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When I can’t check in for my doctor’s appointment without staring at your tits, your shirt is NOT WORK APPROPRIATE.

Just had to get that out there.

There is this woman at the front desk of my OB’s office who apparently doesn’t know the meaning of work appropriate clothing.

Last week, she had on a “party shirt” like what I used to wear in college.  Her very perky boobs were right under her chin and the neckline was ridiculously low.  I could literally see half of her boobs.

I’m currently reading The Ghost Map.  It’s about a major cholera outbreak in London in the the middle part of the 19th Century.  How’s that for light bedtime reading?

In my defense, Tucker’s reading Bitten which is about…well…bites.  Spider bites.  Ferret bites.  Snake bites.  Human bites.  Pretty much any and every bite that you can think of.

Yeah.  The point…where the hell did I hide that?

I was on Twitter this morning [cause that's where I always am] and JesseHambley linked to a really cool website: http://www.charitywater.org/birthdays/intro/trailer.html.

Yesterday was an interesting and eventful [yet uneventful] day.

I know we did something other than eat at O’Charley’s but I really can only remember the lunch part.

There is a point somewhere around here…

So we were eating lunch and my back started hurting.  Then my stomach started hurting.  Then, they started hurting in tandem.

For those of you who have never had a contraction, it feels [to me] like a menstrual cramp.  For those of you who are male: just imagine your scrotum being squeezed in a very painful way.  [Since I lack a scrotum, this is only an estimation for empathy's sake.]

Reading The Middle Place has gotten me to think about “the middle place”.

That place where everyone knows you are an adult; you know you are an adult but you try to forget that fact.

You have a husband and child and your own new family yet you still need your parents’ approval.

I wonder if you ever transcend or grow out of the middle place.

Will there ever come a time when I won’t crave my parents’ approval and acceptance?

The more I contemplate life’s transitions, the more I’m struck by the permanence of it all.

Hello, blog funk. How was your day yesterday?

Ok. I’m not going to write to some imaginary device.

Pinky swear.

Today’s Thanksgiving. I should be giving thanks for something instead of bitching.

I can do that.

Fine. I’ll play.

Thinks that I’m thankful for:

Tucker - Even though you have yet to guest blog, [hint, hint] you put up with my craziness and you know me better than I know myself.

Cara - The child I thought I would never have. Thank you for teaching me the beauty of motherhood and the art of breastfeeding. Thank you for making me a mom.

One thing that every new blogger learns is that a blog must have a “focus”.

The idea is that, in order to build a readership, you must be an expert in something and only write about that something.

All you have to do is check out my Categories to realize that I don’t do focus.

I don’t want to be tied down by it; focus seem constrictive.

Sure I’m a mom and I write about my [amazing] daughter, but, does that mean that I have to be a “mommy blogger” and only write about my [amazing] kid?

I got “homework” from my shrink [Hi, Dr. Fox!] yesterday.

Can you believe that? Homework!

Not to make a long story too long, but my task is to compose a list of thing that are true for me.

A list of things that are constant no matter what anyone says.

Let me explain.

You see, I have this problem where I take just about everything that anyone says to heart.

Here’s a scenario for you:

You just got your hair cut and colored. You know that you look H O T.

The prospect of finding him dead did not appeal to her.

She had seen death before.

She had watched her uncle take is last breath. She had checked his wrist and then his carotid for a pulse.

But, that didn’t meant that she was prepared to do the same with her grandfather…the man who had done the majority of her raising.

Would everyday be preparation for that inevitable moment?

Would she wake every morning with the thought that he might be dead?

How could anyone truly function with hat worry hanging over their head?

I’ve never considered myself “abused”.

I always had a bed to sleep in, clothes on my back and food in my stomach.

I can count on one hand the number of times that I was spanked.

But, the more I thought about it, the more long forgotten memories came flooding back.

Hours spent alone in my bathroom as punishment for some small transgression. [I got smart and started hiding books in my bathroom cabinet]

Months of hardcore grounding [ie, no tv, no phone, no reading, no visits with friends] for things that actually only deserved a couple of weeks of punishment.

When I was two days old, I was adopted. My mother (the woman who adopted me) had suffered an ectopic pregnancy which had rendered her infertile.

My parents raised me to the best of their abilities and though I didn’t have what anyone would call an “easy” childhood, I know that I am fortunate to have been “chosen” by my parents.

Even though I know that they did the best that they could, I always felt that something was missing; I had a “hole” that no one could fill.