sueeeus

The way he says, “Mama?”, staccato with the emphasis on the last syllable, and a tone so sweet it can make my heart burst.

my sweet nature boy

The way he says, “Mama”, long and drawn with the emphasis on the first syllable, and a tone so sweet it can make my heart burst.

tiger beat

The way he can entertain himself for hours with sticks and leaves and rocks.

ceaseless fascination

The way he can entertain himself for hours with pots and containers and lids.

water child

The way he’s so full of life that he can’t contain himself.

dancing to the beat of his own drummer

The way he so enjoys the moment, that departure therefrom is epic tragedy.

the prince holds court

The pictures he draws for me.

poetry in motion

The food he shares with me.

when you drink from a big boy cup

Motherhood.

It’s a love that aches, a love that makes your heart burst, a love that makes your soul sing.  A love that holds the hopes and dreams and cares and responsibilities of the lives you’ve been entrusted with.

les petites choses

To protect and nurture.  To impart knowledge, consideration, compassion, and respect.  To raise up well.  It’s no small thing, this job, and there are so many versions of how it should be done.

I am doing my best.

And my boys, though they have their moments, are good, good boys.

Sometimes I feel as though I’m spread too thin and I just don’t know how to hold it all together.

I want to be able to give my kids the kind of attention that they need without being manipulated by them.  I want to give them love and support, and I want to nurture them, but I also want to give them direction and I want them to learn to respect others and to be obedient.  I so want them to grow up to be good, upstanding people in this world.

I also want to be able to give due attention to my new found love, and to nurture this relationship so that it can grow and flourish.  I so want it to work.

And I’d also like to give myself some attention, in which I can somehow recharge my weary self so that I have something to even give to the people in my life.

I’m recognizing that when Skills is here, my boys behave badly; there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Clearly, they are competing for attention, and choosing the path of least resistance, which has the most immediate attention-winning potential, albeit negative attention.  I have to be swift and immediate when administering correction.  Everything is disrupted, and in the end, nobody is happy.  It’s exhausting, especially to my gentle, harmony-seeking soul.

Today I had some time alone with BB, and it was nice.  He behaved well, for the most part.  We painted some of the living room while LB napped.

I love his drawings

He was so worried about getting into trouble, he didn’t want to tell me if he spilled a drop of paint, or got some paint on his fingers.  Bless his precious little heart.  The boy is constantly in trouble for not listening or helping himself without asking or not sharing or complaining about what’s for dinner.  He loves to draw, and I’m thrilled to see his confidence and ability grow as he draws and draws and draws.  He’s got great imagination, and I try to let him know how much I like his drawings.  I save almost all of them.  Some day when he’s older I will show him, and he will know that even though he may remember me barking at him constantly, I was always loving and appreciating him.

the artist at work

He doesn’t know that I watch him when he draws.  I see him, intent on his work, and my heart swells with a mixture of emotions — some joy, some wistfulness, much love.  My little boy, alone, entertaining himself.  I need to be more interactive with him, somehow.  Somehow.

Later, BB was tired and LB was wide awake, so I brought LB downstairs with me, snuggled him next to me on the sofa under a soft blanket and we nibbled on crackers together.  He was so happy, there in my arms.  It was sweet to have some one-on-one time with him.  I got to fill up on toddler sweetness, as he’d raise his beautiful little face to look at me and giggle as we ‘talked’ about how yummy the crackers were.

It’s amazing how small moments as these can be so energizing and healing.  To share positive attention with my children, to hug them, tell them I love them, smile into their eyes –these things are so fulfilling.  And yet, somehow, moments like these seem so few and far between.

How I wish I could figure out how to balance it all, how to see and assess the moments and deflect or divert situations before they escalate or explode.  It’s like I’m a bomb squad of one, under constant pressure to figure out whether to cut the red wire or the blue wire.  Or maybe the white one.  Unless there’s a green one.  Or it could be the black one.  It’s exhausting.

Oh, if only I had the presence of mind and discipline of emotion to hold on and ride the wave of effervescent new love, never to let go. If only. It’s so glorious, to be distracted from the confines of everyday life and whisked away to new levels of thrill. Such a fantastic high.

