Moving Day!

That's right, everyone, I'm outta here!

It's been real, blogspot, but I need my space. My own space. And now I finally have it.

My own space is right here! It's a work in progress right now, but I have BIG plans for its future.

Come visit me!

And come follow me on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest (give me your e-mail address if you want an invitation!), and StumbleUpon!

Hooray! I'm so ready for this new chapter of life!

Rummage through Rubbish

When I was about 7 years old, I told my mother I wanted to be a garbage collector. When she asked me why, I told her it was because I wanted to be the first person who got to see all the cool stuff people threw out.

She makes fun of me for it to this day.

I wanted to be a lot of things as I grew up; I was totally not one of those kids who knew their dream career by the time they were expelled from their mother's womb. I know plenty of those, and I always felt like there was something wrong with me because for the longest time I just had no freaking clue what I wanted to do or be. Nothing ever felt right.

I wanted to be a math teacher, an English teacher, a history teacher, a garbage collector, a massage therapist, a stay-at-home mother, the President, a Spanish teacher, a writer, a Giordano's dancer, and, of course, a nurse.

I'm not sure I've ever admitted this to anyone, but it was Dr. Jon Dorian and the staff of Sacred Heart Hospital that made me want to go into medicine.

That's right. Scrubs.

I got into the classes - high school A&P, biology, organic chemistry, A&P in college...I love it. I adore it. Every second of it. I can't explain the draw, but I can't avoid it. There is nothing in the world more fascinating to me than A&P and medicine.

Fast forward through my CNA classes, my nineteenth birthday (finding out I was pregnant with Logan), working from 3 - 6 months pregnant, giving birth during a blizzard, then going back to work and back to school.

And there it is. Even writing about it, it's the exact same feeling. It's a sickening anxiety that starts just below my ribs and tightens every muscle as it creeps upward and finally just sits like lead right above my collarbone and makes it hard to breathe.

I am not a fan of leaving my son for long days of school and work. Just thinking about it is terrifying to me. I hate it. And I go back to working, at least two and up to four, eight-hour days per week on August 10.

For the last 5 years, I knew I wanted to be a nurse. Eventually I wanted to get my Doctorate of Nurse Practice. There would be no stopping me.

About a month ago, I wrote about how I wanted A Thing.

I still want A Thing. Because all of a sudden, I have no idea what my Thing is anymore.

I feel like I should still want the BSN and the DNP and the six-figure salary that comes with having a jillion letters behind my name...but what does that mean for Logan? Where does that put him between now and when he starts going to school? And even then, who is he going to come home to?

Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

If I plow through school I'll be leaving my son with babysitters and relatives and (oh my gosh I can't even imagine this one right now) day care providers. Sure, I'll be successful and I'll have a career and a degree and nice high earning potential and blah blah blah, but...who's raising my child then?

But...if school goes slower or I have another child in the next couple years (which, as many know, may not even be medically possible for us) or choose something, anything besides nursing, I know there are plenty of people out there who will think I'm taking the "easy" way out. And, of course, I'll wonder, What if?


What the heck is my Thing now? What am I supposed to do?

I guess if all else fails, I can just be a garbage collector.

...On The Floor

I had one of those I'm the worst mom ever moments today.

It's similar to a moment I had around the time Logan was 9 months old and I was trying to transition him from bottle to sippy cup (a process which I completed a whopping six weeks ago...don't judge my parenting). I accidentally forgot to put the little plug thingy, which ONLY allows him to drink if he sucks on the sippy spout, into the top of the cup, and that meant that when he tipped the cup up to his mouth, the juice in it just trickled into his gaping pie hole without him having to work at it. He was thrilled.

Quickly I realized my terrible parenting misstep and freaked out and went charging across the room at him in slow-motion, screaming, "Noooo!" (but it was all low-pitched and dramatic and I was running like Pam Anderson in Baywatch. Was that too far? Yeah, I thought so too.) I snatched the cup away from him, crammed the plug in the lid, handed it back to him, and held my breath...and he couldn't figure the cup out.

