| December 9, 1999
I know, I know.
I called you yesterday and warned you that there wouldn't be anything on the website today about your birthday ... explaining that I am absolutely "buried" at work; that David is STILL SICK (and those dorky nasal strip thingies aren't working, so neither one of us is sleeping); that I just don't have the time or energy or the *creative focus* to write anything right now (read this: I'm still blocked tighter than a plastic Barbie shoe jammed up a toddler's nostril) ...
... and I further explained that I'm trying to stay off the computer as much as possible during my precious non-working hours, using my remaining four molecules of energy on other critically important stuff -- like combing my hair once in a while ... or blinking ...
... and that lately the whole website thing has become a source of stress and guilt and anxiety and pain-in-the-buttedness, and that it's a minor miracle that I've posted anything in the last month or so, and that I'm probably just going to sort of take a break for the holidays and see if maybe some of that ol' creative juice returns after the first of the year: just in time to create the fabulous new résumé ...
... and that I didn't want your feelings to be hurt if you came here to *FootNotes* today and there wasn't some huge splashy public acknowledgement of your birthday posted here -- preferably accompanied by an embarrassing baby photo -- for all the world to enjoy. ("Are you sure you don't mind if I don't write anything?" I asked you, over and over again, and you assured me that you were fine with it. Sometimes I forget that the only person who obsesses over this website is me.)
I know that's what I said, anyway. But that was yesterday.
A year ago I posted a fairly graphic account of your birth, right here on the website. Remember that?
I also remember this: that even though I felt foolish and conspicuous and terrified and exhausted and anxious and unprepared ... even though I was worried about my ability to be a good mother, and when I looked at the future I saw nothing: just a big white blank nothing, like an empty page, with no way of knowing how this whole motherhood thing was going to turn out ...
... even though I smelled like a four-day-old bedpan ...
... I still knew, instinctively, that this was going to be one of the finer mornings of our lives, you and I. So I just held you a little tighter, sat back ...
... and enjoyed the ride.
blurb #1 will go HERE: thanks for letting me know the package arrived
safely. thanks for copping to the truth and admitting that you opened
it a day EARLY. and thanks for indulging me: i know
that a watch wasn't exactly your first choice of birthday present. but
it seemed like an appropriate gift for a daughter's 18th birthday ...
and it was fun picking it out ["gold or silver? round face or square?
Mickey or Minnie?"]. so do me a favor and drag it out of the bottom of
your underwear drawer and wear it once in awhile
when i'm around, willya?
self-important blurb #2 -- probably having something to do with the WEATHER: yep ... we're having weather alright.
special *howdy* to: dr. charles heffron ... wherever you are
here's where i'll ask
a *relevant* question:
profound thought of the day: ~
Dorky Song I Used To Sing To You ~ How I love my pretty baby
How I love my pretty baby