Shelley's not the one for me

Although I was initially completely gung-ho about Discardia, the momentum has slowed considerably. That is in part due to the supremely crappy weather we have been having. I have no motivation for anything! Spring cleaning, ha!
These pictures are part of a "collection" that I took back in February- the proof is in the date stamp.  I pulled a bunch of books off the shelves and sent a large number to the thrift. The rest, like this Shelley book are in a paper bag labeled "re-evaluate in 6 months (August 2013)."  They are the books that are inscribed or have some special significance. I am not sure why this book jumped out at me today. Perhaps it is because I am waxing nostalgic at my childhood. Indeed, lately I have been seriously contemplating, questioning and examining my childhood in order to figure out what I am all about now as a mother and 36 year old woman.  Sounds cheesy doesn't it? Well, write to me if you have an alcoholic mother and we can talk. I do not need to justify myself to you or anyone else. Yes, I do know that I am being defensive and offering thoughts as if they were asked for. You may not have asked but I am going to tell you anyway. Who are you anyway? I am the only one that reads this blog so I am really only conversing with myself. That's fine. Probably better that way.
Anyway, my mother and father must have done something right if a high school teacher saw potential in me, even if my peers did not. I always felt misunderstood, like all teenagers. But I also felt like I needed to be different. Or rather I felt I was different in an agreeable way. I was proud of the way that I was able to be my own person. Even if it meant that I forever secluded myself from a vast majority of my classmates who thrived on fitting in and belonging.  I was made of stronger stuff than I might have let on about when under pressure. I still am a strong person. My husband tells me so.
I never read the Shelley book. I never cared for his style. I kept the book solely for the inscription. And you have to admit that it is pretty good. Not just a Happy Birthday or Merry Christmas. This was personal.  It did always nag at me, though, that despite the insight Mrs. Aavang seemed to have into my inner soul, the book was not even close to being one I would cherish and re-read till the pages were worn and the ink smeared.  Maybe she was trying to push me farther into my own person. Maybe she thought that my responses to the poetical analyses were an indication of my fondness for Shelley. Maybe I should have read the book.

Governor Squawker

As I type this Annika is still screaming upstairs in her bed. It is hard to tell if she is getting any less frantic. My head hurts from the noise. The sound of the typing keys is almost too much. This will have to be short. At times like these the only thing that eases the pain and angst is a hot shower. And since I didn't take one this morning I could really use the cleansing waters.
This baby girl amazes everyone when we are out in public. She charms the pants off everyone. I am not exaggerating. Complete strangers have told us that she is the most beautiful baby they have ever seen. She is the most calm baby ever. She has the most beautiful eyes. Oh those eyes! Oh that hair! Is she always this calm they ask. Ha! As if.
She still does not sleep through the night. and she tends to do all of her crying between the hours of 6 pm and 6 am.  The night before last she was awake around 11 pm or something so I nursed her.  She went back to sleep with only a few noises. But she woke up less than 2 hours later fit to be tied. So we let her cry. We let her scream. We let her keep us awake. We groaned and cursed and pounded the pillows until 1.5 hours had passed. Steve stormed into get her intending to feed her a bottle of formula. I followed him and nursed her even though it had not been 4 hours since her last feeding.  She woke up then around 6 am.  And I can count the number of times that this child has woken up happy on one hand! She just instantly screams.  When I am standing too close to her while she screams it makes my ears hurt. I do believe that her screams are making me deaf to that decible.  She could wake the dead! So Steve started calling Annika Governor Squawker. More like Governess Screamer. It is just unreal.
Annika is just this tiny little petite baby who weighs only about 15 pounds. That's 14th percentile or something. No big shakes in size. But if we could measure her vocal output she would be off the charts! I think we have to come to terms with the fact that she is just not over the colicky business. She is just a fussy baby. Or maybe we should just be putting her to sleep in public places. I should cart the pack and play around and just set up baby bedtime wherever we happen to be. Target shoe aisle? Woodman's produce section?  I know that would fail.  For Easter weekend we were in Santa Barbara with Steve's family. She showed her true colors at night there- Uncle Mark can tell you "Yeah, she really gets all worked up doesn't she?"  And I think one day she started to let loose when she was hungry and tired and she had to wait. But I know that all those pregnant sisters are hoping for a calm baby like Annika, except one that will sleep through the night. We intimated a couple of times that there were a couple months of hell and they were surprised. Guess if you don't ask the right questions you won't get the full story! We were "off radar" for a reason people! Seriously.
I don't wish Squawker tendencies on anyone. I do wish though for some perspective. For someone in the family to be able to nod their heads and truly understand how we feel. With 3 more nephews/nieces on the way there is bound to be a fussy one in there, isn't there? Governor Squawker can't be the only one can she? Really?