Speaking of reading blogs
My aggregator [NetNewsWire Lite] is ancient and annoying in that it doesn’t even read Atom.
So I’m currently downloading version 2.0.1, which was just released a week ago.
I’m a versiontracker whore, I admit it. I’ve got more stupid freeware than is right or necessary.
Update: It’s beautiful. All [well, most of] you Blogger users, I can finally keep track of you.
Blogher Action Items!
Updated with corrected links.
Well, I couldn’t go to the conference. I’m coming to terms with that. But what I can do is catch up on what happened and do my part to broaden the discussion about women in the blogosphere, give other bloggers a hand up, and work on giving more women a voice by introducing them to blogging.
I also want to figure out what the hell I’m doing with my blogroll. It got bloated, so I trimmed it down, but didn’t like the look aesthetically, so I pondered doing some DHTML show-hide magic, but I have yet to learn how to do that, so it’s hovering in it’s own lonely PHP file here for now. I have a dozen or two links to add, and I’m thinking about ordering them into groups - but then I need to figure out some sort of grouping system and it’s all tiring. But one way for me to give other bloggers a hand up is to link to them, and that’s what a blogroll is for.
So until I do that, here are some current faves you may not be reading [yet]:
Just Down the River Road
Lita Jente writes about life as a grad student, newlywed, and recent Yankee transplant in the Deep South. She likes comic books and the Pet Shop Boys too.
casa del harrison
She quilts! [And could totally school me if she so chose]. And she just had a beautiful red-headed baby girl, Norah, and moved to Carolina. On the downside, her Volvo has a nail in it.
Delightfully Mundane
AB is a triathlete [medal-winner!] with a new job and a soft spot for random puppies in distress.
dirty olive
Is a student living in Canada with two beautiful curly-haired guys: her husband and her son. She loves her vagina, is on the brink of a new job, and is not afraid of potty training [I mean, “toilet learning.”]
mama c-ta
A fellow Baltimorean who *just* had a baby and is kind enough to blog about it in exquisite detail.
miss domestic
has a two-year-old son and is living overseas [in Germany?]. She has fantastic taste in music and enviable hair.
nordensved
Razor-sharp wit and writing that will suck you in. Her daughter is one month younger than Owen and her husband is from Sweden, a fact that is endlessly interesting to me. Sweden! It’s not just furniture, people.
talkin’ loud
Another fellow Baltimorean. Her photography knocks my socks off every time, and in RL she is sweeter than pie.
work for idle hands
The Rock Star of mommyblogging. Debbie launched Rock’n’Romp and sings in a band and might even swear more than I do.
And here are some belonging to people I met yesterday: Drowning in Kids, Spanglemonkey, burningbird, Daily Dose of Denise, Wee Hours, the Ugly Green Chair, Beth’s Blog, SoCal Mom.
There were a couple people in the chat who sounded FASCINATING [“sisoma”? Can’t remember] but I had to leave abruptly because our company had arrived. Kicking myself for not finding out more.
My last two goals are to broaden my own blogroll and find some new people to read, and to evangelize blogging to three new people. Mom, this means you. I think you need to start a blog. It would fascinate people. Readers, if you think my dear sweet mom should start a blog, please comment in favor.
The beauty of blogging is that it can be whatever you want it to be. You write as much or as little as you want. Share only photos. Share only links. Share only stories about your three-week-old baby and his constipation problem [wait — been there]. Completely personal, or completely impersonal. Blog about politics, journalism, technology, crafting, science, work, art, even Rob Thomas. Bloggers span the genders [including inbetweens and crossovers], ages [young and old. And “old” is relative. Is 75 old?], classes [you just need access to the internet, which is free at the library], countries … it’s truly fascinating, and I believe it’s a freedom we should exercise fully [if we so desire] and protect fiercely.
Imagine, a blog solely about Rob Thomas. I think it needs to be done. And I think I know just the person to do it.
tag:blogher
I’m already planning the wedding
Owen and his girl at Rock’n’Romp. If you can’t tell, he’s planting a baby kiss on her shoulder. Baby kisses involve a lot slime, so props to her for putting up with it.
In a perfect world
Been following the BlogHer conference by proxy today, as part of the live chat, as well as stalking Flickr, del.icio.us and Technorati. I had a frisson of utopia, of all of us bloggers gathering our political potential into one firestorm of grassroots euphoria.
And I also got to meet and talk to a lot of really interesting people, and spend the day in a dreamy haze of two of my life’s passions - feminism and blogging - melding in a perfect fusion.
And in between all that, I got to hear some really great mellow music at the B’more Rock’N’Romp, see “Blame it On” Debbie Lee again, hang out with a couple of our friends and watch my seven-month-old son grab another baby girl’s ass.
