I want my money back

Readers be warned - this is a highly negative post on parenting, so if you think I should be eternally grateful for becoming a mother and love every second of it, keep walking before I upset you.

I've hit a rough patch. Nay, a very big, unending patch of particularly bad road. I have self-diagnosed myself as having Maternal Bipolar Disorder (MBD), a condition I think I have as now created. MBD is characterised by periods of mania in which this new mother thinks that she can actually carry off this whole parenting thing successfully. By gum, she may even be starting to take to the little creature! Unfortunately there is also a flip side, the depths in which this new mom is currently treading, hoping and praying that she doesn't drown.

The first six weeks were a struggle, but barring a few breakdowns here and there, I think I was coping rather well. The whole feeding issue was the primary problem, along with P's tendency to spit up in amounts I think are excessive. However, the past few weeks have signalled the emergence of a new baby - Hopper Hellbaby (this due to her resemblance when upset to Hopper from A Bug's Life) - one which cries almost every evening from 6pm-9pm. The only way to stop this hysterical crying is to take P. for a walk. Easy enough, right? As luck would have it, we live on the top floor of our building and I have to go up and down 4 flights of stairs with her carrier each way to get her stroller from the shed outside. Fortunately we live in an area in which it is nice to take twilight walks, but it's an immense pain in the ass to do this night in and night out. I will add that yesterday by the time we got to the twilight walk, we'd already been on two walks prior that day. I suppose it's great for the Pipgut, but I'd rather be in watching crap television.

Up to the past few days, the crying has been reserved for evenings, but today my girl really outdid herself. As I've mentioned previously, I get together regularly with a group of women from my antenatal class. I haven't been in a few weeks due to transport issues, so I was really looking forward to today's meeting. For once the person hosting it was within walking distance, so I packed up P., excited about finally meeting with other mothers for the first time in awhile.

Once we got there, I noticed immediately how much the other babies had grown. Though P. is the oldest, she is still the smallest. She is nearly 3lbs over her lowest weight (5lbs 9ozs), but even so is much more :::ahem::: "dinky" than the others, a fact which was pointed out to me by some of the mothers. You can imagine how pleased I was. I started to get over this and settle into the conversation when P. started crying. My child is small, but cries like a fucking banshee. I tried to calm her, but ended up having to leave the room so the other mothers could converse like adults do without being drowned out by the wailing P. I hung out in the kitchen, attempting to soothe her with all the ways I know how, but she wasn't having it. She screamed until her head nearly came off for 15 minutes before I gave up on trying to have a nice morning out and decided to go home. I made my apologies and made a quick exit with my most disagreeable baby.

So I've reached the end of my tether. The Dude comes home from work to an evening full of screaming baby, which isn't fun for him either. I spend most evenings either crying or moping around the flat in the vain hope that I'll wake up and have my old life back. It is a horrible, horrible thought to have, but I do often wonder if I've made a huge mistake.

I don't cry that often when I get really upset at this situation, but I feel like this is hopeless. In my late teens and early 20s I was sporadically treated for depression, so I'm hardly new to the concept of feeling like you will never emerge from the darkness. The Dude, bless him, genuinely worries that I will hurt myself. I have tried to reassure him that we have been together through many of my darker times and I've never been the self harming type, but I don't suppose that is altogether calming. I think he is further confused by the fact that on the good days, I am happy. I dare say I am nearly giddy with how good life can be - I get to stay home all day with a cheerful, smiling, beautiful baby, go for walks along the sea, watch repeats of Seinfeld and Frasier, listen to good music, and IM with my Cheese Wife. If the next day turns out to be a bad one, I'm wringing my hands and cursing the fact that I did IVF in the first place. Cue the upset that comes with feeling like a horrible mother for even thinking that, and I'm yet again a gibbering, crappy mothering mess.

I've thought about what would make me feel better, aside from a baby that isn't screaming constantly, and I don't know if there is an answer. When I have casually hinted to other people that all is not what it should be, I get the cursory, "Babies cry!" or "This too shall pass", as if it's just a little hiccup in my life that I should just get over. I wish it was that easy, because that last little comment would have changed a lot of the periods of extreme sadness and depression in my life. Maybe there isn't anything to be done or said. Perhaps I do need to just suck it up and soldier on. I don't know.