I wish I knew how to hold on to that, and not let the other things take root. The nits, the picks, the responsibilities, the obligations, the necessities. Not to mention the blind sided attacks of emotion, mood swings, embittered exes. The small things that turn into monumental things, like missed communications and mis-communications. Assumptions here and there. Careless! Taking things for granted. How deftly these things can creep in and take hold! One must remain vigilant, in order to keep the home fires burning strong.

Picture a potter at the wheel. The wheel spins, and the artist has the clay under control, taking shape, a beautiful form. Such a fine, fine balance, because if the artist falters for even a moment, what was a work of beauty, exquisite in form, is suddenly ruined. Ruined, in the blink of an eye. Thank God my life isn’t necessarily that extreme, and nothing is truly ruined. Oh, but there is often much damage control to be run, and the running thereof is nothing short of exhausting.

These are the four agreements. Be impeccable with your word. Don’t take anything personally. Don’t make assumptions. Always do your best. These are the things I try to remind myself, to keep myself in check.

I’m trying to be a good parent, a good role model, a good example, a good friend, a good partner, a good person. I don’t make everybody happy all of the time. I wish I could. It makes me happy, for those in my sphere to be happy, and to know that I contribute to their happiness.

Happiness should be easy. It’s all about love.

But sometimes it doesn’t seem easy at all.

Sometimes.

Maybe it’s because I am just. so. tired.

Orchids - Commissioned for my birthday by one sister and lovingly arranged and delivered by the other. Exquisite.

Thoughts whir about in my mind, spinning, spinning, spinning.  Sometimes fragments get caught for a moment, and I can get a glimpse of what they might be.  Mostly, they spin.  I’ve been collecting these fragmented pieces, bit by bit, and generally find myself thinking two things.

One.  He could have kept this boat afloat with only the tiniest of investments.  I could have kept the life pattern we had on steady hold for quite some time.  Years, or even decades. It wouldn’t have taken much, on his part.

Two.  Why did he not love me?

Ultimately, I’m glad, even relieved, that he didn’t try to invest that tiny bit of himself in us, because the outcome would have been only a half-lived life.  I don’t want a half-lived life.  I want to live fully.  To joy, and rejoice.  To howl with laughter so rich that it hurts.  To love and be loved.  So we’re all better off this way.  Truly.

But I think that I am also angry.  Angry that he didn’t love me.  He was free enough with those words, but not the substance that supports them.  Without that substance, how could those words carry any weight?  So yes, I’m angry, because what’s not to love?

The pragmatic part of me reasons that people are people and we’re all unique.  Different.  Sometimes we don’t mix well.  It’s just the way it is.

He’s angry too.  He wants nothing to do with me.  He’s angry that I rejected him, but he doesn’t seem to get that I (r)ejected him because he rejected me.

~*~*~*~

BB wanted to see him this weekend.  He kept asking about his dad.  We called and left messages.  We thought he might perhaps come by, but he didn’t call and he didn’t come by.  Sunday evening he did call, and BB was at the dining table playing with his Transformers.  “I don’t want to talk to him,” he said, and kept concentrating on his Transformers.

My heart wrenched, tied up and twisted inside of me.  It nearly took my breath away, and I tried not to let my expression change or show what I felt.  It’s hard to describe the thoughts and concerns those seven words produced.  I looked at my child, and wondered if he was just being five, or if there was a deeper hurt in there.  And I’ve been watching him ever since.  Gazing at him intently, but not so that he notices me.  Watching the way he plays, the way he acts.  He seems fine.  And yet.  Today when I picked him up from daycare, he looked melancholy and said  he didn’t feel well.  My aching heart.  I was cheerful and teased him and he snapped out of it within minutes, but it’s all new, this forlorn look.  Of course he knows to try to play me for whatever he can, be it getting out of picking up after himself, helping him finish his dinner, trying to stay up later or watch more TV.  But this time it was different.  Or else he’s learned a new trick.

I need to remain vigilant and be prepared to make countermeasures to any emotional distress he may be feeling.  I want to chase those demons away.  Be gone!  Leave my boy alone!

