Hello! Go Away! Come Back on Monday!

A comment from Tuesday's post:

You really CAN'T afford to stay home, so stop acting like it. You're going to have to make huge sacrifices that will stress you out even MORE than when you were dropping your kid off at daycare. Tell the truth: you got fired and now you are pretending to freelance when all the while you're shitting yourself because you can't live off of one salary.
Good luck.

Ha! Quite a refreshing change from the good old days of Laura and her snippity preachiness about how I could TOTALLY afford to stay home if my husband and I stopped eating out so damn much, or you know, just stopped eating altogether.

No! Now I am poor and a liar and EVEN WORSE, have developed some rather distressing problems with my bowels.

(Helpful Hints for Trolls! Guess what! When you comment, I get your IP address, and then I can see allllll the other comments you've left from that IP address, especially the one where you used your real email address, asked me to visit your real blog and mentioned what real blogging friend of mine is a real friend of yours, and really, you gave me a terrific laugh right there, so thanks, dumbass.)

(I visited your blog! And it was very funny. Especially the part where the very first thing I read was a whole rant about "I reserve the right to publish any email you send me along with your email address blah blah blah." Oh! The irony!)

(I am bigger than that. I am ABOVE THAT. But...you know. Tempting.)

Anyway.

This post is not about the troll, because honestly that is just about the stupidest comment I have ever gotten, and almost makes me wonder if she was just trying to be funny or something, because...huh? Like I would not admit if I got my ass fired? Like I would not JUMP at the chance to  have a public hysterical freak-out of that caliber just to save my pride?

People, I have told you about my cervical mucus. I mean. Come on.

Anyway!

MY POINT IS: I am not fired nor am I making the freelancing shit up, because my first regular gig (gig! I have gigs!) starts on Monday, when I will start posting for ClubMom as their Round-Up Blog Editor for the Round-Up Blog that Rounds-Up Mom Blogs and Blogs About the Best of Mom Blogs in a Round-Up Blogging Fashion.

If you read a lot of other blogs of the mothering kind, you have probably noticed a few people mentioning that they've been chosen by ClubMom to blog about various parenting-related topics. My job is basically to read what they write and then tell you to go read it too. And yes, they are paying me money for this. MONEY. TO READ BLOGS. BLAWWWGS.

I think the Round-Up Blogger is supposed to be some kind of community-building den-mother type to all the bloggers of the world, but I prefer to think of myself as a TERRIFYING BLOGGING OVERLORD.

Amy: WRITE QUALITY CONTENT OR TREMBLE IN FEAR. GROVEL FOR MY LINKAGE.

Everybody Else: Um. Fuck you.

Amy: Fu-...oh. Um...you go away! You go away and go eat some dirt!

(There is no cursing on the Round-Up Blog. No cursing! This is pretty much the biggest challenge of my entire writing career.)

AGAIN WITH THE ANYWAY.

I'll be posting to this blawwwg a minimum of five times a week (mmmmm, contractually-obligated goodness) (and mmmmmm, part-time babysitter) and I'll be telling dumb stories about dumb things that I do that are dumb and also! TALKING ABOUT YOUR BLOGS. Yes, yours!

I promise you it will be fun, and holy mother of blogs, you better leave me a comment today with your URL so I won't run out of material after three days. I'm basically be creating and surfing the biggest, fattest blogroll of mom blogs, mom-to-be blogs, wannabe-mom blogs and maybe even some dad blogs, because I am CRAZY like that. ClubMom clearly has no idea what a rebel they hired.

And no, ClubMom co-founder Andrew Shue has not called me and I don't have his email address, which fine, I HAD VERY IMPORTANT QUESTIONS ABOUT MELROSE PLACE THAT AREN'T ANSWERING THEMSELVES OVER HERE, BUT WHATEVER.

Also, I am still waiting for Meredith Viera to offer me her spot on The View, but I am positive that's coming any time now. In fact, I better go check the fax machine again. Sometimes stuff falls off the tray.

So the fun starts on Monday, and then, oh but then, I will be announcing even MORE FUN STUFF on Wednesday, which...gee...Wednesday. Didn't something used to happen semi-regularly around here on Wednesdays? Hmmm, I can't quite seem to recall.

(EEEEEEEEEEEKKK! YAY!)