I need to come to terms with the fact that my situation is permanent. I have a child. I can't drop out or quit parenthood, much as I'd like to sometimes. With most things in life, you can abandon them if they become too much. I find it so daunting that I'm in this for the long haul. At the times when I'm at my lowest I really struggle to deal with this idea. I want to crawl out of my own skin and get away, but I can't. I have this responsibility, possibly the singular one in life you cannot shirk.

If anyone has any wisdom they would like to pass on to aid the maintenence of my sanity, I would welcome it. Here is to hoping that tomorrow is one of those little seen and much cherished manic days.


Suck on this

At long last, this is the breastfeeding post I've been talking about doing for about two months now. I'm sure that sentence will serve to drive away quite a few of you because who really gives a shit about breastfeeding if you're not doing it currently or very near to trying it? I wouldn't have before. Ah well. This is my catharsis, and I hope that at some stage a woman reads this and feels a little less guilty if she is unable to breastfeed. Yup, that's me...patron saint of disenfranchised breastfeeding failures everywhere.

I've already told some of the story when I discussed P.'s birth and labour tale. Though I tried constantly to get P. to latch on properly for the week we were in the hospital, it never worked. I ended up pumping and was confident that I would be able to keep this up for as long as necessary. The Dude went out and bought a fancy electronic pump, and by the time I was sent home I was gradually getting over the disappointment of not being able to breastfeed. I thought that I was doing the next best thing for the baby and it still proved that I was trying to make an effort for this to work, even if it was not by the most conventional means.

When you decide to exclusively pump, you walk into a world that requires you to be a slave to the vile little electric creature. Not only do you need to look after a new being that needs you all the time, you must find time to sit in a chair, squeeze your tit into the phlange (what a horrible word) and pump like hell for 30-45 minutes at least 6 times a day. Many pumping moms do it every 2 hours, but fuuuuuck that. I managed about 6 on most days and that was a major trial. Thinking of doing it twice that amount, well...my poor boobs are wincing at the mere thought.

Now, you would think that such dedication would demand respect, right? No such luck for the pumping ladies I'm afraid. Rather than being in awe of the sheer dedication required, all I heard was how I should be breastfeeding, and "Hey, have you thought about breastfeeding?". You know, that rather new invention? I mentioned how my Mom harped on about the breastfeeding issue, this despite the fact that she witnessed me chained to the pump in between changing dirty nappies, consoling a crying baby, and giving bottles. All of this on very little sleep.

Everyone had advice, and apparently even after 9 weeks of pumping, people still feel the need to weigh in. I took P. for her first round of immunisations yesterday, and the nurse just couldn't help herself. "This isn't my place, but have you tried breastfeeding again?", she said slyly before I punched her in her stupid face. If you don't feel it's your place, SHUT THE FUCK UP. My ears are ready to fall off with all the breastfeeding crap that comes from all directions. Everyone has an opinion, and for some strange reason they feel as if it is fine to judge me for my decision regarding my own child. The most amazing thing is that they must feel as if I care and want to hear what they have to say on breastfeeding. I don't! Please, keep it to yourselves because otherwise The Dude is forced to listen to my rants on the gung-ho breastfeeding contingent until he comes to the conclusion that there will be no second child because what if there are breastfeeding issues again? He would not be able to bear sitting through my extensive complaining sessions another time around. He doesn't have enough hours in his days.

The breastfeeding brigade would be most disappointed to learn that I have given up the pumping altogether as of yesterday. I am fearing the telephone conversation with my Mom when I break the news. I wasn't getting enough sleep given the need to pump every time P. fell asleep, so The Dude and I agreed that it was getting ridiculous. This move was precipitated by a 2am breakdown by yours truly because I had only managed to get about 4 hours of sleep in the previous 24 hour period. To think that further failed attempts at breastfeeding would yield an even more calamitous time...well, I'd rather not think of that.

