You Wouldn’t Like Her When She’s Angry.

When I first found the discussion alluded to in my last entry, my intent was to ignore it entirely, as is my policy in such situations. Imagine my surprise to find that my other cheek simply would not turn that far. This has jeopardized my standing as a card-carrying member of Pathologically Conflict Averse Citizens for Change if it’s Alright With You, but c’est la vie.
I do not want to prolong the brouhaha and won’t be writing about it further, but I do want to thank you all for the lovely email. When one is already blaming oneself for, oh, everything, even the most logically (and scientifically) dubious accusations can salt the wound, and the perspective you offered was much appreciated.

In other gratitude-related matters: I am participating in the March for Babies (an event I keep mistakenly referring to as the March OF Babies, which, while a more entertaining visual, is not, strictly speaking, correct), and when I signed up I planned to find sponsors by sending an email to my relatives, reminding them that there is still time to squeeze in another charitable deduction before tax time. To no one’s surprise, I am sure, I have yet to get around to writing said email, but in the meantime I received a message from the March of Dimes showcasing their cunning html buttons and slapped one up in my sidebar. I didn’t mention it in a post because I am squeamish about these things—perhaps it is my Midwestern upbring, but I even felt awkward selling Girl Scout Cookies, and when the subject of payment arose would toy with my sash and more or less offer to front my customer the Thin Mints just to stop the incessant money talk. The point is, I put up a sidebar button and within 72 hours you all managed to exceed my fundraising goal, and I am…well, I am touched. So thank you. Without the research funded by the March of Dimes, Simone wouldn’t have had access to a truly reliable blood circulator (I’m done now, I promise).

Actually, my discomfort about the subject of money is about to become an issue, because I have decided to leave my current editorial job and return to freelancing. Not only am I going to have to begin the tedious process of finding people who will pay me to write or edit for them, I will eventually be asked how much payment I require, and god help me will probably stammer and blush and end up doing the entire project for a box of Samoas. It has been three years since I actively looked for freelance work, and I don’t quite remember how it is done. Are we still putting red lights in our windows to advertise our services?

Last weekend Simone finally broke three pounds, the weight of a MacBook Air, an adult human brain, or Mr. Peebles, the world’s smallest living domestic cat. Soon she will be out of the isolette and into an open crib. This both excites and worries me, as she seems to have developed super strength, perhaps via an accident in the embryology lab involving a carelessly placed toaster and some culture medium, and I am afraid she will shimmy up the crib bars and leap out in search of milk. When she is angry enough (say, 20 minutes before a feeding) my baby hulk can lift her whole body on her arms in a push up, something I cannot do myself, despite having 28 years and an unspecified number of pounds on her. Simone has become so strong, in fact, that they have decided it is time to give her another shot at CPAP. She will be extubated half an hour from now. Let’s hope it takes.