Good times, gang, good times.
Check my del.icio.us for a few new and relevant links.
Duckfaced
Oh, Owen m’dear. You crack me up. You have this duck that you enjoy chewing on, right? As soon as you see it, it’s in your mouth, head first, with its little duck butt hanging out. Then you go about your business, duckfaced. It’s really cute.
You’re getting your second tooth now. The first one is two millimeters past the gumline and the second one is pushing up right next to it. It’s having an adverse affect on your mood, but I really can’t blame you. I just wish you’d let me get close enough to see. I’m dying of curiousity.
These little teeth have been waking you up in the middle of the night, and I’m secretly glad. I’m thrilled to have a reason to go in and comfort you, because frankly, between working and your early bedtime [and Iain letting me sleep in] I don’t see nearly enough of you as I would like. At the slightest peep I dash into your room and scoop you up, and you, still tired, nestle your face into the crook of my neck. I love that. And then you fall asleep. And I really don’t want to put you down.
You’re a rolling maniac these days, flipping and contorting and wiggling, moving your ass all over the floor. At night I put you down at one end of the crib, and when I check on you an hour later you’ve rotated 180 degrees and flipped onto your side. The side sleeping, it kills me. Your chubby little legs have kicked the blankets off and are curled casually up; your arms are clenching Mr Woof in a dreamy hug. You’re so beautiful when you sleep. I have half a mind to pull up a chair and watch the show.
You really like standing and grabbing onto me, like you’re going to climb me like a tree. I pull you up into standing position on the edge of the bed, holding your hands, so that you’re facing me like we’re going to dance. Then you nuzzle your face into my stomach and it’s the sweetest thing.
But oh, do you have your moments. Usually about 5 or 6 o’clock in the evening, you crank it up. You’re implacable. You want something, but you’re too pissed off to even know what it is. So into the sling — the “baby bag” — you go, and off we march through out the house, to find something with which to cheer you up.
You love the lightswitch and electricity in general. If you’re in a bad mood, all I have to do is bring you into the bathroom. You lunge for the lightswitch. You haven’t mastered turning it on yet, so I do that for you, and as soon as the lights come on you whip your head around, to see everything rescued from darkness. Then your attention goes right back to the switch and you pull it down. Off go the lights. You whip around to see the effect this has on the rest of the room. It’s wonderful. The look on your face is pride of the first degree; you are master of the universe, and you control the sun with your tiny little hand.
You really are a lot of fun, even on days like today, when I’m convinced you love your daddy better, and that you resent me for leaving you to go to work. Lately there’s been this flash of — dismay, precognition, when you see me at the door, like now it’s sinking in that I’m going and I may never come back. Sometimes you cry when I leave the room. Sometimes you cry if I even turn my back. It hurts me. But then there are moments when I know that we’re in tune, and I guess they’re opposite sides of the same coin. You get upset if you think I’m leaving, but that’s because you really do love me, and you don’t want me to go. And I don’t want to leave you either, buddy, not by a long shot. But sometimes a mama’s got to do what a mama’s got to do.
I’m getting really sappy here, son, and it’s getting late. What I really wanted to say was that you amaze me and uplift me every day, and that you are a little bundle of moody energy these days and I love you for it. Keep it up, boy. I love you.
Duckface.
Three years ago
I’m going to listen to Top 40, too
Thunderstorms knocked out our DSL this week, throwing me into a tailspin of internet withdrawal. I read “I Am Charlotte Simmons” and was disgusted anew at my generation. I devised lengthy diatribes about the death of Cool and post-collegiate identity crises and why nobody else is married with a baby at 25. The rest of you, what are you doing? Bar hopping? Sleeping with sexy strangers? Bah. Get hitched and/or knocked up and keep me some fucking company, yo.
In fact, the internet is not working at the very moment I write this, making the whole endeavor rather pointless [like much of my life]. But I suppose I’ll write anyway and post it when I can.
Lately:
- Sunday I was mentioned in an article in the Sun about mommydating, written by the sublime Kate Shatzkin.
- We went to the Book Thing again with Owen and brought home another three dozen books.
- I read several of these books.
- I went to work.
- I quit smoking for seven hours.
- I missed the Blogger happy hour.
- I got pumped for this weekend’s Rock’n’Romp and wished Sweetney tons of fun on her BlogHer trip [I wanna go!], where she’ll get to participate in intellectual discussions about women and personal publishing [a topic very close to my heart], meet celebrities of the blogosphere [Heather H. Armstrong, I think I’m in love], and get drunk [well, I suppose that one I could do from home]. Sigh.
- I got flowers and a card from Iain for our anniversary and felt like a total bitch because I really didn’t get him anything.