Those people that think that breastfeeding should be done at all costs - I invite them to my house when it's midday, I'm not yet dressed, P. is crying hysterically and so am I. That is just a day when I've not slept and food has not even been taken into consideration. Imagine this scenario if I was still struggling to breastfeed or putting pressure on myself to keep up my milk supply and pump. If they would like to talk me down from the ledge each time it all gets too much, then I'll consider the dogged persistence it requires to stick with breastfeeding when there are difficulties.

What frustrated me more than my inability to do yet another basic female function (thanks body, a hearty "Fuck you!" to you too!) was the relentlessness of the rabid breastfeeding devotees. I already felt like a failure, and their insistence that P. and I should take to breastfeeding exaggerated that all the more. P.'s inability to latch on properly could have been due to her prematurity as well as her heart murmur. Often premature babies, even those that are slightly premature, have not yet developed the proper sucking mechanism to latch in the correct manner. Additionally, babies with heart murmurs are tested most during feeding as it requires twice the energy that the average newborn must commit to sucking at the breast. My poor kid had enough problems with these issues and the jaundice, she didn't need the countless stream of midwives calling her lazy because she couldn't get the hang of breastfeeding.

The cult of breastfeeding dictates that you must do this at all costs, or else you are depriving your child to the point of cruelty. Without breastmilk, your kid will be sickly, allergic to everything from dander to barbed wire, and won't be able to venture out of the house without his or her plastic bubble. This poor child will be riding the short bus while all the breastfed kids ride by in the big yellow bus to the school where they learn physics and calculus, leaving your kid struggling with basic mathematical concepts such as 2 + 4 = 6 at the age of 15.

I would have loved to have breastfed P. Would I trade it for bottle feeding and the time I spent pumping? Hell yes. In the limited time that I provided breastmilk for the bulk of her feeds I did feel as if I was helping her. However, when someone is incapable of carrying on with this, the last thing she needs is a guilt trip. I have enough self-imposed parenting guilt at this early stage to last a lifetime, so excuse me if I'm not keen on being told how I've already put my child at a disadvantage. Surely a new mother needs to be supported regardless rather than reminded constantly of her shortcomings?

This is just a heads up dear Statia, prepare yourself for the shitstorm that is ahead. Also, does anyone else giggle when faced with the word "teat"? No? Just me then...


Assclowns and Fuckwits

When you're infertile people constantly piss you off for various reasons. There is the regular spectre of assvice, Child Bores, Smug Pregnants, and that co-worker that chews crisps so loudly that one is driven to blissful thoughts of said co-worker's head on a spike. That was the basis of my blog pre-P., and let me tell you, this shit doesn't get any better. Sure, the irritating things are no longer centred around my lack of ability to have a child, but they are now replaced by my hang-ups as a new parent and recovered (however temporary) infertile.

Issue 1: The size of P. As some of you may recall, P. only weighed 5lbs 14ozs at birth. She was born at 36 weeks, so I think she was entitled to be born a bit on the small side. Somehow this means that people can constantly comment on how small she is. If I had a dollar for every time someone screeches, "Oh! She's such a dink!" or "She's a dinky little one, isn't she?", I'd have a blog on Typepad rather than Blogger and it would have a template much more interesting than this one.

I know these are just statements of fact. She is small. However, I don't need to be reminded of this all the time. I know I'm paranoid, but given our feeding issues and the fact that my body failed her then and my body was unable to provide her with a full gestation, being told how small she is feels like an admission of that failure. Some people, even family members, actually call her "Dink". This friggin' kid is going to have a complex way before I get a chance to fuck her up.

Issue 2: P.'s middle name. Yes, it is traditionally a boy's name. This does not preclude me from being able to give this name to my daughter. When she was born and her name was announced to family, both sides decided to enlighten us as to the traditional gender association of this name. We still hear it, and the birth certificate proves that she well and truly has this name now. My Mom went so far as to tell us that she "didn't mind" that we gave P. this middle name, as if it was ever up to her in the first place. Thanks Mom, you're all heart. Others have told us how much they like her first name, but "don't think they really care for" her middle name. Who tells new parents this? Well, our families obviously, but shit...do people have no tact?

