The little angel loves to eat.  Some toddlers refuse to eat - not my girl.  She's never turned down a meal.  When she was a wee mite, I worried about her, because she was a robust baby.  So robust, in fact, that complete strangers would stop me on the street to tell me how fat my baby was.  I heard someone doing this to another mother on an airplane when we went to Chicago last weekend, and it was all I could do not to hold the old woman down and beat her with a wet noodle in the name of fat-baby mamas everywhere.

Anyway.  My little angel slimmed down perfectly, just as everyone assured me she would.  I personally think she's the best-looking kid out there, but I do understand that I am blinded by the same God who tells me my sock drawer is organized enough.

And now...a montage.  Please ignore my bad HTML - I am too weary to try to fix it anymore.

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The little angel on her due date - she was a week early.

Hey, bitches!  What is with all the pink?

---

In this photo, she's about two months and nursing a wicked hangover.

---

Here, we skip ahead to when people really started to make the nasty comments.

What.  WHAT?

---

But despite her food efficiency, she was still the world's most perfect child.

How can you resist my drooling perfection?  Give me another bear.

---

She learned to walk and discovered high fashion.

I am too sexy for this hat.

---

And driving.

Get out of my grill.

---

And though she still loves to eat, she's now quite svelte, and still...perfect.

Take that, stupid Grocery Store Lady. 

The little angel loves to eat.  Some toddlers refuse to eat - not my girl.  She's never turned down a meal.  When she was a wee mite, I worried about her, because she was a robust baby.  So robust, in fact, that complete strangers would stop me on the street to tell me how fat my baby was.  I heard someone doing this to another mother on an airplane when we went to Chicago last weekend, and it was all I could do not to hold the old woman down and beat her with a wet noodle in the name of fat-baby mamas everywhere.

Anyway.  My little angel slimmed down perfectly, just as everyone assured me she would.  I personally think she's the best-looking kid out there, but I do understand that I am blinded by the same God who tells me my sock drawer is organized enough.

And now...a montage.  Please ignore my bad HTML - I am too weary to try to fix it anymore.

---

The little angel on her due date - she was a week early.

Hey, bitches!  What is with all the pink?

---

In this photo, she's about two months and nursing a wicked hangover.

---

Here, we skip ahead to when people really started to make the nasty comments.

What.  WHAT?

---

But despite her food efficiency, she was still the world's most perfect child.

How can you resist my drooling perfection?  Give me another bear.

---

She learned to walk and discovered high fashion.

I am too sexy for this hat.

---

And driving.

Get out of my grill.

---

And though she still loves to eat, she's now quite svelte, and still...perfect.

Take that, stupid Grocery Store Lady. 

The little angel, she loves the sidewalk chalk.  The funny thing, though, is that even more than she loves to color with it herself, she loves to demand that a parent color things to her specifications.  She is extremely picky about color, size and location of these drawings. 

Last night, I drew a map of the world...to scale. (No, that's a line from a comedian I saw like ten years ago and stole, STOLE, but isn't the idea funny?  Maybe it's just funny to me.  Ahem.)

I did, however, draw a picture of the little angel.  It was approximately the same height as she was, but since we don't have red sidewalk chalk (and really, why not?), I had to give the drawing sort of hot-pink hair.  When I was finished, the little angel selected a piece of her own hair and studied it, then looked at the picture.

Little Angel:  "Mommy, RED HAIR."

Me:  "We don't have any red chalk, honey."

Little Angel:  "RED HAIR."

Me:  "Look at the chalk. Do you see red?  I don't see red.  I used pink because that's the closest color. Sometimes in life we have to fake it a little, and that's okay."

The little angel studied me dubiously, then stomped off.  I could just hear her inner monologue:  Please don't bore me with your excuses, Mommy.

I haven't listened to or read the news in a few weeks.  I admit, I am so pissed about the war in Iraq and the behavior of W., I can barely stand to listen to the latest.   I have always been so proud of my country, but lately, I'd claim to be Canadian if I traveled abroad. I'm that upset about our behavior.

