When Signe was brand new, I’d ask my mama friends about every potential milestone. When did Jack start smiling? When did Kenzie first roll over? How old was Georgia when you first gave her solid food? More often than not, I was met with a response that went something like this: “Um, I can’t remember exactly. Maybe around five months?”

I would be incredulous. How could you not remember? I had every moment of Signe’s young life commited to memory and to the journal I’d been keeping since I was four months pregnant, and, sometimes, to this blog.

The other night, I woke up with a startle when some sleepy part of my brain realized that I can’t remember the last time I wrote in Signe’s journal. And I think the last monthly update I wrote on her was three months ago. And I’m starting to forget things.

Ask me when Signe started crawling. Go ahead…ask.

I don’t remember!

I think she was seven months old…maybe? She stopped breastfeeding at nine months; I remember that. She took her first steps a week or so ago, so that’s 10 months. But when did she first say “kitty”? When did I first find her standing in her crib when I went in to get her in the morning?

Um, I can’t remember exactly.

It’s terrible. I have friends who are pregnant now and I can already anticipate their questions like the ones I asked my friends in those early days. It bugs me to already know that I’m going to fail them.

And, truth be told, I allow myself to daydream every once in a while about what it would be like to have another kid, and then I wonder how that kid would be different from Signe. Would he walk as early as she seems destined to? Would she say “mama” at six months?

All I can do is shrug and admit that even if that did happen (having another kid, I mean) I won’t remember much about Signe’s first few years if I don’t start writing it down somewhere.

I’ve had fears of this blog turning into a mommy blog. But I think that’s what I’m gonna have to do. So I apologize in advance if this turns into the Signe show. Then again, the rest of my life has. Why should Hickopolis be any different?

I try to steer away from politics on this site. I have friends and family of all political persuasions and though I disagree with some of their views vehemently, I respect their right to those views and don’t wish to alienate any of them with my silly little blog.

So if any of you are Rush Limbaugh fans, you might be a bit offended by this post. And if you are, TOO FUCKING BAD.

I heard Rush’s comments about Obama’s first pitch at the All Star Game Tuesday night while I was watching CNN at the gym this evening. I will be the first to admit that his throw was some weak ass shit. Blame it on nerves, blame it on his lack of baseball prowess, make fun of it all you want, I don’t really care. But when you say something like “Obama throws like a girl…he has a girly throw” I lose my shit.

I will never understand why comparing someone to a female is the ultimate form of insult. I guaranfuckingtee I can throw harder, farther, and with greater accuracy than Rush Limbaugh any day of the week. And, last time I checked, oh, that’s right I’m a GIRL.

So seriously, Rush, fuck you. Come up with something a little more original and a bit less misogynistic. The English language is full of disparaging ways to mock someone for their athletic inabilities without insulting half the population of the planet, many of whom could take you in pitching duel.

And to those women who listen to Rush and are OK with this kind of language: fuck you too. Endorsing this kind of drivel makes you an enemy of the sisterhood, as far as I’m concerned. I’d revoke your vagina privileges if I could.

Rush is an idiot and needs to be punished. And I can think of no more fitting justice than for him to be stoned to death by a bunch of girls. Who’s with me?

Several weeks ago, I was at the gym, finishing up a not-at-all satisfying workout when I started to ponder if it’s really worth it to even exercise when you are breastfeeding. Women are at such a disadvantage as it is, what with the relative lack of testosterone in our bodies. Add all the hormones your body produces in order to keep that lactation flowing and it’s kind of a lost cause. You can’t fight that much estrogen.

(Then Mr. Roboto came up on my iPod Shuffle and I got some of my mojo back.)

And now here I am, a month after weaning Signe completely and I feel like my hormone levels are back on track. What this means really is that I’m a total badass bitch again.

I’ve long suspected that I have an excess of testosterone (for a girl). That would explain the high libido, the love of baseball, and the aggressive, competitive tendencies. Now that I’m remembering what it feels like to be me, i.e. not suffering from estrogen and progesterone overload, I’m more convinced than ever that testosterone is my dominant biological force.

What this means on a quotidian basis is that when someone cuts me off in traffic, I no longer want to berate them for endangering my infant daughter (well, I do still kinda want to do that). Now, I want to pull them from their stupid SUV and beat them to a bloody pulp just to make an example for all the other douchebags on the road. Or when when we park next to someone who parked their car like an idiot, I have to fight the overwhelming urge to either key their car or hunt them down and make them repark.

It’s been a long 18 months since I’ve felt like this. It’s good to be back.

I’m sorry for the lack of posts lately. I’ve been unable to come up with anything good to write about because the only thing going on in my life, seriously, is that I’m totally obsessed with the Twilight books. I started reading them a week and a half ago and just finished the third one last night. I’m staring book four tonight and it’s all I can do not to head to bed at 7:45 to get started.