Issue 3: Breastfeeding. Yep, that old thing again. I won't talk of how much I hate it, but I will mention the incredible assvice that comes at me from all sides. MIL found it her responsibility to tell me that P. probably wouldn't breastfeed because of nipple confusion, as if she's a qualified lactation consultant now. This was said to me multiple times after I had my horrible breastfeeding experiences, which of course have led to more feelings of failure. I spent countless hours trying to get P. to latch on before I introduced the bottle, you know, so she wouldn't starve, yet the simple answer was nipple confusion. Of course! A breakthrough!

My Mom factors into this segment of assclowns and fuckwittery as well because giving assvice is what moms do best, or mine anyway. My Mom was on the receiving end of tearful telephone calls from me about failing to breastfeed when I got out of the hospital, and knew that I had more or less come to terms with the fact that I could only provide breast milk for P. if I pumped. However, when she visited, this did not stop her from assailing me with breastfeeding advice despite my pleas to shut.the.fuck.up (said somewhat more politely...at first). I thought she got the hint after I shouted at her that I had done all this for every single feed in the hospital for a week. Altogether, I saw about 20 midwives who consulted on the problem in P.'s first week. My mother, unless she has a secret life I'm not aware of, is also not a lactation consultant. Perhaps she and my MIL can hit the road and offer crappy breastfeeding advice and wisdom to frazzled and depressed new moms.

Issue 4: Blue clothes does not equal boy. Yeah, I know babies all look the same. Boys, girls, who can tell? I went to high school with a few people of debatable gender, so I'm well aware that in the very early stages these things all look the same. Why can't girls wear blue? I sometimes put blue onesies on P., and when people ask how old my little boy is I of course set them straight. Well, you'd think I'd just committed the poor wee thing to a lifetime of therapy with my clothing choices because they look at me as if I am mad. Their eyes plead, "But she's a girl! Pink! Pink! Pink!" I think it's pathetic that we've been conditioned to start them off in such defined gender roles from birth. If my memory serves, it's the Victorians that are to be blamed for this. Uptight bastards.

Issue 5: Moms who lose the postnatal weight immediately. Good for them. The "but" comes in when they brag and marvel to other new moms at how quickly and easily the weight fell off. As I mentioned in my previous post, I have been attending weekly meetings with the group from my antenatal class. I thought it would totally not be my scene, but so far, so good. However. There is always a "however" with me when I say something positive. Anyway, there is a woman in the group I will call Miss Priss. Miss Priss is a GP's wife, and well...she lives up to the cliche of the doctor's wife. I know there are some doctor's wives that blog and read my tripe as well, and I of course don't mean you.

So, Miss Priss shows up at a meeting a week and a half after giving birth. One of the other women mentions how fabulous Miss Priss looks so soon after having her baby. Miss Priss, barely able to contain her excitement, gives a big toothy smile and says, "I know! I was so surprised that my stomach went back to normal so quickly! Look, (:::lifts shirt to bare her stomach:::) it's flat! It must have been all the swimming I did when I was pregnant! My husband says that he's never seen a stomach so flat so soon after birth!" After vomiting into my massive, swollen cleavage, I quickly shoved one of the brownies on offer into my gaping maw. Who needs swimming and flat stomachs when you can enjoy moist brownies?

But really, who says these things when in the presence of women that still have baby guts? I call mine the Pipgut, and it doesn't seem to want to shift for anyone. I know eating brownies is not the answer, but this is what I do when faced with physical ideals. Where is the logic in that exactly? So, to change one of my favourite lines in Sex in the City: "Fuck that fucking face girl.", I will say, "Fuck that fucking stomach girl." I showed her. She may have a flat stomach less than two weeks postpartum, but I am foul-mouthed and eat brownies. Consider us even.

That's all I've got. I'm annoyed by many more things, but apparently my brain snuck out with the placenta during birth because I can't remember them. I'm sure more assclowns and fuckwits will surface soon, so stay tuned.


