Hey Jakey,

OMG, sweetheart. I've really been neglecting your blog lately. It all started last month when I was putting the magazine together, and I didn't have time, and it just kind of snowballed from there.

Plus, my mom always said, if you don't have anything nice to say, its best not to say anything at all. Yeah, it's been a hard month.

Money-wise, mostly. There's not one utility that has not been turned off on us this past month. Electric, gas, satellite, you name it. I've been able to get them all turned back on the same day, for the most part. But the gas was turned off on Thursday, and because of the gas company's schedule, I haven't been able to get that one back yet. I'm feeling pretty grungy at this point. Pretty white-trash of your parents, dont-cha think?

As I keep telling your daddy: all his chickens are coming home to roost. This whole time that he's been home watching you, not looking for a job, and telling me "everything's okay, everything's fine..." unbeknownst to *me*, his finances have been dwindling and dwindling. To the point now that *I* am affected, and once someone else's shit starts to affect MY shit -- i.e. I cannot take a hot shower for 4 days in a row -- then I start to get pissed.

Daddy's scrambling for a job now, and has a few prospects. Meanwhile, my job is up in the air. Things have gotten really ugly at the newspaper, my editor position was taken away from me (in a very ugly and very unfair manner that I won't go into), and I've been offered unexciting, bland "make-work" elsewhere in the company until some future, nebulous internet position is in place for me. This could take forever. I don't know what I'm going to do. I've begun passively looking for work elsewhere: posting my resume on craigslist and Monster, asking around, etc. Agressively looking comes later, that is, actually sending my resume to specific places.

And when daddy DOES get a job, we'll have to put you in daycare. How's that for a kick in the pants. That'll wind up being about $400 a month, at least.

So do you see now why I've chosen not to post in a while? It's all too much to think about, much less post about. Plus it's all so embarassing and depressing.

Anyway, dear heart. Enough about me. You... you're growing like a weed. You're such a strong little man now, and getting into all sorts of situations. Here's a short list of the things we have to do around the house to keep you out of harm's way:

* put the dining chairs on top of the dining table so you don't climb up on the table and swing from the lamp fixture

* put your high chair flush against the wall with a giant teddy bear in it to discourage you from climbing up in it and leaping to the dining table so you can swing from the lamp fixture

* close the bedroom door to keep you from climbing up the side of your crib and leaping to me and daddy's bed and climbing up the air conditioner

I swear to God, baby, you're like living with a monkey. A monkey who doesn't know the meaning of the word NO. Dr. Karp would label you as "spirited." Yeah, I broke down and bought his "Happiest Toddler on the Block" book, because I seemed to get such good results from his "Happiest Baby on the Block." "Spirited" tots are the ones who get way emotional very fast, are into everything, and consequently, are very accident-prone. Accident-prone, that's you. You took a flying leap off of the bed last week and landed face-first on the edge of the nightstand and cut yourself up pretty good. Once again, you looked like you had either been in a catfight, or like your daddy and I beat the shit out of you on a regular basis.

You probably can't tell, but here's a picture of you with your massive injury (you're the short guy on the right, haha):

Your daddy and I took you to Chuck E. Cheese for the first time last week. You're still a bit too wee to fully appreciate the joy that is Chuck E. Cheese, but you did seem to enjoy yourself.

Anyway, sorry it took me so long to update your progress, it just sometimes feels like the last thing I want to do is publicly announce my ascension to the throne of Queen of White Trash. I DO want to tell you how much I love you, and how much I think of you as my little rock star. Truly. I feel blessed and privileged to know you, like you're some celebrity that happened to choose MY house to come live in. Whoopee! Hugs and smooches.