The troll WAS partly right. We still eat out at restaurants, but are now too poor to afford a second glass of wine for the baby.

Or real tissues, apparently. Gross, self.

Flashback

Okay, so I promise you this website is NOT becoming a glorified camera-phone-moblog thing, but...

Jason was going through his photos last night and found this one:

This is the very first time I held Noah. The very first time we actually looked at each other in the eyes and said, "Hello, strange, puffy person. You are stuck with me now, bwa ha ha."

Okay, what I actually said was: "Oh my God. Hi. Oh my God. I'm your mom. Hi." And then I cried.

And Noah just kind of squawked and looked vaguely alarmed.

I was wrecked. Tired. Shellshocked. Terrified out of my flipping mind, and I don't think my hair and skin have ever looked worse. I hadn't seen Noah since the rushed and baffling first attempt at breastfeeding in the recovery room and had been sitting in my room by myself for an hour while Noah was bathed and checked over and for some reason I completely blamed our separation on the c-section and by the time Jason returned I'd worked myself into full-on hysterics because I hadn't bonded with my child yet and therefore I was totally doomed forever because the baby was NOT GOING TO LIKE ME.

Then the nurse wheeled him in and Jason placed him in my arms. And I decided that maybe this was actually turning out to be an okay day after all.

I took these this morning. Yep, another pretty okay day all around.

Things I Will Miss, Part 2

I will miss my personalized office escape route.

Fancy! Just like they got in them hotels!

I have no idea why my company decided to post evacuation instructions in every office, kitchen, copy room and vaguely defined common area -- perhaps they were a little shaken by our brush with that cigarette-in-a-garbage-can fire, perhaps it's some kind of law these days, or perhaps they're simply trying to avoid a lawsuit when somebody gets hurt in a freak fax machine explosion because there was not a handy map of the office nearby and they forgot where the stairs are.

I panicked! I had toner running down my face! And third-degree paper cuts! Everyone was screaming and I couldn't see the illuminated EXIT signs! But a map! I could have stopped to consult a map! OH WHEN WILL CORPORATE AMERICA EVER LEARN?

I will especially miss the fact that I have OPTIONS for fleeing the building.

See, the SOLID red line is my BEST option, while the DOTTED red line represents my FALLBACK route, to be used only if the zombies decide to start with the corner window offices, where all the extra-delicious executive brains sit.

And because I am a child who personifies and has imaginary conversations with cigarette disposals, I will admit to staring at this map sometimes and wishing it was like the Marauders' Map in Harry Potter, because that would pretty much be the coolest thing ever.

Dude, stay away from the leftover pasta salad in the kitchen. Professor Snape has been in the third stall from the right for 45 minutes already.

So yes. I will miss that. Along with our first-aid station stocked with everything from epinephrine shots to generic Midol, the CPR and Heimlich manuever posters, the external difibulator and the emergency oxygen tank. How in the world am I going to feel safe at home? What if Noah requires something besides infant Motrin? What if I accidentally set the dog on fire? What if I forget where my front door is?

I am so buying one of these, I will tell you that.

PS. How bad would it be if, on my last day, I drew tiny little toilets in the stalls on my map? What about urinals?

Things I Will Miss, Part 1

(In an attempt to chase the mommy war infighting out of my comments section with a big old broom, I will now bring you an ongoing series of things I will actually miss about coming to work.)

(go on now, git! you no-good punk kids!)

(waves broom menancingly)

I will miss walking past this happy little fellow every morning.

After an incident involving three fire trucks, two police cars, one ambulance, a garbage can and an improperly disposed-of cigarette, these futuristic sentry-like receptacles were placed by every entrance at my office.

Quite frankly, I think they are ADORABLE, and I'm always ready for them to start blinking out morse code to me like that guy on Star Trek, only more cheerful-like and without the delta ray exposure.

beeepHELL0! I aM pleasED to accept yOUr cigareTTe! BeepBEEP! You honor Me wiTh your stub! Live long and ProSper, my dear bLACK-lunged mastER! Beep!

Or perhaps they are fooling me and are, in fact, part of a well-disguised vicious gang of keep-left signs.

HaND over THe MaRlboroS, bitCH! BeeP!

Mommy Dichotomy

This morning, I finally got up the nerve to tell Noah's daycare teachers that next Wednesday will be his last day. It was fun. FUN. Tomorrow, I think I'll just have someone lob bricks directly at my chest instead.

