femimama rage

It's ironic, isn't it, how staying at home brings out the angry feminist in me?
Here's what made me mad recently. I sometimes get emails from parenting sites telling me about Baby Girl's stages of development as the pregnancy progresses.The other day, one suggested that now is a great time to get my hair cut. That's fine, I'm all for preggo mamas spoiling themselves. But then the article mentioned a salon visit would be a good idea so I can look oh-so-pretty in those first mama-baby pictures.
So let me get this straight. I'm at the hospital. I've just created a new life after carrying it inside me for about nine months. I've been sweating, grunting, breathing, and I don't remember what else for several hours and now I'm holding this miracle child and meeting her for the first time, but I should be worried about whether or not my hair is cute?
This is why I think so many women become obsessed about their bodies, their hair, their looks, etc. Because at the moment when heaven and earth intersect and compress themselves into this small moment of life, when it seems like the world is irrelevant but for ten little fingers and ten little toes, someone is telling women that their efforts are meaningless unless their hair is perfectly in place.

Cringe, cringe, cringe

I spent this evening looking over my novel (you know, the one I thought was finished). Let's just say it stinks worse than the kitty litter box next to my computer desk. I hadn't read it for over a year. And that's a good thing. That's what you're supposed to do--let your novel sit for a while so you can get it out of your brain before you tear it to shreds. But really, I'm surprised I let anybody read it. It needs some work. Hmm, maybe I'll go back to school and try nuclear physics or rocket science. That seems easier right now than all the work it will take to fix it up. The first half will require major revision. The second half will require complete rewriting, and then revision on top of that.
It's not like I hate myself because my writing sucks so much. I'm just kind of surprised that I've spent years of my life on it and it still sucks! It's not that I think I can't write. It's that I know I can do better.
My writing bud who has three publishing contracts at the moment is very glad her first novel was not published when she first finished it--it was her sixth that was accepted. I don't know whether or not I have six novels in me (though apparently I do have at least three). So I'm not alone.
Also, I think I deserve lots of credit for working through children's naptimes, pregnancy-related heartburn, and toilet training. Not everyone can say they've written a book. I can brag about that. I'll just skip the cat litter comparisons when I'm trying to impress people.

My illustrious writing career

Since I know all my loyal readers are wondering when I'm going to get my millions for my best-selling book, I'll fill you in on all the details.
Lately, I've done very little writing. At about 7:00 in the evening, I enter zombie zone, which means all I can do is lie on the couch until about 11:30, when Baby Girl finally stops her late night dancing parties. If I decide to get off the couch to do something, I have to rent a crane to lift me off since the aches in my inner thighs make getting up a major exercise in hydraulics. I used to write when Kyle took his afternoon naps, but he doesn't do that every day, and when he does, I'd rather sleep, too.
I decided to do some article writing since the novel thing requires way too much concentration. Before I changed focus, I had finished the first novel, gotten about halfway through the second, and done a very sketchy first chapter for a third. Now I've decided to rework novel #1 after having some nice writers give me some great criticism. As for the second and third novels, who knows. It's too daunting to think about when my brain is filled with baby.
I've been querying some magazines and gotten one rejection after another as a result. I'm beginning to realize I was really lucky to have one article published so early in my efforts. When they're just starting out, many writers do well to receive one assignment for ten queries. I'm no different. On the bad days, though, it seems like no one will ever want to pay me for anything I do ever again.
That's what sometimes happens when you haven't been working for awhile. You don't do something for a long time, so pretty soon you start to think you can't. I haven't been earning any money (except for that wonderful small paycheck from one magazine) in five years, so when I try to bring in a little income and I haven't bought that Beverly Hills mansion within the first four months, of course the only possible conclusion is that it's pointless to try, right?
So I need to be patient and realistic. These things make so much more sense when I'm not freaking out at 10:30 pm (mid baby dancing party).

Yay for nice husbands

Today, I'm very sick. Like I can't talk sick. And how are you supposed to keep your kids from pulling the cat's tail, killing each other, or demolishing the Christmas tree when you can't yell at them? So my nice husband took the day off. He cleaned the house, yelled at the kids for me, and ran to the store to pick me up some Tylenol, which is about the only thing I can take. He also made lunch and dinner for everybody while I read Harry Potter (my favorite sick day literature). He collapsed from exhaustion on the couch about an hour ago. He said that he's starting to feel a little achy, so I might be waiting on him tomorrow, assuming I'm better...sigh. All our hand washing didn't keep those tiny little germs from finding their cute little way inside our bodies. Nothing like having kids to keep a person from being healthy.