It’s so embarrassing. They aren’t even good. They are poorly written, incredibly immature, and cheesy as all get out. But the story has me completely enraptured. I think part of it is that they take place in Washington and it’s like reading about home. The other part that I like is all the Native American folklore. I’m a total sucker for that kind of stuff. (Have I mentioned before that I’m 1/32 Sioux, or is it 1/64?) I’m also loving all the teen angst. I have no patience for shows like Grey’s Anatomy because it is just rife with twentysomething angst. But for some reason, I am eating Bella’s overwrought love story UP.

Mostly though, it’s a total teenage girl wet dream. And given that I’m really just an overgrown teenager, I’m getting off on it. The most elusive and handsome boy in school (who, unbeknownst to you, has been waiting, like, a hundred years to fall in love) has chosen YOU, the plain, smart, slightly misunderstood, new girl, to be the object of his intense, overwhelming, effusive affection. And, to top it all off, he’s both a bad boy, to say the least, but he’s also not going to pressure you to have sex, in fact, he’s the one who insists on it being a bad idea. It’s nothing but sexual tension all the time. Sign me up!

I hope to be done with this godforsaken book by the end of the weekend. Then I’ll have my life back and I can think of something more interesting to write about on here than my crush on a fictional, teenage vampire.

Today is my first day in the office in ages. I’ve been “working from home” a lot lately. I was out all last week with a cold/sinus infection. The week before that, I was only here two days so I could orient the new nanny. The week before that, I was only in one day so I could take care of Signe during our between-babysitters transition.

I woke up actually excited to come to work. I’ve missed my co-workers, our runs for morning coffee, the way I can work for an hour without interruption or temptation to go do laundry.

I was looking forward to a day with my nose to the grindstone. Workin’ hard. No distractions. Full concentration on the task at hand. I just about cackled maniacally when I thought of the piles and piles of things I would get done.

So far, I’ve accomplished exactly squat. I’ve answered a few emails, caught up on my Google reader, updated Signe’s birthday party invitation list, and gone to both Starbucks and Subway. But really, what I’ve been doing is biding my time until I can go home again and squeeze that little monkey of mine. Three weeks of almost constant contact with her has spoiled me rotten. I’m so used to working for a bit then taking a break to go pick her up, nibble on her arms, rub her cheeks with my nose, and say “Hi!” back and forth with her six or seven times.

It’s been five hours since I’ve seen her and the missing her is palpable. It’s visceral. It’s painful and uncomfortable and it leaves a strange, restless sensation in my legs and stomach.

I keep reminding myself that I’ll see her in a few hours, and I get to be with her all day tomorrow. And I have a three-day weekend coming. And that working is setting a really good example for her. But, man alive!, I’m about ready to chuck it all and go home.

Gotta stay strong. I can leave in 3 hours.

That softball tourney GTB wanted me to play in was yesterday and it went better than I anticipated.

GTB begged and pleaded and finally wore me down enough that I agreed to play, and then we had a catch and I saw that I do still have the skillz. The arm still zips and I can still catch in the sweet spot of my mitt. So I went into yesterday perhaps a little cocky about how well I’d do.

I sat out the first part of the first game, but got to bat. In the fourth inning, I went in at second. It felt familiar, and good. I remembered how to read where a hitter would send the ball by how they position their feet in the box.

Over the course of the day, we played four games: three round robin games and a “championship” game. We won all three of our round robin games and then lost in the championship to a team we’d previously kicked the snot out of. What can I say? We’re old and we were tired by then.

GTB played, too, and he’s pretty good. His bat got hot for a while (meow!) and he knows his way around the outfield. It was fun to watch him.

At the end of the day, I was a little disappointed in my play. My hitting was off and on, and, like in high school, I found I hit better when I was relaxed and having fun and not so worried about jacking it out of the park. I made a couple of clean plays at second and a few at first (which I only played for half a game), but I was a terrible cut off for the right fielder and I forgot my place a couple of times. When the ball goes to the pitcher, is it me or the short stop who covers second? I couldn’t remember and in the confusion, I cost us an easy play.

That kinda shit makes me grumpy and when GTB came to console me, he learned what a bitch I am when I’m not playing well. (Mom, I maybe should have asked you to give him a lesson in this.) Going to sleep last night, all I could remember were the missed plays and dumb little dribblers I hit back to the pitcher.

But when I woke up this morning, I thought back to the last time I played softball and realized it was in the summer of 1998. I lived in New York then and some of the guys I worked with would go out at lunchtime to a field in the middle of Manhattan to play. I was the only girl who went with them, and I was pretty good then, but that was ELEVEN YEARS AGO. And other than that catch with GTB, I haven’t played at all. It’s been over a decade since I fielded a ball or swung a bat.

There were some girls on our team yesterday who played college softball at Notre Dame, and comparing myself to them would never be fair. But for not even practicing before hitting the field, I held my own pretty well.

So I’ve decided to focus on that awesome little blooper I hit over the infield and the time we almost turned two but I held it to be safe, which may have saved a run.

Not that I’ll be signing up for any rec leagues anytime soon, but it’s more fun to think of myself as a rusty has been rather than a middlin’ never was.

Yesterday morning, I woke up with a feeling I didn’t recognize. It was strangely familiar but I couldn’t pinpoint it. I started to think of all the things I wanted to accomplish that day, including going to the gym, and I wasn’t overwhelmed by that to-do list. That’s when it hit me: this feeling, it’s called AMBITION.