They CRIED, people. IN FRONT OF ME. They handed me a camera so I could take their pictures with Noah. They asked if I would bring him back to visit. Then one of them had to leave the room. Then the other one told me how happy she was for me while her voice cracked and shook, and then she went off to sit in a rocking chair with Noah, holding him tightly to her chest while she tried to compose herself.

As I silently restocked Noah's cubby, I heard her whisper, "I love you, I love you."

And just like that very first dark day in December, I made it all the way back to my car before I started crying.

Baby Photos: They're like real-life emoticons for your blog.

I hated the rushing, the hassle, the colds, the room full of infants on amoxicillin and the endless forms for Pedialyte and diaper rash creams, but from the hours of 9:30 am and 6 pm, I knew Noah was safe. And happy. Every morning his face lit up at the sight of his teachers. Every morning he reached out his arms for hugs and kisses. Every morning he would smile and laugh as his teacher held his hand and blew me kisses goodbye on his behalf.

You know, I've gotten nothing but praise and support for my decision. So much praise, in fact, that I've read posts on other blogs about it because DAMN. Guess it's pretty obvious what choice is really seen as the right choice, the best choice, the universally loved and praised and petted choice.

While a lot of readers are genuinely happy for ME, because they know this is the right decision for ME, for RIGHT NOW, there were plenty of comments that bordered on (or flat-out trampled over) the idea that while some women can't stay home, if it is an option, it's the choice you MUST make. The choice you SHOULD make. The subtext is clear: if you can afford to stay home but choose to work anyway, you sir, are worse than Hitler. Which is why, back in January, the trolls chose to hurl that particular accusation at me. You can totally afford to stay home! You just don't want to!

Ooh, snap! Damn these uppity women with their "choices" and "options" and "personal fulfillment."

People -- coworkers, neighbors, family members -- who were totally, "Good for you!" when I went back to work are now sighing with visible relief because thank God I came to my senses and am getting that poor baby out of that awful, awful daycare.

Last week I told his teachers to start giving Noah an afternoon snack of Cheerios, and they clapped their hands in excitement. Cheerios? Noah eats Cheerios? Our big boy! Our big smart boy! When I picked him up that night I got a detailed and joyous description of just how well Noah can pick up a Cheerio and get it into his mouth.  He takes such good naps! He's almost crawling! He offered a toy to a crying baby! He laughs when they sing! He gives the best kisses!

 

I asked these women to care for Noah. They did. I asked them to love him. They did. They really, really did.

And now I'm asking them to be okay with never seeing him again.

The Guilt, it gets you coming and going some days.

Gearing Up For Writersblockapalooza 2006

Apologies for the lack of updates, but every time I see the whitey blankness of the New Post screen, I suddenly become completely entranced by those bright shiny oncoming headlights.

Mama, please write something already. I want to go to college. How can I go to college if you don't write something already?

No pressure though. I'm cool.

Freefalling, part two

I've been unemployed once before. It was 2001 and I was working at a small software start-up in Virginia -- one of those tiny dot.com outfits that spent a lot of time and effort telling people that it wasn't a dot-com, it had a PRODUCT, and even though the PRODUCT would pretty much eat your computer alive from the inside out and no one had ever bought a single copy of the PRODUCT, we had loads of funding and free soda and snacks in the kitchen.

We'd had layoffs once before, and I survived miraculously by virtue of having the smallest salary in the company. I got bounced around as a technical writer, marketing manager, events coordinator, office-supply-closet stocker and office-coffee-pot scrubber. I also paid the company's bills, but the checks always bounced and I got very good at blaming our bank and promising to "look into things," which meant testily emailing various VPs about the need to STOP SPENDING SO MUCH DAMN MONEY ALREADY.

I stayed because I had no where else to go. One time I submitted a couple articles to magazines and got rejected and hid in the office bathroom to cry.

After 9/11, there were more layoffs. My friend ran a scan of the company email server and found a bunch of emails from the executives as they bargained and jockeyed for their team members and compiled the List of the Damned.

My friend was on the list; I wasn't. I took him out for lunch and we never went back -- we stayed at a bar instead doing shot after shot of straight vodka and waited for the terrorists to blow us all up.

