Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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Wendy & Francesca the Lady Bug

Before getting a dog of my own, I always imagined it would be the grodiest thing ever to go around picking up dog poop every time you took the dog outside. The very idea of it with that flimsy and presumably leaky little plastic bag, the stench, the heat- picking up dookie was the one thing I really had concerns about when owning a dog. I even used to joke I’d have to get a special “oven mitt” to buffer my hand from having to feel what it was actually picking up!

Well, that was all before Wendy. Before I knew what kind of dog mom I’d be.

Turns out, not only will I pick up the poop without hesitation or disgust, I will vociferously cheer her on so she knows just how proud her mom is of her. “Such a good girl! Oh my goodness, I can’t even stand it. No, I can’t. Dats Mom’s guuurl. Oh, I love you Honey Bear. Oh, okay! Let’s go! Good girl!”

Yes, all of that is said aloud and yes, other people have heard me while passing by on the sidewalk. So?

Beyond the necessary measure of picking up after Wendy, what has really proven surprising about the whole ordeal is that I am willing to actually wipe her butt. For real. Because sometimes stuff gets stuck back there and not only is it uncomfortable for her, but it’s unsightly and unsanitary and it’s not like she can wipe it off herself! So, yeah. Doggie butt wipes. I know. Pre-dog, I’d have been aghast too. Turns out, they even sell them at Petco (but it’s cheaper if you just buy the people ones).

As for the cosmetic upkeep of my dog, I honest to goodness worry what people will think when I take Wendy out into public. She’s a cute breed and gets a lot of smiles and coos, but half the time her eyes are running down her face and her fur looks matted from her fiesta of lolling about on her back for 16.2 hours a day. I mean, what if people get the wrong impression? What if they begin to assume that she just rolls out of bed, dresses herself in whatever half-clean sweater and mismatched collar is laying around, and rolls into daycare 20 minutes late without having first run a comb through her hair or washed her face. Oh wait, that’s me.

Admittedly, the unexpected concern about being judged largely stems from taking Wendy to doggie daycare (to combat my 12 hour workday/commute). Even though it costs a serious buttload- my second biggest expense each month-it’s been wonderful for both her and for me. She is looked after by the “pooch pals,” has her own bed and toys for “nap time,” and spends time socializing with other dogs during “group time,”gets a daily “report card,” and I can watch her on their web cam. 

And yet, every time I drop her off, I worry about how she is perceived by the daycare owners, the staff, and even the other dog owners. Most of all, I worry about what they think of me as her dog mom and imagine them critiquing my failings one by one.

“She’d be so cute if only her mommy would wash her eyes properly rather than let them run down her face…and did you see how matted her fur was this morning? You’d think she’s never had a bath or a brushing in her life! Poor Wendy!” 

I worry about these sorts of things now because I recognize that my dog is a reflection upon me, because I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole and become one of THOSE people, because life isn’t just about me anymore. Before becoming a dog mom, I never realized how much I would feel compelled to nurture and protect her, how closely I would examine every food label, how I’d envision countless scenarios of possible injury in an attempt at prevention, how I’d literally step into traffic to save her. Nearly every day I marvel at just how much I love her, how happy she makes me, and how she’s bringing out parts of me that weren’t there before.

Like the part that picks up dog shit without disgust or complaint (seriously though- the HEAT!). The part that wipes her butt. The part that tries no fewer than six different kinds of  tear stain solutions. The part that ponies up for doggie daycare. The part that Google’s “mint chapstick, dog, ingested” at 3 am and refuses to go back to sleep just in case. The part that realizes all the things before that seemed weird, crazy, disgusting, or annoying, now just aren’t.

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She began her behest innocuously enough with a whisper into the phone: “Shhhh…don’t tell your father,” she said as I heard her hastily scamper into another room in the background and shut the door. “I have money I want you to take to your brothers when you see them and I don’t want him knowing because it’s just for you kids.“

“Seriously?” I asked her. “You realize they’re grown ups now, right?”

“Oh, I have money for you too.”

“Mom, I’m not joking. You need to stop- we’ve talked about this before,” I tried for what had to be the bazillionth time, knowing full well it was useless.

“Shut up, you’re taking the money and that’s all there is to it. I have Girl Scout cookies for you too.”

“Well fuck, when you put it that way….”

Hate me if you must; I couldn’t say no. There were peanut butter patties. And thin mints. And, yes, even samoas.