Even feeling that way, I was blown away - BLOWN AWAY - when I heard on NPR this morning that we seized the seven- and nine-year-old children of the 9/11 mastermind and flew them to this country for "interrogation."  The link I included above is definitely left-leaning and political, but NPR isn't.  My hands were shaking on the wheel and I almost had to pull over just thinking about two young boys being interrogated over something they had no idea about when they were already dealing with the loss of their father.

Now, don't get me wrong - screw Khalid Shaikh Mohammed, if he did it. He can rot in the fiery abyss for all I care.  But seriously, seriously, how can we as a country hold his two young boys responsible for telling us about Daddy's latest escapades at work?  Especially when he's like super-secret cover terrorist operative?  WTF?  ARE WE SERIOUS???

I am livid.  I am angry. What happened to my America, where we had morals and observed human rights issues and accused other countries of behaving improperly instead of running rampant across the rest of the world, secure in our stupid economic stronghold and military might?  How can this president, who publically attends church and has beautiful twin daughters and is, according to the interviewee on NPR, avidly engaged in the granular activities of day-to-day terrorist interrogations, authorize, no, encourage this behavior?  This kidnapping of a first-grader and a third-grader?  Have you seen any kids this age lately?  Do they seem particularly well-versed in world politics?  Who the hell do we think we are? 

As a mother, I can't help but see the world through the eyes of children as well as my own.  I can't ignore crimes against children the way I used to be able to do.  I don't care who the hell's kids those are, they didn't do anything wrong, and you don't get to pick your parents the way we pick our presidents.  Is transporting these children to America and scaring the shit out of them going to really make them think, "Hmm.  You're right, Daddy was wrong. I shouldn't grow up to be a terrorist just to get back at you for torturing me when I was seven?"

I really never thought my country would sink to these depths.  If there are any international readers out there, please accept our apologies.  I'm sorry, world.  Please forgive us - he knows not what he does.

I can't BELIEVE I was talking yesterday about whether or not I should stop taking my medication.  All it takes is one sleepless night for me to completely freak out about my parenting choices again, for no apparent reason.

Yesterday after work, I visited my friend M., who has a gorgeous two-month-old, D.  He is a beautiful baby, very happy, and he's already sleeping a million gazillion hours a night.  I stared at his little face and thought about my friend A. saying that her daughter had begged for a sibling.  We drank wine and talked about how easy her labor had been.  When I got home, I asked my beloved if he thought we would ever want another one, a question he and I revisit about every six months, and usually we look at each other and laugh, because we are So Not Baby People.  Ha!  We think.  Never again.  And he feels good about it, and gives it no more thought.

Still, as I drifted off to sleep, I thought, well, MAYBE another one wouldn't have so much trouble sleeping as the little angel does. MAYBE lightning doesn't strike twice.  I started reading my favorite sleep book again, and with every page the horror of sleeplessness came back to me, the nine months we spent forging through every day with five and a half hours taken in two-hour increments, trying to meet deadlines, be nice to people and not die in traffic accidents.  It was the ultimate in survival mode for me.

Sister Little pointed out how quickly it had gone on the phone this morning, although in the same breath she asked why the heck I would let anyone other than me, including the little angel, make that decision for me. And in all truth, the little angel has never indicated she is aware that other humans might exist in our family unit.  I thought about Sister Little's statement, and I realized that part of my life did not go quickly for me. Don't get me wrong - the happy parts didn't, either - but the sleeping problem was so severe, so completely life-disrupting that at this point, every moment I spent on the floor of her room, listening to her cry and staring at the sixteenth nightlight I'd tried to get the ambiance of the room just right, is seared permanently in my brain.

We've been out of town every weekend in June, and she slept pretty well while we were traveling.  It sort of fell apart once we got back. She's been up every night at two and five again, although usually she goes back to sleep pretty fast.  Last night, there was a cat in heat outside her window, and so she woke up every time it yowled from two until about six a.m.  I took the first shift, but I couldn't stand it anymore by about 4:30. I remember looking at the clock thinking at least I could get two hours of uninterrupted sleep before getting up for work. It was an eery flashback to the bad days last winter. 

