So. I'm in the library writing a paper, feeling all my undergrad classes in Constitutional Law come crawling slowly back into my brain. It's really going pretty well. I'm considering not double-spacing so that I don't go over the page limit (I may have gotten a little carried away talking about cases, but that stuff is so ridiculously interesting...I'm a nerd, I know.). But I had to stop for a minute.

The part of me that has no self-esteem (which, to be honest, is most of me), constantly questions who exactly I think I am, to be going back to school after a few years out, to be in a DOCTORAL program of all things. Like I can hang intellectually with these people. I got pwned when I tried to lead discussion in my PhD class last week, and my little self-esteem plant that I had managed to grow got pulled up by the roots. I'm just a stressed-out, medicated, overweight, frumpy, chick who is about to cost her family a LOT of money for a dream. Then I think about the sadness of turning in a paper that Dad hasn't read, and I'm overcome with tears and a need to have hashbrowns.

I try to kick my backside mentally. I'm not very good at it yet. I can tell myself that obviously someone in the department thinks I can hang, because they accepted me. And then they gave me funding, even if it at a level where I'm pretty sure I'd qualify for food stamps and Medicaid. And they're trusting me with undergrads come Spring or Fall semester next year. And well, the physical stuff, I'm doing what I can. I actually wear makeup. I straighten my hair from time to time. I miss it being long.

I went a few days ago and spent money that we really don't have buying hippie dresses. Because I was always happiest when I was dressed like that. And I bought sandals. And painted my toenails red. And realized that it's 74 business days until I swap my uniforms, pantyhose, and high heels for my hippie dresses, sandals, and other things I LOVE wearing.

Because I've signed the contract. I'm committed to doing this. I HAVE to jump. Let's face it, this is Noah's college savings account. And I've always been told to play to my strengths. I'm a nerd. I'm a geek. Whatever. I even have the glasses for it and everything.

74 days. Then it's summer vacation forever. And maybe Ramen noodles for me for the next four years. But if you happen to be on OU's campus and see a slightly...erm...curvy, really pale chick be-bopping along wearing a hippie dress and sandals, stop me and we'll get coffee.

I seem to be inventing new (to me) ways to go crazy. I wonder what's next? Whatever it is, I think it would be better faced after having cheesecake.

A lot has happened in the last few weeks. Kyle accepted a new job, we told our kids we were leaving (sucked.big.time. Excuse the non-genteel language, but I am rather attached to my non-biological children), I got in a rollover wreck after I hit some black ice and totalled Kyle's beloved SUV, we moved, we replaced the SUV with a minivan, and we have two Sundays and one Wednesday left at the church that's been home to me since my junior year of high school.

My brain and my body, faulty as they are, have chosen this time to short out on me. It's harder than ever to make it through my readings, just when I need to really be able to concentrate since I'm taking a P.h.D class this semester. I'm having bizarre nightmares that I apparently talk during, because at least a couple of times a week, Kyle wakes me up from trying to kill an imaginary spider the size of a labrador retriever or trying to pull off my face. I, who try to never know how much I weigh for obvious reasons, noticed that in the space of a couple of weeks clothes that had fit fine were suddenly snug...then that they didn't fit at all. I went to the doctor and found out that I had gained...well...more than would have been acceptable even if I was preggers, which I'm not. Apparently it's a side effect of one of my meds that she has seen in a LOT of people. So now I'm stuck with lots of extra me. And my eating disordered brain just goes pfffffft because it can't compute the extra weight or any sane way to get rid of it.

I had to go buy big clothes. I weigh more than I weighed when I was nine months pregnant. I CAN'T EVEN READ A BOOK ANYMORE. Can I just say that's really, really frustrating for a geek?

Sucks.

So I'm trying to stumble into a healthy way to do this thing we call life. I've made lists. I've made schedules. And my brain sits in the corner of my head, crossing its arms and saying "Make me."

Stupid brain.

So I'm going to take my lists and my schedules and give myself a freaking gold star every time I do the smallest thing on any of them. And try to hate myself a little bit less tomorrow than I do today.

Today I am doing good to be moving. I'm not really functional, more just an automaton that sits in Brie's usual spot. I'm kinda just keeping the chair warm, and not really doing well at that, since I've been freezing since I got here. I had three pathetic goals for the day, and had broken two of them by 7:30 this morning. My head is killing me, I want a nap, and I just want everything to stop for a while.

Can anyone manage to stop the earth from rotating on its axis for a few hours? Anybody? ::waits:: No? Well, then I'll stop whining then. Ugh.

Happy birthday, dear Noah, happy birthday to you!

People told us before Noah was born, when I was roughly the size of a whale, that babies change your lives in ways you can't imagine. "Yeah, no kidding." I thought to myself. "Such deep and profound advice. I'll be able to see my feet again for starters. I remember my feet. I assume they're still there, because it doesn't FEEL like I'm walking around with no feet." Turns out that it kinda was deeper advice than I thought it was. It started with his birth. Most of you know of the years and years of body image issues/eating disorder/depression I have been dealt. I did not purge while I was pregnant, and loved my body. Mostly. I could have passed on the stretch marks, but at least it was for something worthwhile and not because I ate a few too many burritos. At any rate, I have never felt more powerful than when I gave birth. It shot from my head all the way down to my toes, and for once I understood why some ancient cultures thought of a goddess as the powerful giver of life. I WAS powerful. I WAS strong. And we made a beautiful little boy.

