If you care to see what we’re looking like these days, I just got a ton of photos back from the photographer.

Slideshow here.

Oh, and my wtfwjd? sticker arrived! Now, am I *really* going to put it on my car? Hmmmm…

Today I learned something. If you enter an email address along with your comments for a blog that uses Haloscan, your email address is displayed. Most comment systems I’ve seen ask you to enter your email, but it’s only visible to the site owner. I’d neglected to notice that Haloscan differs.

I learned this because I got quite the interesting email — directly to my account — today from someone who visited here from another site where I’d commented. Considering that this email’s remarks directly addressed a specific post, who knows why this person didn’t just leave a comment…

Stripping out any identifying info, here it is:

From: (woman’s name)
Date: Jul 17, 2005 6:43 PM
Subject: Curious
To: (me)

I found your blog from the (site) comments. I wonder if there were reasons besides his small penis that you decided not to try to establish a relationship with your daughter’s father. Do you reckon the penis size was a deal breaker? What will you tell your daughter about her father? (God, please! don’t tell her the real reason.)

I wonder because I was a bit shocked the first time I saw my husband’s penis which is kind of small–at least by what I’d seen before and magazine pictures. But it turned out he was a great lover, the best sex I ever had is with my husband despite his size.

I wonder too what difficulty your daughter might have with only you as a parent. Girls especially need men around for establishing good relationship with other men.

Maybe when she grows up she will try to find her biological father like some adopted children do. Would you help her do that if she showed interest and desire to do so?

Maybe this guy was a creep and it was not just his penis size. I was just wondering.

Best Wishes
(first name)

Note that of the LONG post about my daughter’s bio dad, the comment about his, um…size…was one sentence. And written with humor. Running with the assumption that this woman really is who she says, I’m pleased for her that she enjoys her husband. Really, I am. But…

A few possibilities:

1. This really is a woman who really is married to a talented, but underendowed man. She really is genuinely concerned about my daughter’s well-being.
2. This really is a woman who’s married to the underendowed man, but she subconsciously hates it, so is hyper-sensitive to any penis-size comment.
3. This is a troll. Then again, if it were, I’d almost expect a troll to WANT to post a comment here, just to stir up some excitement. To this thought, the yahoo profile shows as “updated 7/16/2005, but contains no information whatsoever — it’s clearly a newly created email address.
4. This is an underendowed man, and he’s standing up for his brothers.

I could go on. Maybe I will later, but for now, I’m too busy snickering at the mental image of my sitting with a six-year-old daughter on my knee, gently explaining to her any of the following:

“Darling, you must understand. I was so relieved when the ultrasound showed that you were a girl, so you wouldn’t inherit your father’s…affliction.”

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry that you don’t know your father, but he has a small penis, so is an evil person. I couldn’t expose you to that.”

My reply to her question:

Not that it’s really any of your concern — but my issue with the biological donor to my daughter’s DNA had more to do with his inability/unwillingness to listen to the word “no.” By the time I learned I was pregnant, I had no way to contact him; he was someone I *met* on NYE, not a date. Surely, in that context, you can understand why I was upset about the not-listening-to-no part.

For the record? He was a great kisser. I mean, it got as far as it did for a reason. Even though I didn’t want/plan to sleep with the guy, I didn’t shut him down as harshly or clearly as I should have because…well…I wanted to keep *kissing* him.

Rereading her letter and my response, I realize that I neglected to answer one question. Of course, I’d help my daughter to find her biological father. Over the past several months, I’ve entertained the idea of doing some detective work myself, simply so I’ll have something for her to start with when/if that day arrives.

I fully realize that by posting personal details on a blog, that I open myself up to others’ opinions. Can’t they just form opinions based on what’s written, though, instead of on their own assumptions? I honestly don’t mind being judged — if that judgement is based on fact. All too often, though, it’s not.

The author’s comments about my daughter’s emotional well-being are a whole other topic for some other day.

My daughter hit nine months today, so we’ve been busy doing the doctor thing, and my thoughts have more been on her instead of the topics that fit here. Good lord, she is so freakin’ tiny!

While at the doctor’s office, my pediatrician noticed a “hip click” on Maya’s left side. We’re being referred to an orthapedist for further checking, because this can be indicative of hip dysplasia. Being the good (or is that neurotic?) mom that I am, I researched infant hip dysplasia as soon as I got home. YIKES.

I pray that this is really nothing, and thank god that I’m shelling out the large payments monthly for a good health insurance plan. Even if I’m spending more monthly than I might have out of pocket…when things like this arise, there’s no question about whether to go to the specialist. We just go.

As I state in my 100 Things list, my daughter’s biological father isn’t involved in our lives in any way, shape, or form. Here’s part of that story:

December 31, 2003: New Years Eve 2004

I join my cousin and her bf at a local restaurant/live music venue. Lord knows, we’ve spent years going to this place, and it’s one I enjoy for a few reasons:

1. Never a cover charge.
2. Great food.
3. Decent live music that’s usually “danceable.”

This night, the offering was a five-course meal plus champagne at midnight — all for $50. Not too shabby for NYE!