~*~*~*~

Today I saw a counselor, for the first time in my life.  Overall, I feel a bit frustrated by the experience.  We talked about several things, but the suggestions she gave me were nothing new.  More like strategies to address the symptoms, but nothing to seek to expose and address the root cause.  I know exactly what sorts of things I should be doing to make myself feel better and more whole.  Eat sensibly.  Exercise regularly.  Get enough sleep.  And so on and so forth.  I know these things.  Doing, that is the problem.  I want or need help bridging the chasm between knowing and doing.  Sure, I could eat sensibly, as long as I felt like it and nothing came along to make me feel otherwise.  Sure, I could exercise regularly, as long as I felt like it and nothing came along to make me feel otherwise.  Yes, there’s a pattern.  Sure, I could get more sleep, as long as I didn’t have a toddler who kicks his blankets off and gets cold and wakes up unhappy, with just enough consciousness to see me tucking him back in, after which he wails if I leave the room, so I’m left with the choice of letting him cry himself to sleep, holding him until he nods off again, or taking him to bed with me, and hoping he settles back to sleep.  I’m too blessed exhausted to do anything but the latter.  And how can I let him cry?  What could he be thinking, other than that he wants his mama to snuggle him until he doesn’t feel alone anymore, and why is she walking away and leaving him all by himself?  Some say they are just manipulating you, because they can get what they want when they cry, and to an extent I agree, but I can understand wanting someone to hold me until I don’t feel alone any more, so why is that not a valid interpretation of those tears he cries?

Tell me what you need so I can tell you what you need.  This counseling relationship is off to a rocky start.  Yes, I need to balance my life and take better care of myself.  Yes, I even know how to do those things.  But what I don’t know is why I don’t.  Other than, because I don’t feel like it.

It’s been quite a ride, the past few weeks.  Months.  Year.

And just now, Gadget came and got the kids for the very first time since his departure.  He’s taking them to see Santa at the mall, and to see his new place.  I have mixed feelings.  Happiness that he’s reaching out to them.  Relief to have a moment to myself.  Anxiety that they’re not in my hands.

I might not have felt so anxious had he not wrecked the truck two weeks ago.

Until then, he wasn’t playing nice.  And then.

It humbled him.  Before he was just acting out in anger, and being very childish and selfish (IMO).  After,  he was more broken and afraid.  The latter is more real, and I can see someone I recognize again, whereas the angry man was such a stranger.

The weekend after that, a pipe burst, and I had to call on him for help.  It was traumatic, but he came through.  And I appreciate it, probably much more than he knows or believes.  I told him as much, but his ears are mostly closed to me now.

And last week.  Work.  Oh, my goodness, work.  It was a momentous week.  We had first flight.  It’s a big, big deal, and it stirs some sort of pride in me, even though I’m far removed from anything specific to do with that effort.  Add to that an emergency server migration, and for icing on the cake, the maiden release of the software application that has consumed me for the better part of the year.  It doesn’t sound like much, when parsed into these few words, but for me, it’s huge.

I was and am so close to an emotional meltdown.  The sheer exhaustion resulting from the pressures and strains from all aspects of life of late.  It’s a lot to bear, and I try to take it in stride, and carry it gracefully.

Of course it all culminates during the holiday season, which in and of itself is a time when depression and stress tend to surface with a vengeance.

BB and I were talking about Christmas, and how exciting it is to wake up on Christmas morning and open your stocking to see what Santa brought.  I started to tell him about how, as children, we’d be SO excited, and we weren’t allowed to open any presents until our parents were up and ready, but we were allowed to take our stockings.  Oh, the joy, wonder and excitement.  And I burst into tears, just thinking about our ratty tatty stockings, and what my destitute mother must have had to go through emotionally every year, to try and find a way to make Christmas for nine children a magical event.  She always pulled it off, though.  It was always wondrous for me, and I think it was as well for the others.

How fortunate my children are, not to know poverty.  Yet, dire straits can teach some great life lessons about the true value of life experiences in contrast with material things.  I know I overindulge them, but I hope I will always be able to temper it.  I hope I can teach them to be considerate of others and not to be selfish.

BB asked me if Santa was going to bring just one present or a whole bunch.  I told him I didn’t know, that we’d have to wait and see.  I bought myself a little time.  Help!  Part of me wants to establish the Santa ground rules.  Does Santa just bring one present?  What if other kids will get lots of presents from Santa?  How does one sort out the comparisons?  So far there is nothing under the tree except things for other people.  What to do.  I’m tempted to say that Santa brings just one present.  If that’s the case, maybe I can put some things under the tree now, and that will be exciting for them to see.  Oh, what to do, what to do.

I’m starting to come to the realization that if only is no solution to anything at all.