So, just like that, I became my mother’s mule. I carried $50 and three boxes of Girl Scout cookies for each brother from my parent’s home in WI to my own, then to Midway, and finally to South Carolina. Was I proud of it? No, not really. I hate taking money from my mom, but she’s the type who refuses to allow you to say no. She will shove it in your pocket and do so in the most embarrassing way in public until you take it just to get her to stop. Or, she’ll be sneaky about it and hide her stash in a purse pocket you didn’t even know you had only to find it two weeks later and resort to shaking your fist at the sky and shouting “Curses! Foiled again!”

The thing is, even though my brothers and I are grown up, in my mother’s eyes, we’re still her kids and she wants to give us money so we can “go get a coffee with a friend” or “go see a movie” or “treat ourselves to something nice for Easter.” It’s thoughtful of her and everything, but it also isn’t necessary and is often really uncomfortable because my parents aren’t in a position to be concerned about giving us $20 here or $50 there. Plus, it’s awkward because she always sneaks it to us without my dad knowing. At this point in my life though, I’ve realized that my mom is sure to ferret money away until the day she dies because she wants her kids to have a little something from her if she can give it. True story.

After my conversation and after she’d made the exchange, I sat contemplating my plight while absently watching the TSA German Shepherd at the airport. I’d have loved to have made friends with him but remembered I was carrying SIX BOXES of cookies and wouldn’t it be a little odd if he smelled them and security was all like “Dude, what’s up with all the cookies, yo?” After considering the consequences, I opted to reach into my bag and surreptitiously eat  a peanut butter patti instead. Less evidence.

As I nibbled one, then inhaled another and another until a whole row of cookies disappeared, I let myself off the hook. So what if my mother tricked me into doing her bidding? So what if I’m a 30 year old GROWN ASS woman who just accepted $65 and three boxes of cookies from my mom? So what if I’m enabling her ridiculousness in giving money to my brothers as well? So. What.

Sometimes you just have to suck it up and bite the proverbial cookie. You have to listen to your mom, do what she says, be a good daughter. Even if it means you become her secret allowance mule. Even if it involves payment in Girl Scout cookies.

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Tomorrow, I attend the baby shower of my friend whose pregnancy announcement last fall served as the final straw in my months-long downward spiral. I wanted to be happy for her at the time, and on one level I was, but let’s face it: I was disappointed that my last friend who held firm and fast to the “Who Cares About Baby?!” club had succumb. It felt so predictable and cliche. And, while it was completely selfish on my part- I made it about me when it wasn’t- I can only be hard on myself up to a certain point. I know why I felt the way I did at the time.

So, I have to say, it’s caught me a bit off-guard to feel so entirely the opposite now. To be sure, I’m breathing a sigh of relief for it! FINE-FUCKING-LY! Somehow, without also falling prey to the pull of procreation or suddenly becoming a “baby person,” I’ve managed to get onboard and have happily shopped myself into a baby registry frenzy.

No bullshit last minute baby gift here; for weeks I’ve scoured her registry and pieced together a color coordinated and thematic gift. I even went rogue and found some dainty and cute junk that she hadn’t registered for but which looks totally pretty as a shower gift (and is most likely ugly as hell and a waste of money when it’s covered in baby spit up and crap). Speaking of, have you guys seen that disgusting ass Luvs commercial “Poop there it is”? What the hell is wrong with people?!

My pre-spit up and dookie splattered baby gifts are green and brown with a “monkey” theme: a bib, burping cloths, a onesie, washcloths, a towel that turns your baby into a monkey (because seriously why else would you have a kid if not to turn them into an animal after bath time?), the 70th anniversary collection of Curious George, a monkey rattle, a “first year” photo album, and the jungle crib quilt from Land of Nod (which I actually WENT INTO THE STORE and purchased despite my previous negative in-store baby registry shopping experience).

Maybe it’s because I have my own “baby” now, or because I’m more chemically balanced, or maybe it’s a combination of both; but I couldn’t be happier to be shopping for and chatting about babies with my friends. I’m excited and finally feel supportive in all the ways I always felt I should and instead was dragging my feet.

Still, you can be damn sure that this girl will be getting her baby shower drink on tomorrow afternoon because this girl still can!

[Side note to boyfriend: another occasion when the flask I ask for at Christmas would come in handy!]

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I don’t know how long she sat in the city pound before PAWS brought her to their no-kill shelter, but the effects of the ordeal have certainly left their mark. Shaking and fearful of people, other dogs, noises, and pretty much everything else that is new and unfamiliar; nevertheless PAWS placed a picture of her on their adoption site where I saw her later that day. She was there for only three days before I decided on a name for her. And, once you name the puppy, there’s no going back. I left work immediately to get her.

As the volunteer took me through the adoption process, I told her I honestly wasn’t sure if Wendy was the “right” dog for me- she was too scared to show any other personality trait- but that I was sure she needed nurturing, patience, and a quiet home. She needed me. I knew I was the right person for her. Without knowing anything else, I brought her home.

Since then, I’ve learned a bit more about her….

• She may never know her actual name. I take full responsibility as I cannot seem to avoid calling her a plethora of nicknames: Sweet Pea, Honey Bear, Lady Bird, Sassafras, Baby Cakes, Wendy Lou Who, Silly Head, Punky Brewster, Fussy Britches, and Cuteness Supreme.
• Wendy’s modus operandi is to roll over and lay on her back with her head tilted and looking at you. This is how you know you’re “in” with her after meeting her (it usually takes all of about 90 seconds for her to make the decision). This is also how she likes to lounge about on the couch, in her dog bed, even on top of you. She will lay this way for HOURS, whether awake or asleep. I’ve even joked that they must have installed her eyes upside down and this is her way of actually seeing the world right side up!
• Owing to her fascination with being on her back (Hmmm…maybe I should have named her Lucy? Get it? L-OOO-SY?), I’ve taken to referring to her tactics as the Leaning Tower of Wendy and her signature Crocodile Death Roll of Cuteness. That’s right, you’re her prey and she’ll slay you with her killer moves of inescapable cuteness.
• This dog can sleep something fierce! While I was home sick with a kidney stone last month (I have a doozy of a post just waiting to be written about that!) and taking Vicodin  naps, Wendy was a reliably supportive napping partner. I’d pass out petting her on the couch, she’d stay tucked under my arm for hours, and when I’d go from room to room trying to lay down and find some comfort from the sheer AGONY, she’d be right there to lay at my feet every time.
• In addition to being an epic nap-taker, she also likes to sleep in. Jackpot! None of that 5 am whining or barking for her! She’d prefer you let her sleep in until 10 or later and has been known to go back to sleep the minute you bring her back inside.
• She snores! At first, I thought she was getting sick. Turns out that, owing to her shortened snout, her breed is prone to snoring and the occasional snort. So far, it hasn’t kept me up or anything like that, but I’ve heard that it can get A LOT worse.
• As it turns out, she’s a bit sexist. She’s (at worst) aggressive toward and (at best) wary of dudes. In fact, she tried to bite my boyfriend the first time she met him! But, the two of them are thick as thieves now and every time we walk down the street she wants to walk me over to his place to see her boyfriend.
• She appears to be racist. Yup. If we pass someone on the sidewalk or she sees someone from the car who is of any race other than Caucasian, she has a tendency to go into full on ATTACK mode. She’ll even stare them down once they’ve passed. It’s embarrassing! Even my friend Roger said she’s racist, though he later claimed to be joking. Still…I wanted to shout “I swear I didn’t teach her to do this!”
• And finally, adding insult to injury, she may in fact be…gasp…a Republican. During one of her How-Dare-You-Leave-Without-Me-You-Mean-Mommy-I-Hate-You-I-Hate-You-Oh-Wait-You’re-Back-Okay-No-We’re-Good-Now-Except-Just-Don’t-Go-In-The-Bedroom-Because-I-Might-Have-Done-Something-While-You-Were-Gone-Hey-Look-I’m-Rolling-Over-And-Am-Super-Cute-Pet-Me separation anxiety fits, she decided to attack the radio alarm clock that I left on as recommended to “keep her company” and soothe her. Yeah…after listening to NPR’s “Morning Edition” three days in a row, she took it upon herself to literally eat the power cord (she’s perfectly fine-no worries). My condolences to “liberal” public radio in general and in particular Renee Montagne, Alison Cuddy, and Sarah Jindra.

After all that, I give you the Wendy Death Roll of Cuteness. It makes up for those last few bullet points, right?

Wendy's Death Roll of Cuteness

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Which is when my friend’s husband asked if I was “ready to have one of my own.” Right, because holding someone else’s child instantly kicks my ovaries into hyper-drive. Uh, no. But ever since that moment I’ve been thinking about how scary the prospect actually is to me.

I don’t know what it is…that sudden instinct to reproduce. Whatever it is and wherever it’s supposed to come from, that part of me has gone vacant. Rather than want a child more as I get older, the opposite has proven true for me. Whereas I always assumed growing up I’d have a couple in my twenties (because where I come from that’s what you do), now I just don’t feel the need. But, I’m 30 years old- GASP- and I better “get to it” I’m reminded by Interested Parties who have taken the most unoriginal and clichéd approaches in broaching The Baby Subject with me. What these Interested Parties don’t know is the fear that underlies what they deem The Most Natural Thing in The World.

I’ve dealt with chronic depression since I was 8 or 9 years old and was finally able to seek treatment in my twenties. I now take a medication every day, and if I miss even three days of the dosage, I can tell. That nagging “what’s the point of anything” mentality runs amok and I swing from utter emotional detachment to being on the verge of tears at any given moment. Don’t honk your horn at me; I’ll fall to pieces. And, why do I need to get out of bed, let alone shower, anyway?

Depression taps on my shoulder every chance it gets and it’s up to me to stay one step ahead. Knowing that and knowing I have every reason to be happy, the best I can do most days is avoid questioning what happiness is too closely. The best I can do is accept that a part of me doesn’t function the way it was intended to, that it’s okay to take a pill to keep myself afloat, and that it’s also okay to talk and even write about.

Some of you know me in real life and this confession, if that’s what it is, may come as a surprise. You see me smiling and making jokes, but this is what’s underneath. Most people never see it because I’m of the mindset that you don’t burden people with things like this. I grew up hiding what was really going on: from my family, friends, boyfriends, and teachers and I just…kept going. When things have spiraled out of control, I’ve always managed to activate some sort of “emergency survival button” on my own behalf. I’m a functioning depressive.

So what happens if someday I do have a baby? If I’m pregnant and I can’t take my medication because the only one that seems to work for me causes birth defects and passes through breast milk? What happens then? Is it more important to have a baby than to be healthy- both physically and emotionally- as a mother? Is a depressive still capable of being a “good” mother? What if I become a danger to myself or worse? What kind of mother would I be then?

These are the things I think about when people bring up my name and having a baby in the same sentence. My mom shrugs it off with a wave of her hand, telling me I’m being ridiculous, that once a baby shows up all you want to do is take care of it and love it to pieces. Maybe, but I’m staring down the barrel of depression already and it’s real whether she wants to ever acknowledge it or not. So is postpartum.

I can’t imagine what it is like for women who are expecting, who have dealt or are dealing with depression while pregnant, and who fear the possibility of experiencing postpartum first hand. I can’t imagine what the reality of facing that is like; I’m petrified at the mere idea.

Something inside me says don’t do it, it’s a ticking time bomb for you, an inevitability. Maybe it’d be selfish of me to choose never to have a baby because of that fear, but ultimately it isn’t just about me. I’m afraid not only of what could happen to me but also to those around me, and most of all to a child who’d subsequently suffer as well.

It’s no accident that I’m reading Dooce’s memoir, It Sucked and Then I Cried: How I Had a Baby, a Breakdown, and a Much Needed Margarita.

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Generally, when this sort of invasive statement is flung at me and my frightened ovaries, my go-to response is to laugh it off. Me? With kids? Ha! What a HOOT! But, truth be told, who’s to say I wouldn’t be a Great Parent? Especially when I imagine how I would talk to a child, let alone actually “parent” one. I flash forward and see myself reacting thusly…

Yes, sweetie, I see that you are VERY upset right now about this LONG ASS line at the Jewel…what’s that? Oh, okay. That’s cool. Maybe kick and scream a little louder though. It looks like you’re starting to scare people away.

…………………….

So….about this outfit you have on. What’s your mind frame in terms of functionality? I mean, do you really think a superhero cape will be necessary for sleeping? I’m not saying it isn’t, but you know, blankets are warm too and we don’t want to be discriminatory of various textiles.

…………………….

Let me get this straight- you went into the bathroom, conducted your “business meeting,” reported all went well and that you ALLEGEDLY washed your hands, and then you realized you forgot to remove the appropriate layer of clothing required for said business? Do you realize you just fast forwarded to what your frat years will be like?

…………………….

Wow, you’re really hitting that Go-Gurt hard today. Big plans later? A scuffle on the playground? A mid-afternoon nap date? A texting- triathlon after African drums class? Yes? No? Maybe so?

…………………….

Um, excuse me. Did you just say “shit head” and use it in the right context? Where did you…never mind. Carry on. Just don’t let your teacher hear you call him that.

…………………….

No, of course we don’t love the dog more than we love you. You’re our kid and you’re MAGICAL and irreplaceable. It’s just…the dog can’t talk back and that’s kind of awesome.

…………………….

I don’t know, kid. I mean, yeah, this year’s carnival rides are kind of crappy. But look at this way: you’re only six and now you know how most of the rest of your life is going to feel.

Ah, parenthood! Come to think of it…yes. Yes, I would make a magnificent parent! Obviously.

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