Slices of Stacy

We just want to be loved... is that so wrong?

Here's a link to the NY Times article about "Mommy blogs".  If you don't have a login to NY Times online you're probably a sick fascist and I don't want to know you.  Kidding.  Sorta. 

I've been curious about this for a while.  Is this a "Mommy blog"?  I mean, I'm a Mommy, and I write about my kid a lot.  I also write about other people's kids, my nieces and nephews, my day job, my LASIK, things I like, things I hate, things that make me laugh, things that make me cry. 

Let's face it:  blogging is, itself, an act of pure narcissism.

It takes an enormous amount of (audacity?) balls to assume that other people out there want to know anything about my life, or my opinions about anything.  I'm getting more hits every day, so somebody out there is reading.  Thanks, y'all.

So I guess the question is this: why do I blog?  Do I think that I am inherently more interesting than other people?  Not necessarily.  Do I think my kid is cuter/smarter/faster than everyone else's kid?  Sure... doesn't everyone? 

I think that I blog because it is a creative outlet.  I went through an "Artist's Way" class (read the book by Julia Cameron, if you'd like... if you're in Atlanta, take a class) and realized that needing a creative outlet, claiming myself as an artist, is not some flight of fancy that will guarantee that I eventually go for a swim with rocks in my pockets or chop my ear off.  It simply means that I have accepted myself as a multi-faceted woman, who cannot be identified or fulfilled by JUST my child, JUST my husband, JUST my job, JUST my dreams or aspiration.  I need all of those things, and more.

If all of that is true, then why the need to share it?  I don't know.  I really don't. 

Here's a theory: remember how in the "old days" there were bridge clubs?  Women got together for bridge, or quilting, or something like that.  They connected.  They felt less isolated.  I'd be willing to bet that even 50 or more years ago, they were quietly discussing erectile dysfunction and how much their kid did or didn't poop that day.  We don't have those things, we lead increasingly isolated lives.  But through the Internet, specifically blogging, we can find other like-minded souls and realize that we are NOT, in fact, alone.  I can read about Lisa's death-hag leanings and feel relieved that I'm not the only one who thinks about what to do with a dead hooker.  I can read Rockstarmommy's blog and realize I'm not the only one laughing in the face of the traditional "soccer mom" image as I let my kid draw tattoos on herself with washable marker.  Ravings of a Corporate Mommy has saved my sanity several times.

So I guess I'm hoping that someone out there can identify with me, or find me humorous.  I'm not necessarily seeking validation, as the article claims.  I had plenty of validation before this blog and if I cut Typepad out of my life today, I'd still feel validated.

I'm just having fun.  When did that become such a bad thing?

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Oh, and a big shout-out to Miss Leta, for getting her mug on the cover of the NYTimes.  Dude... that is AWESOME.

Lasik Part IV

I survived!  I'm wearing Terminator-style sunglasses and have to tape these big plastic shields over my eye when I sleep, but I can SEE out of my left eye! 

I arrived at the clinic at 11:40 yesterday.  I was quickly taken back for a consultation with the money lady (Hi, Anne!) who was a lot more gracious than she had to be about the difficulty our flexible spending card was causing.  She couldn't run more than $200 at a time on the card, and multiple attempts to run the exact same amount could cause the system to refuse it altogether.  What you might call a royal pain in the ass.

Then I got taken into an exam room to meet with the Dr. T S.  He's extremely tall and looks a little bit like James Woods, if James Woods wasn't a hard-drinking malcontent.  He drew dots on either side of my iris with what amounts to a surgical Sharpie.  Honestly?  That may have been the most painful part of the whole event.

I was then led into a room with the surgeon, Dr. J W.  Dr. W is really sexy and I'm not sure I can tell you how, exactly.  He wears braces, which I think is very sexy in older men.  I like when men take care of themselves, you know?  Yeah, I'm weird.  Anyway, he had a VERY serious discussion with us about the surgery.  He informed us that if anything looked like it might go wrong, he'd stop the surgery immediately.  We had stickers over our eyes and got paper booties and paper hairnets.  I got a numbing drop in my left eye (since that's the only one they were doing) and was soon called into the surgical suite. 

That's when I started to get scared.

I lay down on the bed and my palms started to sweat.  I had this desperate, irrational urge to reach back to touch Dr. W, to make sure he was really there, even though he was only a few inches away.  I wanted a nurse to hold my hand.  I even said, in a very small voice, "Suddenly I wish I'd brought my husband with me".  Dr. W began shoving what felt like 2" thick pieces of clear plastic under my eyelids.  He said, "You might feel some discomfort here".  Well, 20 years of pelvic exams has taught me what "discomfort" really means. 

