Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
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Indulge Me, If You Will

I have recently topped 150 on the scales, which means I've gained at least 25 pounds. In six months! They say you gain 11 in your third trimester. Good God. I'm looking down the barrel of a 40 pound weight gain. It hasn't bothered me much though. Not sure why. It just feels like a part of the process. If I'm still pushing a buck sixty six months after giving birth - then I'll worry. Until then, fuck it. It's how it goes.

Life is going well. I love my husband, our little daughter and our dogs. This is what I've always wanted. A family of my own. Serge really feels like my teammate. We've gone through a lot these past four years... and we've worked through it all. I admire him so much. Especially this past year. His work ethic is amazing. I fell in love with a rock star and ended up with this hard working, flyfisherman who is already so in love with our little daughter. I couldn't be happier. I will admit, I do miss seeing him on stage, all sweaty, playing his guitar whilst sexily smoking a cigarette - but it's been a beautiful experience watching him transition into the man he has become.

I think being in a band, although chock full of amazing experiences, left Serge floundering in instability for the longest time. He knows contentment now, has become unfamiliar with the volatile lifestyle traveling so much, especially with his brother, engendered. He is calm, reflective, sweet. And responsible! He's always been sweet. Calm and reflective, not so much. Oh please. We still fight. It's part of the process. Of living together, of.... Jesus, God. Just as I was typing this flowery missive I could hear him in the bedroom, asleep, clearing his throat like a 75-year old truck driver and I damn near puked. The irony of that, whilst I was waxing poetic cracked me up.

Anyway - The Bielankos are chugging along. Work could not be any better. I'm proud to be a journalist and take pride in a newscast well-produced. I like telling stories. It's what I do best and I'm lucky to work in a profession that allows me to express my talents and be handsomely compensated. Especially considering the state of the American economy these days.

I gotta be honest... lately, I don't aspire to much. I don't feel this ravenous need to prove myself in some amazing, artistic way. It doesn't feel all about me anymore. And it's such a relief. I want to be happy, be a good Mom, move somewhere less populated and buy a house. I'm over the city. Over high-stress, fast-paced, notice me environments. Don't want a big house, don't need a lot of money, just want enough. Want to slow down and take in life. Want to live in a place I don't need to leash up my dogs to take a walk. Blah blah blah. Am not accustomed to typing my thoughts. It feels uncomfortably self-indulgent.

I talk to my daughter a lot. My daughter. I love saying that. My little daughter. I only say it to myself or when writing. Serge, however, likes to tell every stranger, including the cashier at Wal-Mart, that he's expecting a daughter. It's sweet. As if telling anyone willing to pretend to listen that he's expecting a daughter in a few months makes it more real to him. I can already see how this is going to play out. Daddy's girl - gets away with anything and Mom's the horribly mean disciplinarian. So be it.