The easiest trap I allow myself to fall into is the ‘if only I were thin’ trap.  If only I were thin, I would be happy.  If only I were thin, I would look good, and if I looked good, I’d feel good, because I wouldn’t have any reason not to like myself, so, I’d be happy. And besides that, if I were thin, others (say, significant others) would love me more.  Because nobody likes fat people.

I conveniently forget that there was a time when I was smokin’ hot (never thin, but I was a cutie), and even then, I still found fault with my looks and wished I could be thin.  I’ve always had something to hang ‘if only’ on.  If only I could get through school.  If only I had a reliable car.  If only I had my own house.  If only I were out of debt.  If only I had somebody who loved me.  If only I had kids.

If only.

It’s nothing but a trap.  An excuse.  A crook that distracts me from the beauty of this moment that I will never get back.  Robbing me of my very life.  Tricking me, disarming me, incapacitating me, making me not like myself, making me think I’m not worth liking.  What’s not to like?  I’m nice.  I’m caring.  I’m friendly.  I’m even half-smart about some things, and can hold a reasonable conversation (depending on the subject, that is).  So I’m not thin.  WHO CARES?  Seriously.  Who?  And if anyone besides me, then why?  Why would anyone care what I look like?  Do I care if someone is tall or short or large or small?  No.  NO!  Well, I do have a little trouble with over-cologned people in close proximity, but I have chemical sensitivity and it’s nothing personal.  I’d love it if I could wear cologne myself.  And I don’t particularly like to be around loud people, because I have noise issues.  Loud pleasant people are okay.  I just don’t stand too close so that my head doesn’t ring.

It may be time to break out the zoloft.  But first I will try some more small changes, and give them a chance.  I’ve been going to the gym four days a week.  I need to make that a part of my day, so that there’s no questioning whether or not it will happen.  It just needs to be part of my life.  And I plan to revamp the menu towards more whole foods, and less cheese and meat.  Definitely less cookies.  I’m a cookie fanatic.  And somehow, more sleep.  I put the kids to bed an hour ago, and struggled between grabbing a little bit of me time, or just joining them.

I wish I had a little more time to blog.  It’s so good to take time to collect some thoughts.  But now I hear the baby crying, so off I go.

*~*~*~*

Being the stellar mother that I am, I took just long enough to reread my post that the baby soothed himself back to sleep.  So I have a little more time.

*~*~*~*

Part of me struggles with taking any time to blog because of Gadget’s accusation that I spend all my time on the computer.  When we argue, it invariably comes up.  To which I say, I WAS PUMPING.  Because I did spend 4 hours a day strapped to the breast pump (and hence, on the computer), back when the dairy was in operation.  Since weaning, I’ve spent very little time on the computer.  (Or so I claim.)  I shouldn’t allow false accusations to make me feel guilty.  So here I am, blogging.  (He’s not here, though, otherwise, I’d have stopped at ‘If only I had kids’.)

*~*~*~*

Well hell.  I might as well come out with it.  I mustered the courage to tell Gadget that even though he was back, I realized that I wasn’t happy with ‘us’, whatever ‘we’ are, and don’t want to try to patch things together any more, because all we’ve ever done is sweep things under the carpet and not one thing between us has ever, ever been resolved.  We’re more like oil and vinegar than yin and yang.

So, he left immediately, a week ago Saturday.  And I’ve not seen or heard from him since.

I’m not letting myself manufacture any assumptions about what he’s thinking or feeling.  How can I have any real idea what’s in his head?

I will just feel more peaceful when all the turmoil is a thing of the past and we’ve settled into whatever our new lives will be.  If only this were all behind us…

*~*~*~*

A coworker’s son was died yesterday.  He was killed by a hit-and-run drunk driver.  He, the son, had been in a coma for the last few weeks, and there was much hope and things were looking promising, but when he finally came out of the coma, there was no neural response.  He drifted away yesterday.  He was 29.  It rips me up, that my friend and her family have lost a child who could have had so much life ahead of him.  It’s so, so wrong.  The order of the universe is all messed up when we lose our children.  We are supposed to go first.

*~*~*~*

It’s tragic that someone with so much potential for a beautiful life has no choice; his life was taken from him, and here I am, alive, and wasting precious moments making excuses for myself.  I’m making changes, and change is hard.  Oh GOD, change is hard.  But I owe it to myself, and it would be criminal for me not to.  It’s time to wake up and do what I can to love each and every moment that I get the privilege of living.