So, there you are.  Sister Little keeps telling me the only person putting pressure on me is me, and she's probably right, although I know there are those out there, maybe even you, Gentle Reader, who thinks it's a parent's duty to provide every child with a sibling that they may love or hate.  I did think about it when I accompanied Sister Little to her CT scan last Friday.  Who would accompany the little angel if she had one? But then I also thought hey, I don't have an extra husband or an extra mother or father in case something happens to one of them or they are not available when I need them, so why should I apply that logic to siblings?  I am twittery on this subject, always have been.  And for some reason, every time I don't get sleep, I start questioning everything about my parenting style, not just how I handle her sleeping problems.  I wish I didn't.  I'm confident in the other choices I've made in my life, so why can't I just feel good about this one?  My stomach seizes up with fright when I contemplate going through this sleep battle again.  So why would I even think about more babies?

This morning I went to see my psychiatrist.  Yes, I admit, I have one.  I've had a few therapists over the years.  I've also had a few bouts with depression, every eating disorder in the book and extreme anxiety. And those were in the golden years of teendom and early adulthood!  What awaits me in old age?

Anyway, I'm not above admitting this, obviously, because though it seems we live in a pretty self-medicated world, I also think we live in a pretty obnoxious and overstimulated world.  And that, my friends, is our own damn fault.  1984? We're living it, minus the rats at the end. I don't mean to be negative - I love modern conveniences - but let's not fool ourselves that those very conveniences aren't making our lives even more hectic, our goals more unobtainable and our expectations for ourselves, our children, our marriages and our happiness Just. Plain. Ridiculous.

Tangent over.

This morning I went to see my psychiatrist, which I have to do every three to six months to keep getting my medicine, only to find out that though her office takes my health insurance, my health-insurance provider has outsourced the mental-health portion to someone else, who they don't take. Meaning my psychiatrist is out-of-network. Which is medical profession for "fuck you."

So...decisions.  Do I go find a new psychiatrist and try to explain that the only reason I sought help in this particular chapter of my life was the extreme lack of sleep I was getting last holiday season?  That I spent two hours a day crying because my daughter spent two hours a night doing the same?  That I wanted to kill the next person who asked when I was having another baby because the toddler I had hadn't started sleeping as well as a newborn at 22 months?  It all just seems like so much work. Plus, I'm feeling better now that the little angel only wakes up a maximum of once a night and usually goes right back to sleep.  Oh, and I got a new contract that goes until January, and it's even doing editorial stuff which makes me happy, happy, happy.  And I like my husband and my daughter and my friends and family, and really the only thing off in my life right now is my fear that Sister Little's head might explode or something, but that will probably be rectified with no issues soon.

So with nothing going wrong, am I still crazy?  I know, that's harsh.  I was never crazy.  Extremely anxiety-ridden, but not crazy.  The anxiety does seem to be gone, although after a weekend spent with four pregnant women, I did find myself having dreams about an adult little angel looking at me and asking why I never gave her a brother or sister.  I do have some anxiety about the fact that I don't want another child, but I feel like I should have one just because.  But other than that, pretty good.  Of course, the more I ponder whether or not I'm anxious, the more anxious it makes me.

You can only stop flying missions if you're crazy, but you prove yourself sane if you want to stop.

So here I am.  I don't think I've ever felt normal. From the age of eight I had horrible self-loathing and body issues.  Then Ma's cancer and the years and years of eating disorders and more self-loathing, followed by the anxiety that is your early-to-mid twenties.  I capped that off with marriage, home ownership and the birth of my first child.  I seem to be taking things easier now, but is that because I'm a) medicated, b) 32 or c) I've already faced a lot of Life's Big Decisions?

What does it feel like to feel normal?  How do I know if I'm better?  Anyone?

I composed an entire post about my family's latest medical trauma while waiting for my sister to get a CT of her head on Friday.  I was in Chicago, where she lives. Of course, between that time and now, there have been a lot of wardrobe and suitcase changes, and I lost the whole thing. Lately she's been hearing her heartbeat in her ear, a swooshing noise. This is called pulsatile tinnitus.  Kind of like ringing in the ears, but swooshing instead.  Apparently this can be caused by nothing serious, or it can be caused by myriad horrid things too scary to write about (because if I write about them, it might give them secret powers).