All is full of love

There are a few pregnant bloggers about at the moment, many of whom have blogged about the oft-blogged topic of survivor's guilt. I harped on about this myself in the beginning; I didn't feel as if I belonged in the IF camp, but I felt even more of an outsider when grouped with The Pregnants. I was fearful to convey that any guilt I felt arose from my fear of blogging about pregnancy, but not actually about being pregnant. I didn't want to come across as if I'd forgotton my IF roots by blathering on and on about pregnancy as if my Clomid, IUI and IVF cycles never existed. However, I suffered no guilt about the pregnancy itself, as my logic was (and is) that I worked hard for it and it finally happened for me. A note to other pregnant bloggers - that is nothing to feel guilty about.

So I skipped the survivor's guilt in the traditional sense. Now I'm experiencing a new incarnation of this dreaded affliction. My new guilt is two fold - it functions as a form of survivor's guilt, but it also moonlights as maternal guilt. I had a baby that took me 4 years of infertility treatment to meet. I agonised for all this time about how my body was failing me, and how I was failing my husband. I got pregnant, waxed poetic in my mind about how blissfully happy I would be once she arrived, and convinced myself that the lack of maternal instinct I so feared was actually a blinding maternal instinct that was merely latent. Imagine my surprise when the long-awaited baby arrived and the maternal instinct failed to kick in.

Though I have spent a large portion of the past few years of my life ignoring pregnant women and Child Bores, I have picked up that when a baby is born, love is instant. You gaze into your child's eyes and see everything you had ever wished for. This is obviously enhanced greatly within the infertile community, as hell, you went through physical and emotional agony for ages trying to get to this point. When P. was born she was given to me as soon as she came out. I held her on my chest, in complete amazement that this being was here and officially part of our lives. In retrospect, love never entered the equation. I would like to say that I was overwhelmed with adoration for the most perfect baby ever born, but all I noticed was the lack of that feeling.

The Dude was instantly smitten, and sensing that my maternal instinct had yet to kick in, repeatedly said, "Look at her. Just look at her, she's gorgeous", as if this idea would suddenly dawn on me and I'd spout sonnets about the beauty of my baby and my all-consuming love for her. I don't imagine that my hellacious week-long stay in the hospital aided in the bonding between P. and myself. I was frustrated at not being able to feed her, depressed that she was jaundiced for days, and forlorn that this was the start of my new life - a life I suddenly felt as if I didn't want after all.

Once I was home from the hospital, I started attending weekly coffee mornings held by the group of women in my antenatal class. P. was the first of the group to be born and the other women wanted to know all about my experiences. I told them all the factual stuff relating to labour and delivery, but avoided any flowery sentiments regarding my feelings toward P. When people would give me big, cheesy smiles and say, "Don't you just love her to bits?", I had to restrain myself from shrugging my shoulders and saying, "Yeah, she's alright I guess". You get reported for that sort of response in connection to your child, don't you?

Soon other babies were born to the women in my group and each get together was a jumble of women gushing about how much they loved their babies and how they would not hesitate a moment before going through it all again. "She was so worth it", "I fell in love instantly", and "I'd like at least 10 now!" were constant companions in the conversations and it made me feel as if I was a complete freak of maternal nature. I wondered if these women were just saying these things because they were obligated to, or if they genuinely felt that instantaneous bond with their new son or daughter. I couldn't decide if I was envious of them or resentful that this had come so easily to them.

It's unfortunate that you rarely hear that some women don't bond with their child immediately after birth. One of the few instances in which I've heard such feelings expressed was in relation to women with postnatal depression. It doesn't seem to be widely acknowledged that there are women out there not experiencing depression that might take more than 10 seconds to fully bond with their children.

I have never failed to calm P., to hold her and whisper to her that everything will be ok. I tell her that her mama will take care of her and make her feel better. Until recently, I did that out of obligation rather than hopeless adoration of my baby. I went through the motions because I didn't have a choice, and rarely did I feel as if this was my child to love unconditionally and eternally. I've spent much of my mothering time up to now ruing the loss of my previous life, the one I will never.have.again. No independence, no sleeping in, and no spontaneity. Ever.