I remember being four.  Summer.  West Orion Drive.  A dark cool basement.  Daddy longlegs on the screen door at night.  Walking barefoot, carefully, through the thistles in the grass.  The sound of my mother whistling from behind a door — peekaboo.  My dad, reading a newspaper, sitting in a brown recliner.  Being asked if I want to go to school.  Preschool.  A blue plastic sleeping mat.  I don’t want to take a nap.  I’m not tired and I don’t understand why everybody has to take a nap.  I lie there and don’t sleep.  Small stools painted like ladybugs.  I’m wearing red tights and I wet myself.  Crying.  Ashamed.  Scolded by the teacher.  A metal bathroom stall.  Sobbing.  Trying to take care of things.  I only remember that one day of preschool.  I wonder if I kept going?  Or do I only remember the first traumatic day?

I wonder what my son will remember about being four.  Will he only remember an exasperated mother, yelling at him every day?  Don’t hit your brother.  [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Why did you hit your brother?  “Because I like to.” Why did you do that?  “Because.” Why did you do this?  “Because.” Be careful.  [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Pay attention.  [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Try not to spill.  [Deer in the headlights gaze; invariably spills.] Hurry, get a towel.  [Covers ears with hands and cowers.]  Why didn’t you hold on to it?  [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Eat your dinner.  “I done wike it.” Go to the bathroom.  “I don’t want to.” Wash your hands.  “I don’t want to.” Don’t throw things.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Why are you whining?    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Please stop whining.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Stop whining NOW.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Close the gate.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Pick that up.  “It’s too hard for me.” I TOLD YOU NOT TO HIT YOUR BROTHER.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Time out.  “I done wanna go to time out.” Time for bed.  “I done wanna go to bed.” Do you want a spanking?  “I pwomise I won’t do it never never again.” Time to get up.  “I’m ti-wed.  I done wanna get up.” Get dressed.  “I done wanna get up.” Hurry up.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Where are your shoes?  “I unno.” That’s not a toy.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  What did you just do?  “Nuffing”

I long to be laughing and giggling and hugging him, showering him with love and kindness, but I find myself frazzled and frayed, cross and at the end of my rope.  I give him options.  I tell him the reward — do this and you’ll get that.   The power of now is too much for him, though.  He almost always forgoes the reward, so that he can continue in the now.  How I want to give him the reward.  How I want him to learn to make good choices.  But it’s too much for him.  I can see him struggle and give in to the power of now.

In his eyes, he must wonder why I am so nice to the baby and why I am so mean to him.  And that breaks my heart.  I want  him to grow up happy and secure, knowing that he is wanted and treasured.  Only after a long, trying day, does he finally yield, rest his head on my shoulder, and fall asleep in my arms.

And sometimes, I hold him close, and let the tears roll down.

One singular sensation

Every little step he takes.

One thrilling combination

Every move that he makes.

One smile and suddenly nobody else will do;

You know you’ll never be lonely with you know who.
One moment in his presence

And you can forget the rest.

For the guy is second best

To none,

Son.

Happy Birthday, my Magical Wonder Boy

Guess who is ten months old today?

Yep.  My little guy.

Just this week he figured out how to pull himself to a stand.  Then he got so excited about it, because it was, you know, way cool, so he waved his arms in excitement, as he does…   …and went timber, straight back like a falling tree.  My, that was scary, for both of us.  It’s a good thing babies are so resilient and also so close to the ground.   Gravity might otherwise not be so kind.

He is stunningly gorgeous, too.  And I’m not just saying that because I’m his mother.  Well, yes, actually I am.  But look at him!

Today we spent the day together, just the two of us.  Gadget and BB went to show off the boat, the boat that I want very little or nothing to do with, even though I paid for the blessed thing for goodness sake, but Gadget in his manipulative wonder managed to get me to go for it, and I really need to develop a backbone or something when it comes to dealing with marital strife see Gadget’s family up north, and my back was hurting and I was exhausted from a crazy work week, so I stayed home.  I just didn’t want to go.  We went last weekend, and that’s about all I can take for a month or two. So LB and I had a nice day together doing laundry and buying milk.  That little boy is very good at helping fold clothes.

