I am a blog slacker. My apologies.

I wish I could claim that I started all this exercise and better eating to embark on a healthier life-style, but in all honesty, it was begun as a control thing. A lot around me was spinning out of control, I hate that, so I had to do something to feel like I had some control over something. It has worked out so far. Yoga, boot-camp, and the book series "Eat This, Not That" have been the tools of my "control." But, alas, there is still one (well, one that is relevant to this post) thing that I have zero control over.

Another bloggie I frequently read wrote about the devastatingly all too real excess belly skin that occurs post-baby, maintains regardless of how many crunches you do, and hangs in such a delightful manner. I have learned to accept mine. Loathe it, but accept it. That was until I did yoga a few days back.

Ladies, for those who suffer from the excess belly skin that I speak of, and you want to give yourself the biggest fright of your life, do the following: Minus a shirt, but with a bra (sports or regular), put yourself into plank position. To quote Bob from The Biggest Loser, "It's like a push-up, but in yoga we call it plank." (As if calling it plank makes it cooler. Regardless, it hurts like hell.) While in plank, look down at your tummy. Feel free to scream. I did. Then let me know what you saw. How it made you feel. And if you see nothing to speak of or, better yet, freak out over, I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT!

After a ridiculous amount of working out (after child who destroyed my body, but is worth it all, goes to bed) and FINALLY eating right for longer than a month, I was able to confidently purchase a....bikini. That's right. To wear out in public. Well, if "public" is my mom and dad's pool....

I went into Victoria's Secret with Caleb. He is very well behaved in that store; unlike any other I drag him into. I don't know what it is exactly. I do know I don't need/want to know what it is exactly. I picked out a suit and headed to the scary place, aka the fitting-room, to see how hideous or passable I was going to look. Caleb came in with, of course. Although, I do believe it would be a very lucrative business if there was someone to watch the children whilst the fitting-room traumas occurred. Especially in Victoria's Secret. Then no one would have to hear, "Mommy! I see your boobies!" Or, "There's your butt! I want to kiss your butt." ...ahem.... Oh, the embarrassment. Yet, still, tonight, I took him knowing full well I wanted to try on a bikini and was willing to handle the inevitable exclamations that would carry through-out the store. Shockingly, he said not a word. He was too busy pretending to be Larry from "The Night at the Museum" to notice what I was doing. That is until I was trying to get dressed and had placed the bikini top down in his vicinity. He picks it up and stares at it inquisitively. He looks at me, looks at it, looks at me, looks at it. Enter inevitable LOUD exclamation:

"I am going to put this on. I am going to put my tiny boobies in it!"

.......stifling inevitable laughter.........

"No, honey. That's for me."

"For your boobies."

"Well, yeah."

End scene. Not so bad this time.

Sometimes I really hate the fact that I am divorced. Yes, I am lonely (there, I said it), but that's not why I am hating the single-mom thing right now. I hate that Caleb doesn't have a sibling. And who knows when, or IF, he ever will.

I went to to dinner tonight with a friend I haven't seen in years, his wife, and their two girls (4 and 5,) who are just adorable. One said to the other, "Hey! When we get home, do you want to play with ::enter something I never heard of and can't remember::" "Yeah!"

There was something about that dialogue that, at first, just made me smile and remember the good ol' days of my sister and me. Then I looked at Caleb. He was sitting there. Alone. Doing his own thing. Perfectly happy. But alone. It's hard to explain what exactly came over me in that moment, but I felt incredibly sorry for him. I felt like I failed him. And that feeling is sticking around tonight.

I feel so inadequate. So utterly inadequate. I can't give him a sibling. His father and I are great friends, but couldn't stay husband and wife (talk about the cruelest of irony). We failed at our marriage and because of that.... Well, here I am. I do all that I can to let him know that he is loved and safe and LOVED, but something will hit me out of nowhere and I will feel like it's just not enough.

To preface, every night for the past few weeks, Caleb has yelled from his bed his final words of the evening (that is if he goes right to sleep, which is happening less and less these days. Well, nights. Anyway, I digress....). "Good night! Don't let the bed bugs bite! Or the dinosaur come!" Don't ask about the dinosaur. I still don't really know where any of that comes from. It's one of those things I hope he can explain to me when he is older. Or that I will have to ask God when I see Him. I digress again....

This morning Caleb woke up with a huge welt on his forehead. My instinctive Mom reaction: “What happened to your head?!” Caleb’s instinctive child reaction: “Nothin’.” Well, it was somethin’. A spider bite. Two actually, one on top of the other. Add that to his recent bruise above the eye. The poor kid’s face looks unfortunate. Cute. But unfortunate.