Anyway, she was so nervous about the test that she forgot some important things, such as the doctor's order for the test.  We finally got it figured out, after hearing a story about the receptionist Matthew's St. Patrick's Day incident with his expensive Italian cell phone.  (Apparently he'd been drunk on margaritas and threw it at someone after only six days of ownership.  It was shattering to him to lose it. It was also shattering to the phone.)

In order to do the scan, they had to pump some sort of dye, probably radioactive, into her blood. They wouldn't let me go back there with her.  They claimed it was due to the radioactiveness of it all.  I think they just really don't like visitors in the medical world. Anyone care to comment on that?  Visitors just seem like more people to freak out and/or hold down. I could be wrong.

Sister Little said the dye made her super hot, like she was breathing fire.  It also gave her the disconcerting sensation that she was peeing.  They warned her this would happened and reassured her that though she would think she was peeing, she was not really peeing.  I guess she did well. The nurse told her afterward that about some women like the peeing sensation so much they want to do it again (gah) and some people are so freaked out they jump up and flee from the room, screaming, and have to be hunted down.

After all this, they burned her head images to a CD (which took, like, so much longer than it takes me to burn a CD, even when I have to use iTunes).  I asked her if we could play it in her car.  I wonder what it would sound like. Probably The Cure, or maybe the end of a Prince song.  She said no, she didn't really want to hear her brain on radioactive dye. I thought the little angel might like it. Touche.

So now we wait four business days to find out if she has any aneurysms.  It's sort of scary, so we're both trying not to think about it.  I told the mother of one of my childhood friends (I was also in Chicago this weekend - we all were - for a baby shower of yet another childhood friend) about the whole thing, this woman who has known me almost my entire life, and she said, "Don't invite trouble."  This particular woman has been a widow for at least ten years and has a daughter, one of my best friends, who had meningitis to the point where half her body was paralyzed and had to relearn to walk, was bitten by a brown recluse spider and has always lived on the edge.  Her other daughter, the organizer of the shower, had many medical problems of her own.  So I figured if anyone knew what she was talking about, M. did.  And so, I'm going to try really hard not to invite trouble where there currently isn't any.  At least not any bona fide documented trouble.

So there.

Because sometimes, life is random.

life preservers

beach balls

duck bills

goose feet

tennis shoe liners

miniature staplers

regulation basketballs

notebook covers

the little angel's Gymboree pants

pencil erasers

night lights

workout shorts

Vitamin C pee

liquid soap

barrettes

the center of the sun (I'll bet)

swizzle sticks

umbrellas

construction worker vests

road barrels

those triangles on the back of Amish buggies

Nemo

circus peanuts

Cheetos

Fanta

orange zest

L. L. Bean socks

my beloved's boombox speakers

my college bookbag

raincoats

Sybil's cat food cover

tulips

Tuesday mornings in June

crayons

government cheese

chicken waddles

Legos

Kleenex boxes

sippy cups

happiness

I haven't been feeling too attractive lately. I'm pushing maximum density on these jeans, and the five pounds I lost when the little angel started crawling has crept back on due to a steady diet of stolen chicken nuggets and french fries.  I hate my hair.  I wish I were tan.  I wish I had time to do the thirty-mile bike rides of yesteryear, the ones that always whipped me into shape for summer without me necessarily having to do anything else different.  It's hard to ride thirty miles on a highway in ninety-degree heat with a two-year-old. 

I did read the results of a poll lately that said mothers feel more attractive than childless women.  Initially I laughed - the stereotype for mommies is bad hair, no make-up and atrocious denim - but then I thought about it.  It didn't say we LOOK better, it said we FEEL better. 

I was thinking about that and trying to decide what I thought when the little angel walked up to me and examined my pink flip-flops. 

Little Angel:  "Mommy has pretty shoes."

Me: "Why, thank you."

She peered down at my toes, my non-pedicured toes, on which I had slapped a bright coral polish the day before in an effort to seem more "resort," less "white trash."

Little Angel:  "Mommy has pretty toes."

And despite my cellulite, crow's feet and forehead wrinkles, I did feel pretty then.