Who grew. Whose every coo and smile and word we made a huge deal over. A year ago, he had just learned to walk and had about 20 words in his vocabulary. Now, he tells me that "I runnin'." and has six and seven word SENTENCES. When he was born, there was lots of snuggling, and I loved that, but somehow it's even cooler when he says "Mama? I hug you, I give you kiss." and then he does. What don't I love about this kid? Well, he is two now. And "acts two" now from time to time, but by and large he is a laid back, cool kid. I love him more than I knew it was possible to love someone, and look forward to watching him grow up even more, at the same time wishing that I had my baby back in my arms just for an hour.

I could go for volumes about this child, but I won't subject you to that. Unless you come over and ply me with hot tea for stories, because although I thought that having a 72 degree day was awesome, my allergies have disagreed vehemently and I am quite miserable. I am glad we are not doing the party until the third. Instead, I give you what he has become today: Noah, the dinosaur wrangler.

FYI: These were presents from Grams and Sam for Christmas, and this was Christmas night. And Noah was yelling "I a cowboy! Yeeeeeee ha! Giddyup dinosaur!" It. was. adorable.

Hooray, it's the post of the cute Noah stories! Because it's 4:30 in the morning, I am awake, and of course if I can't sleep I SHOULD be working on papers, but I would much rather tell you about my adorable kid.

Story #1:
Kyle is in the living room, Noah is playing in his room. We've actually reached the point where Noah will play by himself sometimes, and it is marvelous. Of course, he's just as likely to walk up to you and say, "C'mere! Play!" and who could turn THAT down, but I digress. Noah in his room, Kyle in the living room. The next thing Kyle hears is Noah asking, "I get in water?"

"No, son, you don't need in the water right now." Still from the living room.

"I not in trouble." Which is pretty much a guarantee that he IS, so off Kyle goes to Noah's room. He took the top off of his humidifier and dropped part of the filter into the reservoir. Hence the "I get in water?" I'm a little concerned that we're already getting the "I'm innocent!!!" speech and we're still three weeks shy of two years old.

Holy crow. He's going to be two years old in three weeks. Ack. Well, on to story number two.

Story #2:

We put up the Christmas tree. This process took several days, because every time we added something new to the tree, it was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. First there was just the tree. We didn't turn the lights on, even though it was prelit. Noah tried to throw himself under the tree. In his defense, if I was two years old, I would think it was a great hidey-hole. Then came the lights and the tree skirt. That's when we got this conversation, with Kyle holding on to Noah's legs so that he couldn't make good on his request: "Mama, I go under? I go under?"

"Nope, the tree is just to look at. Isn't it pretty? Look, you can touch if you just use one finger." (I thought I was sooooooo smart. Unbreakables only on everything he could reach. I didn't know he'd poke every single one. Over and over.)

"Mama, I go under? Tree share blankeck (blanket, for those of you who don't speak Noah.). Tree SHARE BLANKECK!"

He has yet to make it under the tree but has started unwrapping presents. None of them have been his yet, and apparently I was way worse at his age, so I am grateful for his restraint.

On to story number three.

Story #3:

Kyle is in the living room, Noah is in the kitchen. Pretty much our whole house is kidproof, so no biggie. Kyle hears Noah saying, "Apples? Apples?" Noah LOVES fruit. Loves it. Will eat it when he will not even eat chicken and fries, which are one of his favorite things since I went through a McDonalds drive through in a moment of parental weakness a few months ago. So to hear him talking about apples is nothing new. Kyle thinks to himself, "Well, we do have apples, but they're in that bowl way up on the counter, so he's probably pointing to the apples."

Silence ensues. Kyle goes to investigate.

Noah has moved his highchair over to the counter, climbed INTO the chair, grabbed the bowl of apples, and proceeded to help himself to ONE BITE out of every apple in the bowl. All 11 of them. He was quite pleased with himself, and probably would have been in a bit of trouble if Kyle could have stopped giggling long enough to get on to him.

So, there you have it. Three super-cute Noah stories on the almost eve of his second birthday. I was looking at some pictures of him when he was tiny, and it really makes my uterus argue with me. "You grow such pretty babies! Look at that!" while my brain goes "P.h.D. P.h.D. At least have the common sense to shoot for the summer, which means you are out for this go round, chick. Oh, and should probably consider getting your head on straight before getting preggers again, and if you wanted to clean your house out to the point where you would have a PLACE for a baby besides a dresser drawer someplace that would be good too." Sigh. The debates between heart (or uterus, as the case may be), and head.

Noah REALLY gets into playing the piano at Granny's house. This is him, Abbey, and Sam. Notice how Noah's rocking out and Abbey is delicately playing one key at a time.