This is what I wanted, right? A cute, cuddly baby who throws up in my cleavage at least twice a day? Check. I just didn't think I'd look at this baby and not connect with her any more than I would the child of a friend. After I was feeling this way for weeks, I stumbled upon the most fantastic post ever, courtesy of Morphing into Mama. This post has changed my life. I know it sounds dramatic, and I'm sure it is, but shit...how did I not find this earlier? There ARE women like me out there, we're not an urban myth of bad parenting!

MiM questions how it is possible to be in love with someone you have just met. It doesn't usually happen within the context of romantic love, so why is this any different? Yes, this tiny person is a product of you, but that doesn't mean you know who they are and who they will be from birth. For awhile they are just screaming little shitting leeches who occasionally allow you to get some much-needed sleep. There, that's me waxing poetic.

The more traditional of you will be pleased to know that I am slowly coming round. More and more P. is feeling like my own. It's taken nearly 8 weeks to get to this stage, but I'm getting there. I had an epiphany the other day when I was holding P. after a feed which gave me faith that I might actually love my little red-haired punk baby. She had her pacifier in (yes, I am that kind of parent and damn proud of it), looked me directly in the eyes and smiled. It was fleeting, but I've convinced myself that it was meant for me and not as a result of squeezing out a squirty poo or a tiny fart. I may be deluding myself, but I suppose if this is a step toward proper bonding, I'll take it. I'm not Catholic, lapsed or otherwise, so I can only take so much guilt.


There is no baby here today

I was going to write about my awful breastfeeding experiences and how I hate the "b" word now, but I'll give you all a break from my baby-related experiences for awhile lest you collectively start to jump ship. Instead, I've chosen to talk about me, me, me. You know, for a change.

I've written previously about my blog persona versus my real life self. I often think that those who read my blog would be severely disappointed in me in reality, as I think my blog persona is how I'd like to be in real life, as opposed to who I truly am. For instance, my language is not nearly so naughty. Based on Blog Pru, you'd think I went to the Al Swearengen School of Charm. Real Pru usually only swears in the presence of The Dude and Little Ms P. I do preface my swearing by shouting "EARMUFFS!" at P. in the hopes that she'll cover her ears and not be sullied by my foul language. I have had the good fortune to speak on the phone with another graduate of Al's School of Charm, my Cheese Wife, and neither one of us have sworn thus far. How we do it, I just don't know. For the record, Little Ms P's future MIL, Lumi, does maintain her blog persona in real life. Just hours after giving birth to the gorgeous Lucy, Lumi was all about the various uses of the word, "fuck". You gotta love that consistency.

So anyway, before I rattle on about myself in the form of two (yes, two!!) questionnaires that have circulated through the blogosphere lately, I'd like to know how representative you think your blog self is of you. Perhaps even some of you are more fascinating in real life than you are in your blogging life. Oh, how envious I am of you.

Questionnaire No. 1, courtesy of one Cheese Wife:

One book that changed your life: Wow, that's a tall order, isn't it? In what will be the start of a series of vague answers to this questionnaire, I can't say that any one book has changed my life. Corny as it sounds, I think my answer would be any books by Beverley Cleary and Judy Blume. Their books inspired me to have something to read with me at all times throughout my childhood. This often extended to cereal boxes and paint cans, but hey...that thirst for books was created, right? I will leave out my eventual, preteen love of the Babysitter's Club and Sweet Valley High series.

One book that you've read more than once: Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita. I read it once, and subsequently read it again. I love me some Nabokov.

One book you would want on a desert island: Naked, by David Sedaris. If I'm stranded on a desert island I sure as hell want to have something to laugh about.

One book that made you laugh: See Sedaris, above. If you have not read any of David Sedaris' work, get thee self to Amazon right away. I first read Me Talk Pretty One Day in my college library between classes over a 2 day period. I got really cosy in a plump armchair and laughed until my eyes were devoid of any more tears and my stomach felt as if it would burst. I got a lot of strange looks from other people in the library, but my god was it ever worth it.

