Pinch Me

First, the insignificant thing: Instant parenthood is absolutely the best diet EVAR. Since last Wednesday I think I've lost 5-10 lbs. Mostly because I keep forgetting or cannot make time to eat. Most people get about nine months to prepare for a new arrival in their lives; we get less than three weeks. It is INSANITY of absolutely the best possible kind. I was crazycakes before, but now ... you have no fucking idea. I just can't help but laugh when people tell me to "sleep now, while you can," because -- not going to happen. Too much to do, too little time. As Warren Zevon and other geniuses have said before: "I'll sleep when I'm dead." (Ironic in Zevon's case, no?)

Last night we had dinner with the baby and her current-soon-to-be-former foster family. My God, how is it possible to be so in love with someone that you've only know for seven hours? I will never understand it, and to be honest, I'm not sure I want to. Just going with the flow here. The family has put pictures of us up all over the house so the baby can get used to seeing us, and already she recognizes us. She goes right to G; he's a natural daddy and it's really the most amazing thing to see. Watching him hold her last night while she was in her pajamas having her bottle -- I believe I married that man in anticipation of that very moment.

Stuff is happening so fast. People say all the time how your life changes when you find out you're going to have a baby, and while I've never doubted them, you can't fully believe them until you experience it for yourself. It's the proverbial roller coaster, an endless loop of bliss and joy with only the occasional pause for lunch or painting. Totally unreal. What we've been waiting for since pretty much the day we got married -- it is finally happening. Like a dream. The best dream EVAR. And I never, never want to wake up, unless the baby is in the room next to mine and I can grab her and hold her close to my heart. Where she is already, anyway.



We got The Call around 10:00 on Wednesday morning. Our case worker was on the phone: a child is available, a little girl, 10½ months old, were we interested?

It's been so long since we started this process, and G and I will both admit that we never thought we'd get anywhere. There's only so much patience a person can have, especially when it concerns something that you want so very much, something that you need and desire so much that it hurts to think about it sometimes, an ache down to the very center of your heart.

Recently we started talking again about going back to the infertility specialists, going back on the hormones and the ultrasounds and the bloodwork and the agony. We want to be parents, and we were starting to believe that we were running out of time and options. Of course we held out hope for a miracle, but you reach a point where you start to accept that miracles only happen for someone else.

So that call came on Wednesday, and it was followed by another on Friday, and that was followed by a meeting yesterday, and now suddenly, out of the blue, we are Someone's Parents. Zero to mommy in ten seconds. She isn't ours yet, not entirely, but already she has stolen our hearts. The absolute most joy that I have ever felt, ever, was when I heard the current foster mom refer to us as the baby's "new mom and dad."

Are you there God? It's me, rockle. We've had our issues in the past. I'd lost my hope and I'd lost my faith, but you never did. Thank you for this fantastic opportunity to have a dream come true. Are we interested?



Progress Report

I don't know when this turned into my officially-unofficial World of Warcraft blog, but since that's pretty much my only hobby these days (goddamned writers' strike!), there you go. According to Xfire, I've spent 22 hours in the past 7 days playing WoW, which is horrifying in so many ways. But I'll be the first to admit that I just love vaporizing giant creepy spiders. Again: surprisingly therapeutic.

At this point I am a Level 28 Gnome Mage. Since my last report, I have joined a guild -- well, actually, two of them. My first guild ("The Yummy Muffins," tee hee) was absorbed by a newer, bigger guild ("Beguile") with more high-level players. My guild leader played "Pimp My Mage" with me yesterday and outfitted me with a whole bunch of improved armor. Of course, I still have 3x as much mana as health, but things are slowly improving.

Oh, and now I have a crown. So I am happy.

Yeah, I pretty much have no life any more, but I am OK with it, for a change. Although I still can't use Flamestrike in real life, which continues to be a gigantic disappointment.

PS -- Yeah, that's a mage with a sword. Because I am that much awesome. Mai skillz, let me sho u dem.


Open Letter To My Therapist

Dear You-Know-Who-You-Are,

I don't really know how else to say this, so let me just be blunt: I called today to cancel my next appointment with you, and I won't be coming back. Standard operating procedure in these cases is to say, "It's not you -- it's me," but I'm not going to lie. The problem is you. It really wouldn't be fair to either of us for me to pretend otherwise.

When I first came in to see you, I told you that I was dealing with stress, anger, and infertility issues. Well, I tried to, anyway, but I'm not really sure that you heard any of that, because you were busy for most of the first two visits telling me the history of the EAP and trying to figure out what paperwork you needed.

I'm not sure whether you picked up on this when I mentioned it that first week, but two of my biggest pet peeves are disorganization and inattention to my needs. You have demonstrated advanced skills in both of these key areas over the last five weeks. Please make a note of this so you won't be surprised when you get my evaluation from the EAP people.

And I hope it will come as no shock to you that I feel like my treatment so far has been a complete and utter waste of my time. There are about eleven million other things I could have done with my time that would have been more productive, including but not limited to bathing the cats, leveling my mage, and stabbing myself in the eardrum with a rusty butter knife.

How are you able to diagnose people when you don't take the time to talk them about their problems? I still don't know how you were able to determine what is wrong with me. After three visits with him there, you can't even remember my husband's name -- hell, last time, you didn't even remember my name, and I'm your freaking patient!

So I hope you will understand that I am leaving your care and looking for a talk therapist who will let me, you know, talk. My personal mental health is my top priority, and as a mental health professional, yours should be too. It's nothing personal (well, OK, it kind of is); it's just me looking out for Number One, because someone has to.

I really appreciate that you referred me to the psychiatrist, and I intend to keep that appointment next week. I am also glad that you sent me to my regular doctor in the meantime, because I am already feeling better. My dreams are totally wacko, but I'm sleeping long enough to have them. Prozac is an amazing pharmaceutical product.

But that's the glitch, you see: I don't want to be taking anti-depressants. Not really. I understand what they do, and why they work, and how they are sometimes the most appropriate treatment option, but didn't you write down in your chart that the last time I took this medication it made me want to kill myself? Don't you pay attention?

I guess it's good that I got to see you under my company's EAP benefit, because so far I'm not really out any money except for the $5 for the Rx and the copays at the doctor. God knows I would have put up more of a stink if I was actually paying for this heinous level of care. But still: I am very disappointed in how wretched a therapist you have been for me. Epic fail.

Or, to put it in shorter words that might get through your ridiculous little stories: QUACK.


PS -- I am not sorry about saying that kids are over-prescribed drugs for ADHD, and I will never take it back. Stick that in your little hippie hashpipe and smoke it.


Perfection, My Ass ...

You will never, ever hear me say this again, but: NICE WORK, GIANTS!

I made a little Post-It note crown for my Eli Manning football card. He's a hack, and I still think Peyton is my favorite brother, but if anybody ever deserved to shut up his critics, it's Eli.

Oh, and because it cannot be said often enough: SHUT UP, TIKI!