Hours later I realized I'd left my coat at the office and stumbled back in sometime around 5:30 with a mouthful of Altoids and my high heels in my hand. The company president was waiting for me, and within 10 minutes I was packing up my desk and wondering if he knew that I was drunk off my ass.

My severance package was one month's worth of pay. I was out of work for three months. We'd bought our condo that summer -- with a mortgage that we figured we'd "grow into" with mad raises and stock options and I don't know, a magic money tree we'd grow in the window box. We'd spent all of our savings on the downpayment and refinishing the goddamn floors.

I sent out hundreds of resumes and stayed in bed all day and reused the coffee grounds. When I accidentally missed the dentist appointment I desperately needed before my health insurance ran out, they informed me I owed a $50 fee and I broke down in hysterical tears because I simply didn't have $50. I filed for unemployment and got called a white bitch by some random guy in the waiting area.

In complete panic, I took a hefty pay cut and accepted a marketing job with little government contractor. They never told me that I'd be working by myself in a little satellite office or that the "contracts" they listed on their client list were mostly from the 1980s or that my entire budget for brochures and events and advertising for the year was $9,000.

And so I spent a few horrible weeks printing out my boss's email and trying to explain to her that you don't "open" Windows, it's just WHAT YOUR COMPUTER RUNS ON DUMBASS, and being tasked with tracking what happened to this one restaurant that the company president ate at once, he forgets the name, but it was Thai food, or maybe Vietnamese, anyway, it's gone now but please find out when and why it closed and when I suggested that *just maybe* this wasn't the best use of my time I was reprimanded for "clinging to my title" and "not being a team player."

Then my former boss at a financial publishing company called -- the company I left a year before to go make my Internet stock option fortune -- and offered me a job. I packed up my desk that day and left a Post-It on my boss's computer monitor telling her that I would not be returning, thanks ever so fucking much.

I have been here ever since.

And now I am leaving.

And while Rockstar Mommy's Jerry-Maguire-like exit scenario (WHO'S COMING WITH ME? Y'ALL SUCK AND I AM TAKING THE FISH.) certainly sounds way awesome, quitting your job is rarely that dramatic. Or fun. It kind of sucks. And my office doesn't have any fish.

It was more like this: "Hello, I have bad news and would like to awkwardly hand you a resignation letter while making relationship-like platitudes of It's Not You, It's Me, We're Just Different People Now and I Don't Think We Mesh Very Well" and then I got all choked up because my boss -- my completely fantastic crate-racing jello-shooting boss -- said all he cared about was that I was happy.

And I am happy.

I can't tell you a lot of particulars about what I'll be doing -- yet -- but I will soon. I hope y'all will like it, and I hope you will read it. There will probably be some contracting for my current company along with some stuff that makes me tremble with excitement every time I think about it because I WILL BE A WRITER, A REAL-LIVE WRITER WHO GETS MONEY FOR WRITING THAT SHE WRITES HER DAMN SELF.

A lot of people think having a baby pretty much puts your life on hold. That babies and families are what keep women bashing against the glass ceiling. That your dreams take a backseat to your child's dreams.

I will tell you this: Bullshit.

The opportunities I've been given (nay, handed on a fucking silver platter with a pretty caligraphied notecard that says "For Amy") would never have come to be if not for Noah. I wouldn't have had the voice or the experience or the simple GUTS to go after them. Noah inspires me in so many ways -- to be a better writer, a better person and to do whatever it takes to give him the very best life possible.

Back when I was still on maternity leave, Jason and I agonized over our budget because MAN, did I love this motherhood business. MAN, did I want to stay home. We came up with a number. The amount of money beyond Jason's salary that we.just.plain.needed.every.month.not.negotiable.amen.

My experience back in 2001 taught us that living off our savings -- the savings we've meticulously built up over the years because NEVER FUCKING AGAIN will we live that close to the edge of the financial cliff -- was not something we were willing to do, even temporarily. And so we were left with this number. It alternatively seemed (to me) deliciously attainable and yet...totally impossible.

So I came back from maternity leave a different person, to a slightly different job than the one I'd left in September. I'm so glad I did. I owed it to myself to try. I owed it to Jason to not force him into a breadwinner role that he wasn't comfortable with. I owed it to Noah to make sure his parents weren't stressed out over money and his mother wasn't having anxiety attacks and reusing the coffee grounds again.

