What does my blog make you think of me, as a person?

This question occurred to me as I was outside, getting nauseated from the taste of my cheap-as-I-can-get-em cigarettes.

Because though I know that a lot of you have been around for longer than the past few weeks or even months; I also know that a few of you haven’t.

You’re new to my tiny intarwebz space and what you see here is mostly what you think you might get. And that, from my point of view, is one of those whiny chicks who has a life ensconced in drama, always something else happening. There’s always something wrong, right?

I’m either miscarrying to the point of hospitalization, kicking out JDawg (again), going through a court battle, nursing (badly) a sick child, getting sick and dropping an ass-ton of weight that I really can’t afford to lose, avoiding but still bringing up cancer concerns, spewing life and financial regrets all over the page, talking about bedbugs and incompetent movers, or just bitching in general about bitches I used to be friends with.

That’s not all there is to me, you know. It’s just been a shitty few months. Okay, like four months. Straight. Without much of a break, whatsoever.

I’m someone who will go out while Isobel is with JDawg, while I’m combating the flu, just to buy her a new movie since she’s been so sick and patient with me being laid up too. I know she doesn’t need a new movie - she’s already got almost more than me - and god knows I didn’t really want to spend $30 on Enchanted (thanks for that Disney), but it made both of us happy to watch a ‘pincess moobie,’ while we laid on my bed.

I’m excited on a weekly basis, for a semi-standing date to drink coffee, ruminate on current life events and smoke cigarettes on some cement stairs.

I’m wearing pale, but bright, pink eye shadow and blue mascara and just a hint of glimmery pink blush, which makes me look kind of like a doll in a way that I love. And even though there’s so little that is girlie to me, that one sentence wraps it up so well.

Did you know that I love to sing? I didn’t say that I think I’m good at it, but nearly every song that you will ever see me youtube on here, Plurk, etc., is a song that I will belt out, sick or not. Today, I lay with Isobel and I belted out "How does she know" while she sang, "dadada" in time and on key. I think she’s got a wicked sense of rhythm and tune already, my girl.

Do you know how much I love cooking for other people? How about helping someone put together and outfit (frick, a whole look), or organize their home?

Have I really conveyed exactly how much I actually do care about JDawg? Do you know that I don’t think about certain people (my father, Baby #2, my grandmother) cuz the grief and guilt are too much for me to handle? Bet you just thought I was too angry to, right? Yeah, so did I.

I pride myself on being pretty fucking real here, at MiM. I figured that I put it all out there, for your (and my) personal judgements. But I think maybe I’ve been fooling myself and you with that thought, since April, at least - rarely putting anything out there that wasn’t grief or anger-strewn. Things that might hold our attention captive, but leave us wanton for something more.

So, let this be my new promise to you (this would be, I believe promise #831)…I will stop blogging only the shit and the strife, the drama and the hurts. I will give you fluff, cuz if you’re willing to read about how many ear infections Isobel has had in 18 months, you deserve a good, "Mama, I burped my butt" story.

Yes, that’s totally how my kid announces she farted.

When I was breastfeeding, Isobel totally favoured the right boob. I think it’s because my milk didn’t choke her nearly as much on that side, which of course led to the other side always being full - a varietable damn waiting to break down upon her little tiny throat - and a bit of a difference in size.

Having fake boobs is helpful in some ways. I had a slight size difference automatically corrected, as was a tiny, barely noticeable symmetry issue (one was higher than the other, pre-saline). Breastfeeding really interfered with that surgical perfecting.

Plus you know, even straight chicks think I’ve got a nice rack.

Isobel weaned herself a few days after her first birthday because it just took too much sitting still and there were things to do! Like go outside! And eat cheerios off the floor! It was fine with me. Not even really bittersweet, initially.

Six months later, I still had milk and a infrequent, but still occurring feeling of let-down - I still do. And suddenly one day, I couldn’t wear a bra because it felt like my nipple was being scoured with an SOS pad.

I don’t remember the exact number or the title of it, but it came down to me having like, three clogged milk ducts that had lead to an infection all the way through to the usual milk-exit points. That cleared up with some antibiotics, but I was told that if it came back, we’d have to look at removing the involved ducts.

You know, it’s pretty impossible for them to do that without removing an implant, right? You know in Canada, even though plastic surgery is a claimable medical expense, any maintenance you need to do on twins (or you know, whatever else) is coming out of your own pocket. So, I’d be looking at paying someone to remove an implant, have some ducts removed (which is covered by medical) and then have a new implant put in.

Then I’d have to recover. Which took about two weeks, from the augmentation - and some awesome drugs - but is not anything I can picture myself doing well, being Isobel’s sole care giver.

So I was pretty happy that no new clogs showed up in the next few months.

Until I found a lump. Small, about the size of a pencil eraser. Painful. Very palpable. All good signs, right?

I was referred for an ultrasound all the effing way across the city - not a fun place to try to travel with Isobel on public transit. I didn’t go.

And then I got knocked up and immediately, my Ds starting wanting to move into DD land. And with this hormonal boob job, the lump went away. And I breathed a shallow sigh of relief, as much as my constricting bra would allow.

After the miscarriage, it took almost no time to get my body back to it’s former post-Isobel shape. About a week, I’d say. ‘Cept for the twins they took a couple of months.

And it wasn’t until about two weeks ago that I noticed the effing lump again.

Then I saw the tabloids talking about Christina Applegate’s breast cancer.

Then this morning, I see two more clogged ducts.

Can anyone tell me why I wanted these things again?