I wish I could write more often, but I am too busy wasting my time to do anything remotely creative. And it is sad, kind of, that I persist in the notion that my doodling (writing) is creative. I think I'm depressed. That has been my mantra for years, but this time it's weirder. I can't sleep at all except for a couple of hours right before I have to get up and go to work. I had one cup of coffee last week, just as a little pick-me-up, and a couple of hours later, I found myself with a full-blown panic attack.
I don't believe in panic attacks, even though I have had them pretty regularly. Kind of like masturbating. I had them (did it) without knowing exactly what they were (it was). Panic attacks, with the possible exception of childbirth, are just about the most painful things to experience. I first get dizzy, then I feel pin-pricks all over, then I want to have sex like a madman(woman), then I want to beat my head against a wall until it is a pulpy mess and I'm a happy idiot. This particular panic-attack was caffeine induced. I was completely aware that I had indeed gone crazy, but I couldn't help myself. I called my husband who was studying and couldn't talk, then my friend Benton, who, for some completely unknown reason, decided that he didn't mind me spewing forth political opinion at the speed of light for about two hours. When I finally came down, I was exhausted but still couldn't sleep. My husband, even amidst all his studying, finally noticed my agony and bought me some vitamin/herbal/hormonal stuff that he had heard good things about. It slowly seems to be doing the trick.
I feel frustrated. I don't know what I'm doing with my valuable time. It started slipping away just when life was good. Life is still good, but time is racing by. My First Daughter is going to school next year. I feel like her babyhood went by so fast that the great foundation I meant for her to have is not there. I have let her watch too much TV, I have not read all the books to her that I swore I would, I allowed her grandparents to spoil her to the point of preferring them over us, I've yelled at her when I was tired, I haven't insisted that she pick up her toys, I bribe her with cookies just to get dressed in the mornings, I let her younger sister get away with things because she is the baby, I haven't filled out her baby book or picture album, I stuck out my tongue at her once, and I sometimes let her get away with not eating her vegetables. I probably don't deserve her, but I love her for all of that and probably because of all of that. I love love love the way she frolics and inevitably trips on her own feet, I love the way she stutters when she's excited, I love the way she plays "Funny Face Laughing Game," I love the way she tells me that her hair is like chocolate, I love the way she pretends to give facials, I love how fastidious she is when choosing her clothes and the way she could care less about them 10 minutes after she puts them on, I love her little machine gun laugh, I love the way she curls up like a little snail when you tuck her in bed. I love the way she says cubby and chubby and tubby. I love the way she reads The Cat In The Hat to herself. I love the way she sleeps in bed with me without moving. I love it when she hugs her sister, I love it when she sounds like a little school-teacher, I love it when she says "I luff you, Mommy and puts her little arms around my neck. Basically I am in awe of my firstborn. She makes me feel completely inadequate and yet I love her so completely. The First Baby.