didn't become a tweet because I needed to prove to myself that thoughts could once again gorge themselves and gain weight before going on a diet of editing. Also the need to prove that I could be an active participant in the blogging community by -- wait for it -- writing a post (how novel!) was badly needed.

Last year I had made a personal pledge to spend more time writing, reading, and commenting on posts just like back in the 'old days'.  I set a really realistic goal of two comments a day because we all know that reading blogs is like falling down the rabbit hole and finding a couple of posts where something can be added is easy enough. In the beginning it was easy, goals were met times five. It felt good and it felt like I was catching up with old friends because that was exactly what it was -- reading about their lives and thoughts instead of just the headlines.

Then as all things do with annoying regularity, things began to fall apart. Streaks where there was no time to read and/or comment -- much less time for write -- lasted for days which stretched to weeks and then... well like I said, it all fell apart.

So here I am, flexing my typing fingers, favoring them over my Blackberry thumbs, and not tweeting.

Free Association Time! Nipples, Rings, and Pupils.

Unbelievable.

At our dinner table this evening the conversation was about the differences between nipples and pupils. Apparently they sound too alike to my 5yo (must be my accent) and she thought it was hysterical to keep mixing them up. She's right, it is hilarious.

Change Management Is Hard, Yo

When my little girl was born she was a sleeping angel that only woke to make little baby grunts, a sound that sent a current of thrill through my newly minted mom heart. This angelic state lasted all of 24 hours before it turned to electrocution.

Day two of parenting became more akin to The Exorcist than angelic. She screamed for hours and hours and nothing we or the very concerned nursing staff did, could sooth the roaring babe. Swaddling, snuggling, feeding, bathing, singing, silence, even g****mn tilting her crib for gas did not work. Eventually the nursing staff broke their own rules and took her away to the nursing station so we could get some semblance of sleep. It was scary.

Deep down I knew she was pissed off. Where was her human snuggie suit with the IV belly button feed and ambient lighting with accompanying soundtrack? Why had we thrust her into this cold, smelly world where she was forced to breath air and suckle with her own strength? WHERE WAS HER WOMB WITH A VIEW?

There Are Some Things About Adulthood That Really Suck.

photo: sassyradish flickr

There are some things about adulthood that really suck. Like paying taxes. Or shelling out full fare on transit. Or not being able to throw a tantrum anywhere, anytime, for any or no reason whatsoever without being called an asshole. Or the one that has really been bugging me recently: not being able to leisurely dismantle a sandwich cookie in a public setting using fingers and tongue without more mature adults thinking your soft in the head.

In my observations when sharing something like a bag of Oreo or Fruit Cream with a group of kids and their tagalong parental units, inevitably all the adults will eat their ration like it's a regular single layer cookie; two or three bites with no particular plan of execution, only a singular focused goal of digestion. The shame.