“Looks like a spider bit ya, bud.”

He looked at me with his eyes filled with a certain sadness: “I let the bed bugs bite?”

It was one of those moments. You think you can’t love someone more and then he says something like that. Man, he makes me melt.

I always thought I would be awesome at playing with my kids. I would be the coolest mom and would rumble and tumble every spare minute I had. Then, I had a kid and awesome…I am not.

1. I get bored. SO bored. Playing with dinosaurs or cars just doesn’t thrill me quite so much. I try, though. Everyday.

2.He has WAY too much energy. I can only run around like a manic for no reason for so long. And crawling on the floor rescuing unknown imaginary people from the gigantic fire that supposedly surrounds us is exhausting.

3.I do it wrong. He tells me so. The other day he told me I was the train conductor, so I said, with a tip of my “hat” (I felt like getting into character….), “Ok! Woo-woo!” He looks at me like I am some sort of moron. “Mom. The whistle is over there.” Silly me. The whistle is at the FRONT of the car. Not the back. This is a constant conversation. I engage in his world and am quickly let to know that I have no idea how to BE in his world. That’ll depress ya real quick.

4.He has new friends. New IMAGINARY friends. And I get in their way. All the time. I’m sorry. I can’t see them! I don’t know that “Boy” hasn’t made it in the car yet and that is why you are standing outside of the car in still silence, patiently waiting for him to get in first. Forgive me for intruding in your method of proper car entry.

Basically, I can’t keep up. I try. I miss having an imagination like his. And he has one heck of an imagination. It is fascinating to watch and it makes me a super proud mama because it really is very cool of him. I wish I was better at being apart of it all. I have to say, Caleb did explain to me last night how "Boy" needs his bone to be thrown if I am to make "Boy" happy. So, maybe, just maybe, Caleb is letting me in on some of the secrets of his world.

Cleaning the house sucks. Point. Blank. Period. But add a child into the mix. A three-year-old boy to be exact. Holy guacamole! Cleaning the house turns into a NIGHTMARE of epic proportions.

Case in point: While on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor (worst job ever), Caleb wonders into the kitchen, walking on said floor.
"Don't walk in here! I am cleaning it. Remember?"
"Oh yeah..." He walks away. Then, STOMP STOMP STOMP.
"Get off the kitchen floor!"
Sulk...sulk...sulk....
Scrub....scrub...scrub....
STOMP STOMP STOMP squeeeeeeeeeeeeek.
"GET OUT OF HERE!"
"Soooorrrrryyyyy Mooooooommmmmyyyyyyyyyyy."
He peers at my from his playroom, JUST far enough away so I wouldn't yell at him again. "Why are you cleaning?"
"Because the floor is dirty."
"Why is it dirty?"
I don't know if you have ever had questions that just needn't be answered asked over and over and over again at the WORST time, but it's slightly infuriating.
"WHY is it dirty? Because ::enter dramatically expressed profanities here::" Ok, so that was what went through my head. I do have some restraint.

Later, we moved upstairs. He did not want to stay in his playroom because he wanted to be with me. Sweet, right? WELL. As I am scrubbing the tub, I have my back to the door but FEEL his presence. Sure enough, he is right behind me with a turtle that needs a bath right now! After I refuse that request, however persistent he was on the turtle's dirtiness, he disappeared for a while. That is, until I am fully involved in cleaning the toilet. I feel that presence again. There he is. "Whatcha' doing?"
"Cleaning the toilet."
He leans in the get a closer look. "Why?"
"Because you need to learn that ALL pee needs to go in the potty ALL of the time, and then I wouldn't have to do this everyday, multiple times a day."
"Oh. Maybe Saturday."

Saturday.... Is that a metaphor for, "Sorry, Ma. But get used to it. This is your life! ::evil laugh::" I think so.

I am constantly writing in my head. When there is any time that I am alone (i.e. in the car without Cabster, walking into work (the parking lot is a good distance away from my building), or falling asleep) I am writing in my head. I have a million ideas for a novel, I have to write my essay of intent for grad school, I love updating via facebook/twitter, and now I am blogging and am constantly thinking up posts or comments on other people’s posts. Something will happen, anything, and I go, “Ooo. There’s a post. Or a status update. Well, if I blog about this I will have to expand. Maybe a status update is enough. How will I phrase it?...” My stream of consciousness is me trying recap what is happening right then and there in a witty and entertaining way. It’s crazy. And sometimes annoying. Especially when I am finally able to sit down to write and I forget what I wanted to say. Hate that. I have heard that poets are not able to view the world around them without constantly trying to put poetry to it. Maybe it’s the same for all writers. Or maybe I am self-indulgent. Or nuts. Or both.