It's been real, or Index, Harper's Style:

Years since beginning this blog: 3 5/6
Jobs held in said four years: 3 (U*S*A Rugby's office manager, Teacher and now the illustrious Program Manager)
Marriages: 1
Pregnancies: 1
Births: 1
Places lived: 3
Cities lived: 2
Degrees Obtained: 1, and a credential
Blog Posts: 1,193
Times I have faked innocence about this blog: 3
Times I have been in a class and somebody has mentioned this blog without knowing who I was: 1
Friends made through the blog that I have actually met in real life: 10
Friends made through the blog that I have not met in real life but still oddly feel like friends because we email often: 4
Friends that I met in real life and then solidified the friendship with through the blog: 6
Times I have thought it was a better idea to shut the hell up and enjoy my life, quiet and boring as it is, than spend so much damn time on the Internet: 1, but it's enough

Thanks all, for everything these past four years. It's hard to imagine what my life will be like without the blog, but I look forward to finding out.

Not Angry Enough:

Babble launches tonight without me.

That’s right, I was fired before actually beginning. That really has to be some sort of record. Apparently my voice is too “mommy-bloggish” and “not the right fit”.

Babble is touting itself as irreverent and edgy, which I’m sure it will be. Alas, I am neither of those things.

I think it boils down to me not being angry enough. I tried to pull out my creds- Hey! I listen to Ani Difranco and Rage Against the Machine! I am angry, too! I swear!

But in all honesty, I am not. Before being fired (this is my first firing, ever), I was having serious doubts. The approach they are taking seemed to be one that is constructed around being exclusive and hip for the sake of being hip. Different for the sake of being different. Which is great for them. They can wear the skinny jeans and leg warmers, but I’ll be over here in boot-cuts with clogs. For me, becoming a parent has been the great equalizer. Whether I talk to people who breastfeed or formula-feed, who co-sleep or have their babies in a crib in another room, who stay at home or send their children to daycare, we are all doing the best we can and love our children more than we thought humanly possible. Why do we need to divide ourselves up into categories and talk shit about the others? Won't we do better standing together?

In all honesty, this brings up two things that I have been thinking about for awhile.

The first is that I have never considered myself a writer. In fact, I hate writing. And yet I’ve kept this blog for almost four years, so there’s that. I write. But I think the difference between a writer and a good writer is that a good writer can take banal things and make them funny and poignant. Whereas I have had funny or poignant things happen and I write them down. There is a difference.

The second thing this brings up is the ever-increasing exclusivity of the blog world. Maybe it has always been there and I just haven’t noticed, but these days it feels like it taints things more and more for me. Since Blogher, I have had a bad taste in my mouth about blogging but have just sort of plugged along. I thought that I was going to quit altogether but then decided to just take a month off and see how I felt. Something in me decided to give it one more shot, but I am still feeling like it might be time to pull the plug on Posthipchick.

Anyway, go read Babble and find out how to be edgy and irreverent. God knows you aren’t going to find out here.

Small World:

Don't you love when someone answers your craigslist posting about selling your couch and they show up and it turns out to be someone you went to college with and totally enjoyed and now they are going to buy your couch and also you guys can hang out sometime? Yeah, I love that too.

Heartbreak:

I have spent the last few days alternating between obsessively refreshing my sfgate page, looking for news about the Kims, emailing and IM'ing with friends about possible scenarios, and caring for a sick baby while becoming sick myself.

When I was up last night at 1 with a sobbing baby who just vomited all over me, I checked the page. At 3, when she was wrecked by not being able to nurse, I checked the page. I was holding out hope that James would be found alive and I am devastated to know that he isn't.

Through all of this, I began to question why exactly I cared so much. But the fact is, this story hits incredibly close to home. I know people who know each of them. They live on the same street as my MIL, not a mile from us. Their youngest daughter is exactly the same age as The Olive.

You begin to play out the scenario- this could have been us. We could have taken a wrong turn. We could have been terrified in a car for nine days, keeping our children alive by breastfeeding them. Our husbands could have set out for help and died saving our family.

It is sad but true, I think, that the more you feel connected to something, the more you pay attention to it. They are certainly not the only family to be suffering a devastating loss right now, but they are the only ones within my line of vision.

I want to do something to commemorate their bravery and loss, but even with someone so close, I fear there is nothing I can do. So I will hug by sickly little daughter and wonderful husband a little tighter tonight and remember how amazingly lucky I am. May the Kim family have some peace.

Edited to add: Stefania and I are planning on putting some flowers at their family store tomorrow. If you would like me to add anything from you, leave it in the comments.

Pics are up.

I have become the mom I never thought I'd be:

I am actively trying to get The Olive interested in the Teletubbies. As in I have tivo'd an episode and we turn it on about once a day to distract us from our current frustrations. I have this theory that the more she sees it, the more excited she will be about it. It usually lasts about two minutes, and then she's back to her "frustrated" noise, a sort of grunting like you think she might be pooping, but alas, it's just a special Olive noise used to express frustration at any given situation and is, based on my time with other babies, not a universal noise. It is also the noise I am quite sure will follow me into Hell, because there is nothing worse I have heard, ever, and if you find me in the mental institution one day, it is quite likely that noise that drove me there.

So! The Teletubbies are quite trippy, no? I'm sure many have discussed these alien bears far more eloquently than I can. In fact, I'm sure some Education student somewhere has a fascinating thesis on the subject, so if you are so inclined, go ahead and look that up.

Watching the Teletubbies has, however, confirmed one thing for me. British accents are just so much cuter than American accents. I feel that I am doing The Olive a disservice by not raising her in Ye Olde Country and allowing her to develop that endearing accent. There are simply no immersion schools for American English and British English, and I must say, I think that is a shame. We may have to cozy up a little more to some of our British friends to encourage a little rub-off onto The Olive's vocabulary.

Or just watch more Teletubbies. Good mom, Good mom.