After nine long months, Signe is finally sleeping through the night. No more 3:00 a.m. feedings. No more sitting anxiously by the monitor after we put her to bed, waiting for the inevitable squeaks and cries that tell us she’ll need to be rocked back to sleep all over again. No more arguing with my husband about whose turn it is to go deal with her. No more deciding, on nights she stays at grandma’s house, whether it’s better to party like we’re still young or catch up on sleep. No more waking up, wanting to cry, and struggling to just…get…through…the…day.

Thanks to Dr. Ferber and no small amount of support from other mamas, Signe now sleeps 12 hours each night and goes to bed with a simple routine that does not involve a tense dance of coaxing her to sleep followed by tiptoeing across the room to gently set her in the crib without disturbing her slumber.

It took a week, and it was tough at times, but my only regret is that I wish we’d done it sooner.

These days, I wake up rested and eager to greet the day. There are days I actually wake up and think, “Well, she’s not up yet, but I don’t feel like I want to stay in bed any longer. Guess I’ll get up!” I’ve even entertained thoughts of, gasp, setting the alarm for 5:00 a.m. to hit the gym. It seemed impossible just a few days ago.

I’m like a new woman. Or, rather, I’m like the woman I was a year and a half ago. I fit into those clothes again. I’m bitchy like she was (in a good, sassy way; not a sleep-deprived on-edge way). I want to read all the time and go to movies and have conversations about politics and feminism.

I want to write blog posts again. And so, I vow to you to do a better job here. Expect greatness.

Does it bug anyone else that the ad accompanying this story about oil reserves in the Arctic was paid for by the American Petroleum Institute?

Mom, you might not want to read this one.

My husband is a boob man. As such, he has done an admirable job biding his time while I’ve nurse our daughter for the past eight+ months. In the early days, when my nipples were so sore even taking a shower was painful, he wasn’t allowed anywhere near them. When I was nursing heavily and pumping regularly, he was forced to keep a distance if I was a little sensitive due to long moments of overstimulation. Lately, during times of frustration when I’ve aired my ambivalence about continuing to breastfeed, he has strongly encouraged me in one direction. You can probably imagine which one.

So when Signe started letting me know in ways subtle (nursing less) and not so subtle (full-on biting my nipple) that she is SO over this whole nursing thing, GTB, natch, was giddy.

As clear as it is that it’s time for me to stop breastfeeding, I’m emotional and a little hurt about it. It’s difficult not to feel a little rejected when you place in her mouth the one thing that gave your baby her early sustenance and are rewarded by a razor-sharp clamping down and gnawing, which Signe did yesterday when I was putting her down for a nap.

“Then, a few minutes later, I tried again and she sucked for a few seconds then turned away,” I recalled to GTB. “But when I gave her a bottle, she guzzled three ounces in mere minutes.”

GTB listened patiently.

“She is obviously done with breastfeeding. And I know you don’t understand why I’m so emotional about it. But I thought we’d be able to transition a little more slowly. I didn’t want to feel this rejected.”

That was enough for GTB. “Why don’t you give your nipples to someone who will appreciate them and love them and treat them nicely?!” he bellowed, only half in jest.

So I guess as soon as the painful engorgement and potential for mastitis passes, my nipples will once again be GTB’s.

I’m in a bit of a pickle.

See, GTB has joined a company softball team. They are playing in a one-day tourney next month. He’s very excited about it. He’s been wanting to join a league for as long as I’ve known him. I’m excited for him. I’m excited to go watch. I’m excited for him to be a little baseball playing boy again.

This morning, he called to ask if I’d be interested in joining the team as well. And, naturally, I’m torn.

On one hand, I played softball in high school and I was good. No, I mean good. I made second team all league (and would have made first team if my batting average had been higher, I’m convinced). I played second base and my short stop and I were famous for our ability to turn two. I also played on summer leauge in college. My defensive skills were still intact and my confidence as a batter so improved that my high school coach, who played on an opposing team, called out “Nice Poke!” about my base hits twice in one game.

It would be all kinds of awesome to show that little athlete to GTB. He’s never really seen her before. Well, not outside the gym anyway, and that doesn’t really count–gyms are full of meathead weight lifters who couldn’t throw from the third to home if their lives depended on it.

AND my darling husband said it would “really really really really mean a lot to me.” It’s hard to say no to that kind of enthusiasm.

On the other hand, it’s been about ten years since I’ve played. I think I maybe had a catch with a few ex-boyfriends, but I haven’t swung a bat since college. On top of that, I’m still working to get back in pre-preggy shape. And, honestly, I’m not sure how awesome pre-preggy Girl would have been at softball, let alone her chubby, easily winded, postpartum counterpart. Those extra pounds I’m having trouble losing are mostly in the midsection, which is the part you really need to swing a bat well.

I told GTB that if it was sunny after work today, we could go to the park and throw a ball around to see what kind of chops I’ve got. If I feel confident, I’ll play in his little tourney.

Wish me luck. Or, better yet, wish for rain tonight.