I guess there are some people reading this blog?

Okay; I need to apologize. I honestly thought I was writing to a void. I hope recent posts of mine haven't offended anyone. Please know that I would never write something potentially hurtful about anyone if there was even the remotest chance they were reading this blog. (I.e., my post about feeling hurt by a friend; I would never post something like that about anyone I gave this silly blog's address to. But the point of that post was not to bash the friend, but to explain that I felt stymied by my inability to express a feeling of hurt to her in a way that wouldn't lead to melodramas.) The truth is, a big part of why I started this blog is that I need to feel less like I am censoring myself. I want to be a little more open. I want to feel a little less inhibited by my pathological tendency to try to please everyone in the world. I think I need to, rather badly. Perhaps then I should be writing in a completely private form; I am not sure there's any argument for not doing so. I haven't entirely figured out what this blog is. If you actually want to read it, I appreciate that, I really do. I hope the Me that emerges won't be too off-putting. There, you see? I'm doing it again!

Try again

Well, I have to admit, it's a bit annoying: if you do something Daisy finds entertaining, she yells, "Try again! Try again!" It amuses us that she uses this particular phrase-- like you didn't do it right the first time and you need to try again.

Did I mention she does a British accent?

My baby gets postmodern

Daisy's Peter Rabbit book features a little image of Peter reading the book named after him, on the title page, along with other little images, of Squirrel Nutkin and other Beatrix Potter characters.

Just now Daisy pointed to the picture of Peter reading and said, "Peter Rabbit's reading about... Peter Rabbit." That must really expand her mind.

Ya know what's scary?

Let me tell you. It's when--after telling yourself for weeks, "Stop being so paranoid! You probably don't need to change the lock on your apartment door. You probably don't need to shove a chair under the doorknob every night. Your manager isn't coming to kill you in a hail of psychotic bullets--that's a paranoid fantasy scenario"--you talk to two other perfectly sane, well-adjusted, normal tenants in your building, whom you've never shared any information with whatsoever, and they independently tell you that this is what THEY ARE THINKING, TOO. Down to every last detail: the chained door, the desire for new locks, even the HAIL OF BULLETS.

As it turns out, I am one of the people with the LEAST cause for complaint against our scary, scary, scary manager.

As I was taking a bath today, I heard a persistent knocking on the door.

Me: Who's there.

Long pause. More knocking.

Me: WHO'S THERE?

Wee voice: Gompy.

Me: No, seriously. Who is there?

Pause.

Wee voice: It's Rumpelstilts.

*******************

Today, I am also reporting that Daisy said with perfect clarity, "No more monkeys jumping on the bed." She is talking so much it's out of control. And she does a BRITISH ACCENT. I am not kidding. Yes, she is imitating Teletubbies; but if anything, isn't that an argument for more TV watching among the young? I mean, the kid can do accents!

Whoa

I concealed my identity so well in this blog that I almost just successfully concealed it from mySELF. Just took me half an hour to sign in to this blog because I couldn't remember my username (though I remembered my password, uselessly enough).

I feel strangely liberated in this blog because I don't think anyone is reading it. Therefore, if anyone happens to be reading this, be aware of that scintillating fact--I am more uncensored than usual. Whoooopeee! Actually, it is kind of a big deal, because I can't help censoring myself habitually and pathologically, and when I think anyone is reading what I write, the self-consciousness kicks in big time. I have a really deep longing to be less censored, which is part of the reason I created this blog. Anyway, two things are on my mind tonight.

1) There is a rebellion going on in this building against our manager, who has treated me really terribly. It's been a very interesting and different experience for me. When all this crappy stuff started happening, Mark wanted right away to talk to other tenants, gather their experiences, and see if anyone else felt the way we did.

I didn't want to.

