Hot dogs and bananas.

My eleven month old sits in his chair eating just that as I sit on the couch multi tasking. Right now, I am not only writing this blog, I am also wondering about the nutritious value of a hot dog and debating whether or not I'm ready to set up the tree. The hot dog issue is a rather mute point seeing as he's already eaten it...and after worrying over him and his lack luster capacity for gaining weight the first four months of his life I'm at the point where if what he's eating makes him fat, I'm happy. And he's happy. So hot dogs; hip hip hooray! As for the tree, the real issue is how to keep the lil' monster the heck away from it. Because I too admire the shiny lights and glowing bulbs...but that doesn't mean I have to pull them all down and roll them across the floor, try to eat them, break them, or lose them along with the myriad of cheerios, match box cars, and toddler sized socks that hide collecting dust beneath the couch. He will get a kick out of all that. I will, too. I'll get a swift kick off my lazy arse several times in a five minute period. After not too many of these five minute periods, I'll feel like giving him a swift kick, too. But now that I think of it...all of that sounds like fun. In a twisted sort of "I'm a new mom who loves watching my sweet angel (a.k.a. Tasmanian devil) discover all things new in the world. So I'll be brave, set up his first tree, and revel in all the hellish chaos that results. They're only young once.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

If I could pick only one thing for Christmas it would be: To give all the homeless children a proper education and a puppy. Oh yeah and world peace.


But if I had my choices, they would be: 1,000 free diapers, a kid catching robot, or a year of caught up on sleep.


If one miracle could happen I would want:
Every person in the world to forgive themselves. And their mother.

I hope you can find my house, I live : In an amazing country with access to free public education and health care insurance for all children; even the very poor ones. Turns out we aren't very poor here in comparison.


And please dont forget:


My Family would like: a few easy lessons to go along with the hard ones, to love each other beyond a reasonable doubt, and to do the best we can with who we are and what we have.


This is what good I have done this year: Made a step towards helping myself, my family, and my community.


And I only was bad when: I willingly partook in (and fully enjoyed) pre-marital sex, too much wine, incredibly tasty but terribly unhealthy food, and the occasional smoke. Even though I knew they were bad for me.


Thank you Santa and I hope the elves are working hard, but not too hard. I'll have the cookies by the door and carrots for your reindeer. And please dont forget to help the less fortunate...

Love, Jen

Why are the bad guys so hard to get over?

I guess "get over" aren't the right words because I'm falling more and more out of love with mine everyday. It's just that for some reason, whenever I see other girls flirting with him on-line it really pisses me off. OK it hurts. Still. God knows why...I should be happy. I should be preying for him to find a woman he'd want to be good to. I surely want to find a guy who fits better with me than he ever came close to.

When I try to decide which of his endearing traits I miss the most, I can't seem to choose. It's a toss up between abusive and bitter. Or possibly alcoholic; that's a good one. Maybe it's our private social interactions, A.K.A the blame game. Or his total lack of regard for the needs of other people. It could be that when he's in town, he's always home because he doesn't have a job. Or any money. Or even a drivers license.

More likely, it's the rare occasion when his cheesy grin is so contagious. The times he makes me laugh. The way our bodies match so well together all spooned up on the couch. Watching him wrestle with our son, the laughter pouring out of them. Enjoying a meal he cooked for dinner, or coming home to a house he cleaned.

The reason doesn't matter much when the story stays the same. I'm still here leaning on unstable where sturdy should be. Still alone and therefor lonely.

I know lonely is the real reason I miss him, and I know all of these feelings are "normal." That doesn't keep me from wanting it to stop.

If I could renovate me...

I would love to be able to say that, given the chance to make a new and improved version of the girl my father lovingly dubbed "Jenerella," I'd opt not to change a thing. But that would be a cop out. In the real world, I'd buy the wonderfully updated model quicker than Paris Hilton whips out Daddy's Visa. Assuming the new me cost less than a very small fraction of a percent of Miss Hiltons healthy trust fund. Unless of course the new me came with Paris' wardrobe, including shoes. Because in that case I'd find a way to scrape together my entire life's worth and my first born which might add up to a whole percentage.

For the record, I'd never give up my one and only baby boy. He is one of the few things about my life I wouldn't change. And if I'm being honest, I'm not particulary envious of Paris Hilton or her life style (ok, maybe a little), and there are truly only a few things I'd wish to improve about myself. Those few things are really more of a spring cleaning than a complete renovation, so I'm happy really. And lucky to be so.

The most significant thing I'd change about me is my low self esteem. It is the barrier between myself and a healthy romantic relationship. It causes gaps among my friends. It creates distance in my family. And it steals my accomplishments before I've begun to recognize them. I have no idea where this lack of faith in myself began, or how it manages to linger in my life like the smell of an over flowing diaper genie. What I do know is that I'm tired of it, and I'm working on it.

There are so many things in my life I could have written here. I could waste my wishes from a genie on something superficial like a million dollars; lord knows as a single mother I could use it. I might have asked a plastic surgeon to erase my stretch marks, and create firmer well toned thighs minus the cellulite. I could have pleaded with God to keep my son, who has already been through more in his short life than most of us, safe and healthy from now on.

But what I'd really love is to have my life. My perfect little boy and his perfect little messes and all the bumps and brises he'll aquire along the way. My long days with school, work, and home. My poverty stricken life with it's less than glorious pleading for child support and worrying about what I can afford to make for dinner. My body with it's stretch marks and extra inch and all the pain I have learned It is capable of enduring. All the times I feel lonely and afraid. I think I'll keep it.

I just wish I had the strength to be self assured along the way.

I'll buy a clue for $300.

Are clues really that expensive? Because I'm a relatively poor single mother. Could I maybe get a discount? No, seriously. I have no idea why I'm starting this blog, other than being coerced by a friend of mine who is under the false pretense that someone might give a hoot what I have to say. Although I can't pretend to mind much; I do miss writing and I used to be fairly good at it. So perhaps with a little practice I shall be again. And perhaps someday someone will read it.