- We went to Olive Garden and skipped playing pool to come home and see the boy.
- We took some pictures of the boy.
- We went to Wal-Mart, the new one with the escalators for your cart, and bought a thirty-dollar bookcase for our books.
- I did some deep soul-searching about going to Olive Garden and Wal-Mart in the same fucking week and concluded that I am a soulless American consumer. At which point the soul-searching seemed kind of pointless.
End of week. I bore myself. I am in drowning in tears of boredom. Maybe we have some wine in this house? A little white wine, a little web-dev for a friend, a little wallowing in self pity. What a lovely Friday night.
The Leather Anniversary
Dear Iain,
I am so sorry that I woke you at 7:50 a.m. Monday morning, your day to sleep in, to tell you that there was a human eyeball on the back porch.
As you know, there was, in fact, no eyeball whatsoever on the back porch, much less a human eyeball, but your willingness to go out and check to make sure made me glad all over again that you’re my husband.
I’m also glad that it was something of the nut variety, not an eyeball, but, as you were witness to my hyperventilation that morning, you probably guessed as much.
It’s our third anniversary in one hour and fifty minutes, and can I just say how exciting it is that we are going to celebrate it properly for the first time since we got married — dinner at the deliciously mainstream Olive Garden and a night of baby-free billiards at the pool hall. The fact that you went so far as to secure baby-sitting for Owen — another first — is incredibly touching.
Some might say that you have made low expectations an art form in this house; other women expect jewelry and flowers on their anniversary whereas I am thrilled beyond belief to have won a night playing drunken pool down the street, but hell. It’s quality time and it forced you to push past your comfort zone by actually asking for help — babysitting — and that is important to recognize, as is the fact that a pool hall is the perfect place to find the traditional gift material of the third anniversary: Leather. Way to think outside the box.
I may not have diamonds or pearls, but I have a man who is not afraid of detached eyeballs, and that’s worth millions. Also, may come in handy. See above re: pool hall.
Also? Consider this your card. I’m flat broke.
What a difference 6+ months make
I’m re-reading Dr. Sears’ baby book, having not touched it since March [when I called him a stupid hippie]. When I read it then, the words all seemed to make this sentence: YOU ARE DOING IT WRONG, YOU IDIOT.
Tonight, they make this sentence: HERE ARE SOME IDEAS TO TRY, YOU SEXY THING, AND I LOVE THAT SHIRT YOU’RE WEARING.
Ahhh. The depressed, bitter defensiveness is gradually chipping off. I’m grateful.
Alpha Mom: The Martha Stewart of Parenting
This woman, Isabel Kallman, is everything I would hate to be.
If she seems frightening, perhaps it’s because she’s so unlike our own mothers and operates so counter to both instinct and emerging wisdom. To all the best-selling scolds who say that Mother should slow down, that we expect too much of her, the new, improved Mama says, if anything, the goalposts have been set too low. With the right planning, resources, and work ethic, you can, too, be a perfect and fulfilled woman, raising a perfect and happy child.
“I am an alpha mom, yes,” says Isabel.
Oh. My god.
The more Isabel’s child demanded of her, the more she went out to learn. And the more she learned, the more she was told to stay close—and the more people she hired who could do that for her.
This was motherhood’s magic bullet, the most valuable lesson Isabel learned in her studies: “It takes a village.” Isabel quickly hired one. Her son was just 2 weeks old when she retained a night nurse. When he was 5 months, “I started realizing I needed to get out more,” and she brought on a nanny. Then after about a year, when she started working, “I obviously needed more help,” so she hired a regular babysitter as well—also often employing her father and an Alpha Mom intern.
I imagine the cook, butler, maid and manservant were all too busy.
If that’s what she needs to do, to be, to feel “fulfilled” as a mother, more power to her, but please don’t tell me this is the pinnacle of “perfect parenting,” if such a thing exists.
And dear god, she’s creating a TV channel. Ugh. I pity the poor mother of a newborn who accidentally switches that thing on.
Hat tip to A Little Pregnant, where I found this, and who has a much wittier writeup [as usual].
If you need me, I’m going to go have a cheap, domestic beer, sit on my garage-sale, slipcovered “couch,” and watch reality TV, as my imperfect baby, still slathered in his dinner of crusted-over peas, sleeps in his hand-me-down crib, no doubt dreaming of a future depressingly void of educational toys yet full of the embarrasingly average standards of his own imperfect mother.
God, how I love me a cold beer after some righteous indignation.
[And three bonus points to anyone who senses my middle-class jealousy masquerading as righteous indignation. Sometimes I think I would give my 27” television to hire a nanny, a night nurse and a babysitter ALL AT THE SAME TIME.]
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