One book that made you cry: I've cried reading the newspaper, so it isn't much of a challenge to make me cry. Most recently, I suppose it was The Time Traveller's Wife. As someone who has the constant morbid thought that her spouse will die and leave her to raise a child alone, it really resonated with me. The entire book was tragic and depressing, which is just my style.

One book that you wish had been written: Not a book per se, but I always liked the work of Christopher Marlowe and wished he hadn't come to such an unfortunate end at the ripe old age of 29. I mean, the man wrote Dr Faustus and met his end via a knife above the eye. That's harsh. How can you not be intrigued by a man that is described on one website as a "rakehell"?

One book that you wish had never been written: Ann Coulter

The book that you are currently reading: Who has the time? It took me three weeks to read one newspaper. I have a bunch of books sitting in the bookcase begging to be read, but isn't that always the case?

One book that you have been meaning to read: Too many to count. I read the book reviews in the Guardian every weekend and lament that it will take me decades to read all that I would like to.

Questionnaire No. 2, stolen from Bri at Unwellness:

What songs would you have on your personal "meaningful mix" CD?

1) A favorite political track: This is hard already. I'll say Man in Black by Johnny Cash. Yeah, it's political. I think.

2) One of those tracks that make you dance on the dancefloor no matter what: If by "dancefloor" you mean my worn out nasty-ass carpet in my lounge, then it is Rockstar by N.E.R.D

3) The song you’d use to tell someone you love them: Speak to me Someone by Gene, and I have.

4) A song that has made you sit down and analyze its lyrics: I never read liner notes. I make up my own lyrics if I have any doubts.

5) A song that you like, that a two year old would like as well: Send Me on My Way by Rusted Root. I stole that from Bri, who in turn stole it from someone else. It's just that kinda song I guess.

6) A song that gives you an energy boost: Common People by Pulp

7) A song that you and your grandparents (would probably) like: I can't think of anything. My grandpa (the only grandparent I knew) was solely a wartime music kind of person. Chattanooga Choo Choo and all that.

8) A song that you really liked when you were 14-16, and still really like now: The Queen is Dead, by The Smiths. Well, anything by The Smiths.

9) A sad song that would be in the soundtrack of the movie about your life: Hurt, by Johnny Cash. I dare you not to cry.

10) A peppy song that would start the opening credits of the movie about your life: Me, peppy? Haha.

11) A good song from a genre of music that no one would guess that you liked: 99 Problems by Jay Z. I'm all about Jay Z.

12) A song that you think should have been playing when you were born: Ring of Fire, get it? Get it? Yeah...bad joke.

13) A favorite artist duo collaboration: Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan, You Are My Sunshine. I know, another Johnny song. I can't help it, Johnny rules.

14) A favorite song that you completely disagree with (politically, morally, commonsenically,religiously etc.): This is hard. So hard, I don't have an answer.

15) The song that you like despite the fact your IQ level drops several points every time you listen to it: This list could go on and on. I am a total pop music whore. My most recent obsession is Promiscuous by Nelly Furtado. Love. that. song.

16) Your smooth song, for relaxing: The Sprout and the Bean, Joanna Newsom

17) A song you would send to someone you hate or are mad at: Untouchable Face, Ani DiFranco

18) A favorite track from an outfit considered a “super-group”: Bootylicious, Destiny's Child. Yay for Destiny's Child.

19) A song that makes you reminsce about good times with a family member: Blaze of Glory, Bon Jovi. I know. My brother and I shared the Young Guns II soundtrack on tape and would lay under his bunk bed and sing along. That, my friends, is the epitome of cool.

20) Your favorite song at this moment in time: When You Were Young, The Killers. The lead singer, Brandon Flowers, is rocking the Deadwood chic look in this video and for some reason I find this hot. Really hot.

Phew. I'm tired now. Please feel free to provide your own answers to these questions in the comments sections or on your own blogs. I need some diversions from sticking my tit in a pump and eeking out the small amount of milk I'm capable of producing. Help me out here.