I arrived a little earlier than my party, so I did what I do well…met people. At the bar, I met a pair of men (who, as it turned out, didn’t even know each other) who were great company. One, in particular, interested me. There was something about him that looked smart (sometimes, looks are *just* looks). Black turtleneck cableknit sweater…Lucky jeans…dark hair, gorgeous smile, glasses…he even smelled good. Even after my party arrived, we chatted off and on through the rest of the evening. I was definitely interested. Let’s call this guy “LD” (for reasons to be explained later).

Close to midnight, my friends and I left the restaurant to head outside to watch the fireworks viewable from the block party downtown. LD joined us. At some point, we kissed. Yum. Very nice. Too quickly, midnight arrived, and it was time to head back to my cousin’s house for a small after-party — very small, just she, her bf, and me. I invited LD to join us if he wanted, so we could talk more. And, I have to admit, more kissing sounded good too.

That’s all I had in mind. Really, I swear.

At my cousin’s house, the four of us goofed off for a while and enjoyed another drink. I can honestly say that I never crossed beyond “buzzed” into “drunk” (trust me, I’ve been there before…this wasn’t one of those times).

My cousin and her bf headed to bed. LD and I sat in front of the fireplace, talking and kissing. Within a few minutes, he started to get fairly grabby, enough so that as he tried to slip a hand up to my breasts, I shoved back (hard enough that my elbow met the glass of the fireplace, and I had a burn to show for it). “No,” I said. After a few more minutes, he pushed again.

That set the pattern for the rest of the night. I wanted the kissing, but not more. My “no” was consistently met with a push for more. Honestly, I should have cut things cold off…but I didn’t. I enjoyed the kissing…and that would have meant stopping THAT. Things progressed, and I allowed my own boundaries to be pushed…and pushed again…and pushed again. “No” ceased to have meaning, and eventually, I just stopped saying it.

It was over before I even realized it had started. Seriously, this was a “you did WHAT?!?” kind of moment. As the joke goes:

Woman: Are you in yet?
Man: Unnnnngh.
Woman: What do you MEAN you’re done?

Suffice it to say, I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a smaller penis in my life, hence, the name LD (little dick, as a friend of mine christened him).

I was astonished. Things weren’t supposed to go THIS far. For crying out loud (for the love of god, even – LOL), I wasn’t on the PILL. I don’t remember now what I said to him, but I was pissed. I cleaned up as I could, and went to sleep rolled away from him.

I’ve had “oops” moments before — in a relationship, thanks — but never before have I felt this immediate panic of “oh. my. god. I MUST get the morning after pill. NOW.” as I did on New Years Day 2004. Let’s not even talk about the worries of STDs and AIDS — which, thank god were not a problem. Since pharmacies were closed on January 1, on January 2, I purchased three packages of birth control pills, and with knowledge gained from the Internet, I took enough pills (10, then 10 more 12 hours later) to act as the morning after pill…same hormone content.

LD called me over the next couple days wanting to go out. HUH? I was astonished that he clearly had no idea what he’d done. (And obviously, I wasn’t clear in telling him.) I told him that I just didn’t see anything working with him, and that no…I didn’t want to do “dinner and a movie.” He said something about my being a bad judge of character to make up my mind so fast about him (uh, ya think?), but to his credit, he didn’t hound me.

From then on, I downplayed what happened on NYE, even to myself. If I’d “handled” it, it didn’t happen, right? No one knew what had happened. I’d made a joke to my friend who named him about fooling around “but nothing more than that.” If I didn’t admit what happened, it didn’t happen. As the next weeks followed, I believed my own stories.

Then there was the wakeup call…January 21, I learned I was pregnant.

Again, I say…my daughter wanted to be here. She fought against the odds to make it, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Someday, though, I’ll have to decide what to tell her about her father.

That’s the simple version of a story that was actually a lot more complicated (aren’t they always?). As time goes on, I may choose to share more.

My absolute favorite cleaning tool has eight legs. It cleans the highchair to a sparkly finish. It also picks up the most minute pieces of baby dinner out of the carpet (yes, I’ll still steam-clean later).

Ah, dogs are good.

Note: this is a post moved over from my old blog.

I’ve been a little neglectful in updating this over the past few days, so now I’m going to have to give a synopsis of what’s up in my life.

Last Wednesday (January 21), I discovered that I am pregnant. I shocked myself with my immediate thought, “call Planned Parenthood.” Within a couple days I knew…there is no way that I could have an abortion, even a “medical abortion” (the pill) and live with myself about it. Let’s face it, I’m going to be a mother.

Over the past few days, I’ve gone through a whirlwind of emotions, up and back again. The one that’s settled on to me this afternoon is “Blind Panic.” I sent in a resume for a job that I’m overqualified for, but for a company (a builder) that I would LOVE to work for: John Laing Homes. It’s a Marketing Assistant job, reporting to the Marketing Coordinator, so I’m betting the pay is quite low. The benefits would be good, and the company…well, I really respect the company.

Overall, I feel that I will need to leave real estate. I haven’t put together a pipeline for myself enough to support myself and the medical bills that I’m about to encounter. While RE could support that, MY real estate business right now can’t. I have no one to blame for that but me. Dad has suggested that there is quite a lot of work that I could do for him, and I sense that I would be able to work for him fulltime. At the rate he pays, it would make so much sense, even though I don’t enjoy the work as much. Maybe I could find a different part-time job elsewhere to fill in for me socially?

Gotta run…more to come…