Shy

I'm shy. I'm really, really shy. This is probably weird because I'm an actress (or I used to be) and I don't think twice about getting up on stage and doing silly things - like singing and dancing and that one time when I wore a sack made of spandex and ran around making funny noises.

But when it is outside the theater I'm a mime without the makeup (which I've done too).

It's been hard moving here, there, and everywhere as a military wife because every time I move I need to create a whole new network. Now that my job is staying home and playing with the baby it's even harder. I don't have "work" to make friends with and I don't have instant conversation starters. You'd think the baby would be a good topic, but really she's just a good distraction and/or annoyance. Conversations stop when you keep getting interrupted by thrown carrots.

Today I went to lunch with a bunch of moms and it seemed like we were going to get along. Except the conversation was so stilted. The topics fell flat: Where are you from? What do you like? What funny things do your children do? Each little thing would go for three or four minutes then it was crickets.

I think it was me. I felt uncomfortable and shy and increasingly sad. Thank goodness there was barbeque.

Being depressed doesn't help this - nor does this shyness help the depression. In order to get over the depression you're supposed to get out and meet people. In order to get out and meet people you need to really be over your depression. Otherwise you find yourself talking about baby sign language and then just stopping. No reason, you just stop talking, or stop hearing, or stop eating. And you don't notice till it's too late to re-engage. Then instead of restarting and trying again you find yourself wondering why can't you make friends. What's wrong with you. Why are you so unlovable.

And there it is again: Depression. Shyness and depression.

Blessings

Today at church our minister read from Yeats:

When such as I cast out remorse
So great a sweetness flows into the breast
We must laugh and we must sing,
We are blest by everything,
Everything we look upon is blessed.

He emphasized that everything - everything - is blessed. Even Dick Cheney. And that was funny.

But what struck me more was the line above: We are blest by everything. More than the fact that everything around us is blessed all the time is the fact that we are being blessed all around. All the time. The hugs and kisses I share with my family are so much more than just affection - they are blessings. The food I cook, the house I clean - all blessings.

Which is a nice thought to a woman who isn't sure what her job is or if what she does everyday is important. It may be little, but even little blessings are nice.

Boiling

I have an electric tea kettle. In the morning I fill it with water, turn it on, and wait. While I wait I put the dishes away, or fold the laundry. Usually by the time these little chores are done the water is boiling and ready to make tea. Also, usually by this time, Emily is done helping with chores and wants to play. With Mommy. Only.

The first time the water boils I usually miss it and 2o minutes later I go and turn the water back on. Then I miss it again. And again. It take a few tries to finally get hot water into a cup and brewing tea.

Once the tea is brewing I usually am distracted or forget until the tea is dark, bitter, and cold. That's how I start my day.

Recently, my life has felt a lot like my tea. Every time I get boiling towards something I get derailed. Every time I start to get happy and enthusiastic the postpartum depression rears its head. The project stops, or I spend a few days just getting through the desperate want to curl into bed and sleep for a week straight. Then I pick up and get going again. Only to get stopped just as I'm ready to start making something.

And when I do finally make something, do something, get somewhere the depression tends to make it taste dark, bitter, and cold. The fog settles over everything and I can see that I would enjoy it if only I didn't feel so rotten.

It's a frustrating thing to drink cold tea all the time.

Move it

A quick thought:

Can the Birther issue really be called a Birther Movement (as I heard on the news today)? Movements tens to want to move things, change things, make things happen. Birthers seem like they want to just generally whine. They don't even seem like they want to move President Obama - which would be the whole point of challenging citizenship.

Really, what would a Birther Movement stand for? Kitchen table gossip? Sour grape eating? General whining without having legitimate reasons? - All the best parts of American society I guess.

Can we Fox News Memo this? From now on it's not a movement, or an issue, or a problem. Instead we'll use Birther Debacle. Or silliness. Perhaps the Birther Bore. Because this is boring.

Rebecca Black gives me hope

When I was a pre-teen/teenager I remember the music that was popular was rather depressing. Eminem was pretty sad, most of the rap and hip hop was about people dying. NSynch and Backstreet Boys were happy, but we weren't allowed to actually like them. It's hard not to think back to the music of my "youth" and remember countless message songs about people dying of AIDS, drugs, gangbangs or just because they were the wrong race. When it wasn't in the music it was in the news - I was a junior when the Columbine Shootings took place.

But today the top song on iTunes is Rebecca Black's "Friday." It's awful. The lyrics are terrible. But they make me happy. Usually when people wake up in the morning they sing about the impossibility of getting out of bed and how they'd rather be dead. Rebecca talks about getting a bowl of cereal. Before the big decision of the day would be whether to get high or have an abortion. Rebecca has to decide which seat will she take in the car. It's such a big decision she sings about it twice. From the video it looks like she wants to sit in the back seat instead of kicking it in the front seat. That's nice - she's 13 - I don't think she can drive.

Finally, her weekends aren't about banging, drugs, getting drunk. They are about "fun." Lots and lots of fun. You know what I mean. She's so sure you know what I mean she doesn't say what she means. She just sings that you know what I mean. I'm convinced she means a sparkly t-shirt and some KoolAid. (The kind without cyanide.)

"Friday" makes me happy. If the worst we really have to worry about is which seat to sit in and "partyin' partyin'" then we must be doing something right.

All I need is the apron

My wedding is coming up and though we don't really need anything and we don't want any presents (just lots of loved ones present!) I still got surprised by a few gifts.

From my husband a shiny, brand new Singer sewing machine (with a buttonholer).

From my dad a copy of The Joy of Cooking.

Think I might officially be a homemaker now.

But what I really want to do is blog

A week or so ago I looked down to watch as Emily moved from sitting to lying on her stomach to rolling onto her back, then back up again...all on her own. The remarkable part of this feat of baby strength was that I was not at all surprised. She'd been doing it for awhile and it took me at least a month to notice that I've noticed that she can roll any which way she pleases.

And that's pretty much my life. If there is anything to note I note it...then promptly forget that I've noted it because there are things to do. When Emily first rolled from tummy to back I cheered and clapped and we ran upstairs to wake up Dad and tell her she finally did it. From back to tummy...eh...just don't do it when you're on the changing table. Good. Next!

It's not that I'm not paying attention. I am. Quite a lot. I can tell by the look on her face what she's gearing up to do. I know what she's trying to grab. I see her doing all these new baby tricks. I just am too busy doing them with her (or keeping her from doing them into a wall/corner/down a flight of stairs) that I don't note them as milestones anymore I see it as the progression of our lives.

Except I want them to be milestones. My mother and I talk daily and she always asks (as she has for my entire life) "What adventures have you had today?" And I start to answer before I realize my adventure was going to the supermarket. It was fun. We enjoyed ourselves (Emily loves riding in the cart), but is is actually an adventure anymore? Is it noteworthy? Actually forget wasting paper on a note: is it blog worthy?

Shoot is it even Facebook status worthy?

I like my life. I like that the supermarket is fun. I like that a pair of clean socks has now become a toy that can mean at least 15 minutes of fun. I like all that. I like being a Mom. It's a lovely job. However, when my friends write to me and tell me of their fabulous lives then ask what I am doing I want to say something other than "breastfeeding."

I know there is something else to me than boobs...I just wish I could notice what it was.