I deleted my Facebook.

And unbelievably, the world carried on about its business. I had the realization that there were only a handful of people on Facebook with whom I actually spoke on the Facebook platform. Mostly I was just on it to keep tabs on people.

"Oh, they had a baby. Gosh, new babies are ugly."

"My word, he got fat."

"Was it really necessary to update your status nineteen times today?"

Why did I feel compelled to scrutinize every detail when frankly, Facebookers, I don't give a darn?

So anyway, I am offline. Off the hook, if you will. And it feels better than I thought it would. I expected to feel almost bereft until I realized it didn't care enough to feel bereft from snooping.

After a while Facebook started to get really "big brother" anyways, and this allows me to indulge my paranoia.

Afternoon, yall.

A more introspective entry today.

I used to sing little songs to the boys when they were tiny, just little things about their day or about themselves.

One I had, particular to Thing Two, to the tune of Bob Dylan's "Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands," went like this:

"Brown eyes baby, in the carseat,
Brown eyes baby, he is mommy's boy..."

And he thought it was just marvelous that he had a song, just for him, just about him, his own little something in a world where everything had to be shared.


A few days ago I was strapping him in to his carseat and began to hum the song, just out of habit, when he said, "No sing, Mommy, I big boy, not baby, no sing." So I stopped, perhaps abruptly, buckled him in and kissed his little head.

But I had to wait a minute before I started driving.  I leaned my head against the side of the van for a minute, and I just wondered, will they remember these little special songs? Will I forget? And for a second I could hear all the songs echoing around in my head and I realized how bittersweet it is to let go of their dependence on me. It's harder than I thought it would be, to watch the "Mommy Years" begin to fade.

So I will put away their songs- songs are not to be shared, after all- and make up a few for the new baby. But I will always miss, and suspect I will always remember, those little songs, those little moments that shaped so much of their babyhood for me.

"Should I leave them by your gate, or brown eyes baby, should I wait..."

Let Us Begin.

This post is stuff that you, my loyal reader, must know.

I am twentyish and mostly average, save for a (self-viewed) scathing wit that I feel I must impress (inflict) upon others. Predictably, not the most popular monkey in the tree.

I have two boys, hereby referrred to in order of age as Thing One and Thing Two. Expecting Thing Three next March. Things One and Two are three and two, respectively. While I maintain that children are a greater terror threat than most known terrorist organizations, mine are some of the most adorable little terrors I've ever seen. It's not just bias. People have said it, so it must be true. The terror part, at least. Still with me?

My husband, known in this blog as Hubster, is a soldier in the US Army (Hooah and such!) and were he writing this blog (ha!), he'd want you to know that he is a Tanker. Death before dismount and all that. He is taller than average, smarter than average, getting to thirty more quickly than he likes and generally a better husband than I deserve. All that nice stuff aside, he is a huge smart aleck and most of the time I have to fight the urge to whack him on the back of the head, in NCIS Special Agent Gibbs fashion. I love that show. I will probably reference it often.

Since "home is where the Army sends us," our current home is a few degrees away from Hell in Northeast Mexico, commonly mistaken for Texas. It's okay, I used to think it was Texas too. I myself am only here for a few more months, as Hubster is deployed and- you can't BUY timing like this- we found out a week to the day he left that we were having Thing Three. So I, along with Things One and Two, are moving home to the safety net of Mom and Dad, AKA Miney and Pop, in the Virginia mountains until Hubster gets back.

And before you feel super-sorry for Hubster that he'll miss the birth of his third-born, think about this: Apparently I am terrifying while pregnant, enough to earn the nickname bestowed upon me (by Hubster, no less) of Pregoraptor. And when he gets back, the baby will be about four months old, super cute and sleeping through the night. Let the sympathy come to me, please.

Armed with the minivan, the excitement of a DVD player in said minivan (my van is old, and no, it didn't come with a DVD player. It barely has a radio. So we bought a DVD player especially for the trip. Also, I DO NOT recommend leather seats in the Land of Endless Sun), and with Pop as co-pilot, we will embark on our twenty-seven hour road trip in mid November or early December. Whee!

Thus ends our first live broadcast from Mommyville. Please stay tuned as updates are pending!

Breaking news. Eating my supper, which I thoughtlessly cut into bite-size pieces. Next time I must remind brain to engage. Feel slightly patronized by myself, if that's possible, like "Self, you are grown enough to write a narcissitic blog, but not grown enough to cut your own food at the table."