He is also a master at scooting backwards.  He’s as fast as lightning and it makes me laugh, the way he scoots so fast.  It’s sort of like a frog hopping backwards.  I laugh and laugh, and I swear he knows it tickles me so he does it more, to put on a show.  His forward crawl is sort of like a sidestroke.  The ‘commando’ crawl, like GI Joe.  He gets up on his hands and knees to scope the scene, then plops into commando position to make his advance.  He gets to his feet from the kneeling position.  He sort of rolls back on his toes and straightens his legs, like a dancer.  Then he bounces and flails because he thinks it’s so cool to be standing, but of course he forgets and then falls.  Hopefully he’ll figure that out soon.  Dinglefuzz.

The other thing he does with amazing accuracy is turn on the DVD player.  No kidding.   He goes directly for the power button or the open/close button, and he’ll take the DVD out of the tray.  Little stinker!  We have a barricade of pillows in front of the TV stand, but he literally dives onto them, and then starts hurling pillows away with all his might, to get at those electronics.

And how are things on the feeding front?  He has five teeth, and several more on the verge of breaking through.  I still have him on stage two foods because he chokes and gags with the tiniest of fragments in his mouth.  I’m looking forward to him actually attempting to chew, but he’s not ready yet.  He’s not too thrilled with the frozen breast milk, either.  He takes it fine during the night when he’s mostly asleep, but in the day he fights it, so I mix it with rice cereal and feed it to him that way.  And as for weaning, I am nearly there.  I am down to one pump in two days, so the end is in sight.  My mood and emotions are all over the map, though, but that is probably to be expected.  It IS good to be getting my boobs back, I have to say.  There is much less pain, all around.  My belly pain is finally subsiding too.

Still hoping for a full night’s sleep, but it looks as though that is a pipe dream at best.

Still smitten beyond words with this little bundle of wonder, though.  He’s the bestest.

I have the weaning blues.

LB isn’t calling the shots here. It’s all on me, since I pump exclusively. Something about dropping supply just gets to me. Maybe it’s because of how hard I work to maintain supply, it seems so contrary to intentionally reduce it. Part of me wants to be done, and to have that part of my life back, but part of me doesn’t want to let go. It’s all wrapped up in ‘this is my last baby, this is the last time I will ever get to do this’. I suppose that’s the source of the blues — I won’t be down this path again and it’s so hard and sad to close this door. I’m currently at 3x/day now, and working on dropping to 2x.  I have only managed to stretch to 9.5 hours, but yesterday hit a new low of 21 ounces, down from over 40, and with that, the blues hit me hard.

In a way, I’m sort of addicted to pumping now and keep calculating in my head how I can keep things going if I just stick to 2x, once I get there, or even 1x. But then, if the supply is so low by then, part of me says why even bother trying to keep at it and why not just get my freedom back.

I EP’ed for a full year with BB, and never had these blues.   Maybe because I was hoping to have more kids, and/or maybe because I never did make enough to give him 100%. I pumped 75% and supplemented with formula 25%, and when I decided to wean at the one year mark, it was easy as cake to dry up and be done. No emotional issues whatsoever (other than the obsession of milk production consuming my life for an entire year; I suppose if I went through my archives, they may tell a different story). This time is so different for me. I’m 44 now, have two beautiful boys, and the baby window is closed. If I’d been able to have kids earlier in life, I might have tried for 3 or 4, but as it turns out, it was a miracle for me to get what I got. I am eternally grateful and blessed for the opportunity to be a mother.

Anyhow, it’s probably normal to get the weaning blues. Hormones are undoubtedly shifting, and there’s the whole letting go thing.

I have a smokin’ hot new hairdo, though, and that makes me feel happy.  It’s the short choppy number again.  I really like short, these last several years.

The Mac photo booth is a lot of fun, too.

I prefer PC to Mac, for the most part.  If I were only going to play with Photo Booth, surf the web, and sync my iTouch, then I’d use the Mac — it handles those things nicely.  But I like my PC better for photo editing and general file keeping.  So I hop back and forth between both worlds, which for me is kind of annoying.  I’m the girl who likes to stay put, after all.

blahblahblah

And if I quit pumping, I won’t be playing with Photo Booth at midnight any more.  Or Facebook, for that matter.  Or Scrabble.  Or WordTwist.  Or Scramble.  Or Pathwords.  (I’m easily addicted to word games.)  The plus side is that I may actually be getting some more SLEEP!  I might even get my libido back.

Did I say that out loud?

I sure hope LB likes the milk I have stored in the freezer.