Why not, you ask? Because that sort of thing has always burned me in the past. When, in the past, I (or Mark and I and a friend of ours, in the case that springs to mind most readily) was treated in a truly abominable and unacceptable way, I found that friends weren't willing to support me, by and large. Or, they offered support of a very limited, staying-neutral-and-protecting-themselves sort of way. At the time I was surprised, disappointed, sad, pissed off, in varying degrees depending on the specific people. After awhile, though, I accepted it. It started to seem natural and inevitable: people don't want to get involved in other people's messes. They want to stay out of it. Makes sense. Even if they care about you, they don't care enough to mess up their own lives, potentially, over it. If I sound bitter, I really don't intend to. It does make sense to me, and who knows if I'd be any different, in their shoes? The only thing that sort of gnawed away at me was the fear that I wasn't believed. I wanted to be believed, when I was telling the truth. I think people have a tendency not to want to believe things that are really, really bad and unfair. They want to say, "There must be two sides to this story"--but sometimes, SOMEtimes, there are not. Anyway, in my past: Bad Things happened--Very Bad Things; told friends; asked for support; was told by quite a few people I trusted that it couldn't be, just as I said it was, and that they didn't want to be involved (basically). Over time, I have pretty much accepted this and, again, don't mean to sound bitter about it, because with time, I have come to understand a bit more where those people were coming from, and have learned to adjust my expectations of other people.

The point is, though, I didn't want to reach out to other tenants because I was sure the same thing was going to happen all over again and I didn't want to go through it again. But we HAVE ended up talking to people, and something very different came about. Others felt the same way. Some felt even more strongly than we did. We gained wonderful allies. We felt less alone. And now we are part of a process of trying to get this awful man removed as our manager. That is a good thing. He is not the sort of person you want having the keys to your apartment: a bigoted, volatile, mentally unstable, angry, angry man. I am not alone; other people are helping me, and I am helping them. We are in this together. No one I've told my story to has made me feel like I am insane. They all seem completely non-shocked and then share stories of their own. Although this is, of course, a totally unpleasant experience to go through, it is so much better to go through it WITH other people.

#2) A friend hurt me recently with some remarks, and this is something I'd like to write more about in a later post, but can't right now because I have too much work to do. That's not exactly what this Number Two is about. What it's about is that I have tried to write a letter to her, and I can't. I mean, I HAVE; I've written several drafts of letters to her. At least three drafts. None of them can be sent. I keep thinking I need to walk away, take a deep breath, come back, and try the letter again. But I've been doing that for a month, and now, at last, I finally believe this letter can't be written. Which means, unfortunately, that I have to let her get away with what she said to me. It's pissing me off, but I feel trapped. I can't seem to write a letter to her that could actually be sent. It's a very frustrating thing to experience, especially for someone who has always wanted to believe that words are her friends and that if she tries hard enough, she can express anything she needs to express, somehow, some way.

Well, I've got more thoughts on both the numbered items on my list, but I have to go for now. It's kind of fun being this uncensored me... fun may not be the right word, but it's something good.

Rough days

Thank you for the last comments, on Daisy's sleeping problems, everyone! They were very much appreciated and helpful, too. We put a mattress down next to Daisy's crib and we've had some luck with that, and moving her crib into our room seems like a possibility, too.

Well, we've had different troubles lately. Daisy came down with an itchy and uncomfortable rash that turned out to be Gianotti Crosti syndrome. She had hive-like red bumps on her knees and feet, especially, but also all over her legs, some in her diaper area and on her face, and big clusters on the backs of her hands. It took three trips to the doctor to get a secure diagnosis and treatment plan. Just when the discomforts and disruptions caused by the Gianotti Crosti illness seemed to be subsiding, she's gotten sick again, and just a few days before the start of school for us. She is extremely congested and has coughing fits every time we put her down in her crib. Last night she vomited everywhere, and she's thrown up three times today already-- twice in smaller amounts, and one huge one. We've had to buy more crib sheets because we can't keep up with the laundry. And the poor girl has not napped or slept well for days. I think I have the same sickness, but it's not hitting me as hard.

I am feeling worried.