He said, "These the lid separators.  Since I was physically incapable of blinking at that point, I said, "Yeah, no kidding."  They had told me to stare at the red blinking light (which, it should be noted, really seems more orange than red).  I stared at it and felt the panic start to close in around me.  I wanted to stop.  I was scared.  Then the vision in my left eye went gray.  I figured out, suddenly, why people move during the surgery.  When you lose visual contact with the blinking light, there's an urge to move your head to try to "find" it again.  I was breathing very shallowly and getting more and more scared.  I was trying to summon up the nerve to ask for someone to hold my hand when suddenly the blinking light reappeared and I heard a nurse say, "Okay, you've got about 21 more seconds of treatment".  Suddenly I felt fine.  Hell, I can do anything for 21 seconds!

The strangest part was after the actual laser work was done.  Dr. JW swiped something across my eye, then I WATCHED him put the flap back over my eye.  See, knowing they're cutting a flap in your cornea is one thing.  Watching that bad boy get placed back down will FREAK YOUR SHIT OUT, PEOPLE.  He wiped that over and then suddenly was talking on the phone.

Talking on the phone?  What the FUCK?  He's saying to the person, "I just finished surgery on Miss Stacy and everything is fine."  I said, "Yes, and I'm still sitting here.  Hope I'm not interrupting anything!" He didn't catch the sarcasm and talked a little bit more.  I was prepared to be royally pissed off if he was talking to his wife/girlfriend/SO.  However, he told me after he hung up that he had been talking to my regular eye doctor to update him about the surgery.  Harumph.  Likely story. 

Anyway, they swung the bed out from underneath the laser and told me I could stand up.  I did, and was surprisingly dizzy for a minute or two.  Probably from all that shallow breathing while my body decided whether or not go to into full-fledged anxiety attack mode.  I sat down in the chairs in the hall, then was called back to see Dr. TS again.  He checked over the corneal flap and proclaimed it perfect.  Good to know!

That was it!  I grabbed my purse and coat and waited for DJ to come pick me up.

And guess what... I could see!  I took the glasses off for a moment (big no-no but I HAD to find out!) and I could see all the way across the street!

Last night I was pretty uncomfortable.  The only way I was truly comfortable was to lay still with both eyes closed.  It felt like... have you ever worn contact lenses?  Ever put a lens in backwards, so the edge is kind of flipped out?  That's how it felt.  The drops help, and keeping both eyes gently closed helps more.  It feels better today, still irritating but not painful.

I can see.  I'm absolutely floored by this.  I'm going to go put in more drops and take a nap (yes, there were drugs -- yay drugs!) and I'm a little hung over.

If things turn out well, I'll "out" the doctor's practice.  So far so good.

Lasik Part III

Well, here I go...  :::cues 'Rocky' theme:::

We're going for breakfast at IHOP -- because the corned beef hash omelet is one of my guilty pleasures.  Then off to the doctor.  I am showered and scrubbed with no makeup and no perfumed products whatsoever -- so no hairstyle.  Being in the middle of a breakout, I have red spots that look like the plague all over my face.  Oh well -- I'm not out to impress them, right? 

I have to admit, I'm a little nervous.  That's normal, right?  Sure it is!  This guy is going to slit my eye open and aim a laser into my skull -- who wouldn't be nervous?

Excuse me, I think I have to throw up now.

When I grow up, I want to be just like my Aunt Barb

I talked to my Aunt Barb yesterday, for the first time in a couple of months.

Let me explain, first off, that I'm not sure Aunt Barb is really my aunt.  She is my stepgrandmother's niece.  My grandparents got married right before I was born, so I've never thought of my Grandma as a "step", necessarily.  Anyway, in the manner of families, if you're separated by a generation and a half, you're an Aunt by default.

Aunt Barb has always been my favorite aunt.  I just always thought she was fun, you know?  She was pretty laid-back, very smart.  Her husband, Uncle Harry, was smart, quiet.  He was a pilot and took me for my first plane ride.  The main thing I remember about being with them when I was little is that I felt safe.  There were some very untrustworthy men in my childhood, but Uncle Harry wasn't one of them.  As far as Aunt Barb went, we were family, blood relation or no.

Uncle Harry died over a year ago.  I miss him.

Aunt Barb is joining the Peace Corps.  At 76.  Because, as she said yesterday, "I might have ten good years left in me -- do I want to to stay home and polish the furniture or do I want to DO something with that time?"

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And because I'm not bringing the funny today, here's someone who is: Very Mom. (with apologies for the linkage because I haven't had a chance to e-mail her to ask her permission -- I'm usually very good about that but this is too damn funny for you guys not to see it).

Lasik Part II

Unforeseen expenses from the front lines:

$60 for prescription eye drops not covered by my insurance plan because my surgeon is out of network.

$5 for Tylenol PM, in case they don't give me any good narcotics.  And really, what's the point of elective surgery if you don't get good narcotics?