But oh my God, I hated it.

I will now and forever have the deepest admiration for mothers who work outside the home. I don't know how you do it. Because I sucked at it. I was always rushed and overloaded and running late and tired -- oh my God, so tired -- and if there was anything I hated more than the morning rush it was the drive home at night. I missed Noah so badly and he was RIGHT THERE in his infant carseat but I couldn't see him or play with him and traffic meant another 45 minutes of our time together was sucked away from us.

By Friday I was so tired and worn out that I seriously had no business getting behind the wheel with Noah in the car. So Fridays were the days that I missed my exit or locked my keys in the car or spilled coffee on myself or made a million other stupid mistakes. I was so tired of the colds and viruses and using my sick leave to care for Noah then dragging my diseased ass in because I just couldn't miss any more work.

I had to make a change. And I've made it and it's terrifying and exciting and I AM SO FUCKING GRATEFUL. Because I know. Just a couple months ago I stared at our budget for the millionth time, trying to scale back more and more and it just wasn't going to happen. I didn't have a choice. I think it's bullshit to kid ourselves that all women in this country really, truly have a choice.

Oh, but you choose to live in an area where real estate costs seventy million dollars a square foot. You choose to have two cars. You choose to have a date night with your husband. You choose these things because you are not a good parent.

Arrrrgh. The whole thing makes me want to poke pointy things in people's eyes.

Anyway. Stuff came together for me. Details coming soon. Maybe it was luck, fate, karma, God's chosen plan -- I have no idea. But honestly? It worked out because of you guys. Because you come here and read and comment and frantically refresh and give a rat's ass about my family and what I have to say. Or maybe you just want baby pictures. Or maybe you hate me and keep reading in hopes that I'll get hit by a truck. I don't know. But thanks for upping my stats anyway and helping me prove that there's an audience for run-on sentences about poop. And for giving me the confidence that hey, maybe I don't completely suck.

When I think about how you -- all of you -- have touched my life and changed it for the better; about where I would be without this blog, this outlet; and about how Noah and I have an army of friends and allies (I refuse to call any of you strangers) out there -- Jesus God, it renders me absolutely speechless.

(HA! Yet look at how I am still talking.)

So. I am serving out two more weeks. May 3rd is my last day. Then I get the nifty WAHM acronym and the chance to do everything I've ever wanted, plus the one thing I never realized would mean so much to me.

I couldn't have done it without you. Thank you.

Plot Twist

So in case anybody was wondering which diaper bag I ended up going with...

I didn't buy one.

I quit my job instead.

I quit.

My job.

Just now.

Somebody tell me how to stop shaking.

And maybe get me a paper bag to breathe into or something.

I would also accept ideas on how to get this damn Tom Petty song out of my head.

And I'm freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...freeeelancing.

OH MY GOD. OH MY HOLY HOLY GOD.

Sacred Beliefs

I believe that if you are stuck at home with a sick baby for the third day in a row, are getting sick yourself, are spending most of your time cleaning either 1) snot of various colors and consistencies, 2) antibiotic-fueled diarrhea or 3) hacking-cough-fueled vomit, and then the rest of the time trying to entertain a furious child who! will! not! be! entertained! and your throat hurts and the baby threw a spoon at your head and there is poop on your jeans but you aren't even going to change them because WHAT IS THE POINT ANYMORE, I firmly believe it is perfectly acceptable to eat a chocolate Easter bunny for breakfast.

In fact, I think it should be downright required.

And the Reason is You

Reason Why I Haven't Posted In Days:

Baby's first ear infection. Awesome! Thank you so much, daycare.

(I HATE YOU.)

Along with the ear infection, we've also got more snot than should be allowed to come out of a single human head, even a 90th percentile head, and a internal-organ-rattling cough that means Milk In, Vomit Out, But Only If Mama Is Holding You, Preferably With Your Mouth Aimed Down Her Bra.

Reason Why I Kind of Hate My Dog Right Now:

Reason Why I Love You Guys:

"I want you to thank all your readers for those lovely comments. I read one that wondered how I felt about 125 'Strangers' talking about me. It just plain amazes me is what it does.  That people out there still take the time to care about a stranger!  It is really heartwarming and does bolster my spirit."

-an email from my mom, who is officially 100% cancer-free

Reason Why I Love Spring: