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.

Share

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!]

Share

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.

Share

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.

Share

Once I arrived, however, I realized just how naïve that ambition was. Most of the items on my friend’s registry were nowhere to be found, and not just because baby stuff is merchandised in a way that makes zero sense. Towels and washcloths are in one place and the baby bath mat thingamajig and accessories are in another.

After going back and forth between the two aisles and finding only the powder and lotion from her registry, I figured I had three options. It was too late to buy online and have anything shipped, so I could: a) Give up, go home, and deal with it tomorrow, b) Gift card, or c) In the words of Tim Gunn, make it work.

So, I punted. I got as close as I could to what she registered for. I’d equate it to eating a Boca burger and telling yourself it’s still meat. Rather than the yellow towel set with yellow fish that she registered for; she’s getting a yellow towel set with a yellow turtle on it instead. In my head I reasoned that, Turtles swim too so that still counts, right? Of course, next to the pseudo fish- turtle towel there was an ample stock of blue and pink towel sets of what I was supposed to be buying. It mocked me. Damn blue and pink fish. Also, damn people and their refusal to find out if it’s a boy or a girl! Jerks.

Anyway, after a few more similar efforts, I managed to load up on baby lotions, powders, washcloths, towels, a duckie faucet cover, bath mat, water temperature gauge, and some contraption that keeps water out of your baby’s eyes. My arms were full, and that’s when I knew I’d made a crucial mistake. A cart! I didn’t get a cart. Shuffling about, bent backward and peering over my stash, I managed to drop every single item while on the hunt. As it turns out, not only should I not be trusted to hold babies, I should also not be trusted to hold baby accoutrements.

Eventually, I found an empty adrift cart and dropped the items down, which is precisely when some 16 and Pregnant episode contestant came out of the woodwork and yelled at me like I was stealing her car or her monies or something. Embarrassed, I feigned cart loss…. “Oh, you mean this one isn’t mine? Hmmmm….silly me. It must have wandered away. Ah ha ha ha ha…” Abort, abort, abort!

Undeterred by my failed cart ganking, I set out to find a better option and was much more successful and stealthlike the second time around. With both hands now free and flipping through the registry one last time, I steered my not-stolen-but-found cart over to the greeting card/ gift wrapping section.

Facing a wall of shiny papers and ribbons and bows and buttons and bags and just everything that a person apparently has to have in order to give a gift, I reached for the largest bag in hopes that it could hold all that I had somehow pieced together. The bag was decorated brightly with a colorful animal…a dinosaur or buffalo or something- I don’t know, it could have been a caterpillar even, I didn’t really look. The thing is, the bag refused to refold once I nixed it. And that’s when all manner of clusterfuckery happened.

Apparently, the gift bag aisle is also an up and coming thoroughfare because as I struggled with the bag, a lady rolled her overstuffed cart- bursting with storage bins- into my ankle. Before I could react or shrivel in pain, a family of four shoved past yelling in Spanish what I can only assume was, “Quick, there’s a run on baby gifts! Get the last yellow towel set, kids! Fish or turtles, doesn’t matter! I’ll corner the gift bag market!”

And then, some hipster dude sporting the saddest facial hair since Mariah Carey’s crustache in Precious, pulled up thisclose to me. I can only assume that the pastel polk-a-dot tissue paper made him thoughtful, as he gazed with a fierceness that not even my blatant stare of disgust could tear him away. I scrunched up my forehead, crinkled my nose, raised an eye brow. Still nothing. Incredulously, I threw the bag on the floor. He walked away. Meh.

I don’t know what I hoped to accomplish by eliciting a response, but in a matter of only 30 minutes I had gone from confident, prepared, unfettered career woman supporting her friend’s life choices to befuddled, butterfingered, stupid, single girl without a clue. I was frustrated and fuming and nothing would just WORK! Baby gift shopping had broken me and I’d *maturely* decided to take it out on a colorful gift bag, which I didn’t even buy.

Admittedly, I had botched the whole thing horribly, comically even. Not only did I not go to my friend’s Baby Couples Shower, but now I couldn’t even get her a proper gift. I was weak with hunger and failure, my bangs were plastered mercilessly to my forehead, and a blister had formed on my right heel. It was then that I looked down at the forlorn, deflated dinosaur-buffalo-caterpillar-mystery animal gift bag and thought; This…this is what my life has come to.

A gift bag was never so symbolic.

Share

Now, I recognize that the kids in the back of the bus are stereotypically your run-of-the-mill “behavior problems.” They’re your Ritalin kids. Your detention after school kids. Your “Phoenix Stereobox, stop jamming your pencil into Phantacy’s forearm. That’s not acceptable behavior!” kind of kids. That’s right, they’re as special and unique as their names let on.

But the part of my brain that has been oft educated about these sorts of things by my school teacher mother failed me this morning. Selective memory perhaps. An overlooked pocket of lingering hope and optimism maybe. Either way, when I saw that little child’s hand begin to wipe the condensation off the back window of the bus, I thought, “Oh, how cute. He’s going to wave at me.”

Just as I was about to raise my own hand from the steering wheel and wave back with a friendly smile, the eight year old’s face appeared. He wasn’t waving. He wasn’t smiling. He was sticking his tongue out at me.

“Well, look at you, you little brat! Your North Shore mommy and daddy must be so proud,” I thought to myself as I relinquished my hold on the steering wheel. I began to laugh at his own stupidity and poorly chosen attempts to insult. “Kid, look who you’re dealing with,” I would have told him. “Try a little harder when you’re looking to offend someone like me.”

But then, something happened. Something untoward and unholy and unbelievably perverted except that it actually happened. The pre-tween, with his tongue still sticking out, began to wave it back and forth. Which was when his hand reappeared. He raised it to his mouth and…YUP. Tongue still wagging. Fingers split to either side.

Insert record screeching sound here. My previously bemused laughter was swiftly replaced with internal screams of horror. “NO. NO. NO! WHAT THE HELL, OH MY GOD, YOU DID NOT JUST DO THAT. NO. HOLY FUCKING SHIT. MAKE IT STOP, MAKE IT STOP, MAKE IT STOP!”

Looks like someone is well on his way to his first STD. Good luck with that, Phoenix Stereobox!

Share

Kill me now.

Can someone please explain to me what the hell a “Couples Shower” is? Because I just don’t even know anymore.

My friend Mara, the same one who got married in all kinds of annoying ways, who went AWOL after ascending to the state of wifedom, and who is now in the family way; has sent me a preemptive “baby” shower invitation via email. While I anticipated this invite, I am completely thrown by her version of it. She’s turned the requisite 3-4 hour baby shower experience into a day long/ overnight extravaganza complete with BYOM (Bring Your Own Meat for grilling- nevermind that it’ll be March and only 30 degrees outside if we’re lucky).

The whole concept of this event annoys me. I simply cannot understand why she has to turn a typical celebration like a wedding or a freaking baby shower into a major production. Why can’t she just do what is expected in these situations? What the hell is her deal?

As for inviting spouses/significant others, maybe I’m missing the point here, but what exactly are the invited men (all husbands/fathers except for my boyfriend) going to do at this “Couples Shower”? Eat pink and blue frosted cupcakes? Play pin-the-diaper on the baby? Commend the diaper cake bringer for her craftiness? Fake smile as the soon-to-be-mom unwraps breast pumps and the like? Really? Why would I EVER want to expose my boyfriend to that kind of nonsense?

I cannot fathom how or why it would be appropriate, let alone expected, that men participate in such antics. I don’t even want to participate. I’d rather just send a fancy gift; spend a little extra to compensate for my absence. Especially since it’s a six hour drive round trip and the shower is scheduled for the first weekend of March Madness. Salt in the wound, people. SALT.

Regardless of my utter confusion and subsequent scheduling crisis, I feel obligated to attend. I feel obligated to smile and ask questions pertaining to Baby, to act like I give a shit. Maybe it makes me a bad friend to admit this (and there’s no way in hell I’d ever say this to her because you just don’t do that sort of thing), but I don’t give a shit and with good reason.  

She’s always told me she never wanted kids, even on “her” wedding day she said “maybe in a few years” she’d think about it, and then swiftly capitulated to her husband who was adamant about having kids immediately. Sure, it’s her choice, but why should I also have to capitulate and support a decision I think is wrong and unfair to both her and the unborn? Does my friendship mean I’m required to be complicit, to condone what I view as a mistake?

I have to wonder though at my apparent inability to feel genuine happiness for her. I wonder why I can’t just be a good friend and be more supportive. It’s her life, her marriage, her choice to have a baby if she wants and it has nothing to do with me. In spite of all that, the truth is she can knock herself out calling this “Baby Couples Shower” whatever she likes. I’ll still be wishing I was watching the college basketball tournament instead of participating in what I feel is nothing short of a train wreck.

Share