AND...  I have to get all new eye makeup.  Okay, maybe not ALL.  But new eyeliners and mascara and I have to wash all my applicators for all my eyeshadows.  This is an issue, folks... I've got, like 7 or 8 different sets of eye shadow.  There's the everyday, everyday plums, evening golds, evening browns, evening bronzes.  Everyday golds, everyday peaches.  Shit.  It's a damn good thing that Clinique Bonus Time starts this weekend.

So. In. Love.

So when you're going to become a parent, you know intellectually that you will love whatever child you end up with.  You envision traits they may or may not have, habits they may or may not pick up.

But at some point during parenting you realize that your heart has been molded to fit the shape of THIS particular child.  You've seen her at her best and at her worst and you just love her completely.  You love the way her eyes form crescents when she's laughing.  You love the fact that she's a nudist and you love her body, her little belly that sticks out after a big meal, her tiny bottom running around.  You love that she tells you she wants to eat sausage and pancakes every day.  You love that at the playground she is brave and fearless on the slides.

And then you realize that This is It:  the love of your life.  This is the love that can take you to dizzying heights and the fear of losing it makes your heart stop.  You understand, now, that you could survive losing a parent, a sibling, even your spouse... but this...  If you lost this, you would be completely undone and you would never, ever be put back together.  It is the most terrifying vulnerability you have ever experienced and it makes you want to run away, or pretend that you can love her without being in love with her.  But it's too late... this love owns you and it has buried itself in your pores, in every cell.

And again you understand, intellectually, that you would have loved any child that came your way, and you would probably love him or her like you do this one.  But right now, you cannot imagine your life Before Her.  She is like oxygen to you and your life will never be the same.

They are the champions... for a week, anyway

Congratulations to the Philadelphia Eagles on their victory over my hometown Atlanta Falcons!

Disclaimer:  I don't give a flying fuck about football.  If there was never another football game played I wouldn't know the difference.  I do, however, feel honorbound to support the Atlanta teams.  I didn't always feel this way.  When I first moved to Atlanta, I used to see bumper stickers that said "Go Braves! And take the Falcons with you!" However, after about 10 years of excellence from the Braves, Atlanta has earned my support.

Since Leigh and Stephen are still in England, the only person I know near Philadelphia is Rockstarmommy... so, RSM, if you give a damn, congratulations!  Hope you plow through a few wine coolers during the Superbowl!

Sapphic Saturday

So we're playing with her "Princess dollies", right?  We're having a good time, they're having conversations with each other, "walking" around the bed, etc.   Then every conversation between any given Princess ends up in a massive makeout session.  Hmm.  My daughter is either a lipstick lesbian (given that she also wanted her toenails painted tonight) or she's tapped into the standard straight male fantasy of two girls making out.  Heh.

Now, what you probably can't see from this picture is that Cinderella's head is on backwards.  That's because two minutes before this picture was taken, this was the scene:

Somewhere, Walt Disney is turning over in his grave.

Speaking of the Princesses... a story about parenting:  My friend Leigh (who is an awesome Mom) has a daughter named Andie.  Andie was obsessed with Aurora (that's Sleeping Beauty, for all you nonparental types) and Leigh, progressive thinking liberal feminist that she is, couldn't STAND it.  So she spent, like, two weeks having conversations with Andie about the Princess.  They grouped them into the Lame Princesses (Snow White, Aurora, Cinderella), who just sat back and let life happen to them, and the Action Princesses (Ariel, Belle), who at least displayed some chutzpah.

After this two weeks, Leigh, with the great satisfaction that comes of knowing that you have manipulated your child into thinking exactly the way you want them to, asked Andie which Princess was her favorite.  Without missing a beat, Andie said, "Aurora, Mommy... 'cause she's the prettiest."

*Sigh*

Lasik, Part 1

So have I mentioned I'm getting Lasik next week?  No?  Because the vision in my right eye is fine, they're only operating on my left... so here's what my eyes looked like at my pre-op visit.  Mind you, this was FOUR HOURS after the dilating drops. 

Now why would you suppose my husband didn't want to get romantic?  Would you want those eyes looking back at you?  Yeah, me neither.

Sweet Pea's 'blella

It's these conversations that break my heart...

She's playing with her umbrella ("blella") and, after a mild altercation with her father, says:  "Daddy's not really nice to me sometimes."

Me:  He's not?

Sweet Pea:  No.  He wouldn't mix me let mix it.

Me:  He wouldn't let you mix the orange juice?

Sweet Pea:  No.  I'm really sad.  Daddy hurt my feelings.

Me:  Well, sweetie, Daddy loves you very much.  I'm sure he didn't mean to hurt your feelings.

Sweet Pea:  But he screamed at me.

Me:  (knowing there was no screaming whatsoever)  Honey, I don't think he screamed.

Sweet Pea:  Yes he did and he hurt my feelings.

Me:  Have you given him a hug and told him you love him?  That fixes just about everything.

Sweet Pea:  No.  I'm sad now.

When did this happen?  I swear she was born last week.  How are we having entire conversations about emotional well-being?