All I could think was Oh my gosh my child is never ever going to learn how to suck juice from his sippy cup and he's going to go to kindergarten with a bottle in his lunchbox and all the kids are going to pick on him and call him a baby and he's going to drop out of school at 13 and run away from home and get addicted to crack and meth and painkillers and he's going to rob banks and become a murderer and I RUINED MY BABYYYYY *insert sobbing*

Of course, about 2 weeks later, he was gunning around the apartment sucking down juice like he was about to cross the Sahara. I guess we dodged the middle school dropout/drug addict/murderer/bank robber bullet THAT time.

But then there was today's moment.

I came home from work (I'm filling in at my old job in the Springs for 3 days) today and Logan was running around in his wet bathing suit (he'd been in the kiddie pool on the deck). My mom saw him grabbing his "boy parts" and asked if he needed to go potty. He said, "Pee-pee," and ran toward the bathroom. She put him on the potty and he didn't go, so she put his trunks back on and he came trotting back out to me, grinning like crazy. A few minutes later, he did the same dance with me, and I asked if he needed to "Pee-pee? Poop? Potty?" not sure which one he'd recognize most.

"Pee-pee!" he screeches and hauls tail back to the bathroom. I strip off his clingy trunks and perch his cute little hiney on the big-person toilet seat (no baby seat yet...again, don't judge) and say "Go pee-pee!"

After a few moments of him sitting...then fidgeting...then fussing, I let him scoot himself off the toilet seat and rationalize, Okay, if he had to pee, he would have gone, right? Like...his thingy has been exposed for long enough that he would have gone already, right? (shut up, I didn't say it was a good rationalization) and I let him take off, bare-cheeked, into the living room.

After about 90 seconds, he screeches, "Pot!" ("potty") again, and takes off for the bathroom. I trail behind by maybe eight seconds because I figure (see earlier rationalization) he's just trying to open the toilet lid and drop something worthless (like my bra or my car keys) in the water. The kid cannot resist water, and above all, potty water. I don't get it.

I arrive at the bathroom door to see my child standing in a puddle of his own urine, all smiles. "PEE-PEE!!"

...and here's where I win the Worst Mother of the Year award...

My first reaction is "Uggggghhhh, Logan, seriously?! On the floor?!" which startled him.

Frack. Frack frack frack.

See, he'd been telling me THE WHOLE TIME that he had to pee. He KNEW he had to pee (and almost-seventeen-months is on the earlier side for that knowledge). So he kept going to the bathroom because, here's the best part, my son is smart enough to have figured out that that is the room in which you make pee-pee. And I just used my "I'm so tired of your tomfoolery" voice with him.

Frack.

Of course, similar to the Sippy Cup Incident of 2010, I realized .2532 milliseconds after I said it that I TOTALLY SHOULD HAVE JUST PRAISED THE FREAKING CRAP OUT OF HIM FOR BEING (almost) 17 MONTHS OLD AND KNOWING THAT THE BATHROOM IS FOR GOING PEE-PEE, KNOWING HE HAD TO GO PEE-PEE, AND PUTTING THE TWO TOGETHER AND MAKING IT TO THE BATHROOM.

Frack frack frack FRACK.

So then I start into this ridiculous over-compensatory, high-pitched whine, praising and praising and praising him for his feat.

Me [an octave below that range of sound only dogs can hear]: OH MY GOSH BUDDY YOU WENT PEE-PEE IN THE BATHROOM YAYYYYY *claps like an idiot* I'M SO PROUD OF YOU I'M SO PROUD OF YOU YOU'RE THE AWESOMEST KID EVERRRR!!!

Logan: *confused stare*

Yeah so...my kid's going to wet the bed until he's 12 and need a lifetime of counseling, probably. Hopefully no murders, though.