I hate money. Not in a I-want-to-be-poor kind of way, but in a I-wish-it-didn’t-run-our-lives kind of way.

Money is a requirement in today’s society, and generally the more the better. I grew up with not a lot – my mom was a single mom, and we did pretty well on $27K a year. Sure, I didn’t have designer clothing (which I really resented as a teen), but we had food, we had a house, and we even had some luxuries.

After college, I worked a series of low-paying jobs, but I was used to living on little, so it wasn’t too bad. Then I got the big job, and suddenly I was making more money than my own mom! To me at that time, $32K a year made me rich! I felt like I had made it in the world.

Currently, we make a bit more than that combined, but with a toddler and two adults, I don’t feel so rich anymore. Again, we’re not poor: we have a nice starter house, we have food, we have cars, and we have some luxuries (like Tivo).

But money is the big green monster that also is a part of our family, and I hate it. When I quit my job to take a part-time job, I had two contracting jobs lined up as well. Both fell through, which left us in a financial situation we didn’t want to be in.

We’re not drowning by any means; more like treading water at the moment, but one big crisis could be the wave that pulls us under.

On Friday, things were going well. The sun was out for the first time in weeks, and Cordy and I were returning from a playdate. Then I saw a light on the dashboard: the check engine light. And at that moment, my happy heart sank.

Here’s the brief history of my car. It’s a 2000 Nissan – my first large purchase when I landed my first big job. Great car, ran fine, until last year. It’s like it sensed money was tight for us, and decided it was time to give up. In one month’s time, the check engine light came on 4 times, and each time involved a different part of the engine or exhaust system needing replaced, to a total cost of over $2000.

The damn light is on again, and I dread what could be wrong now. To add to this problem, the air conditioning stopped working, and I think the brakes are nearing replacement. This could be that wave on the horizon, threatening to drown us.

If it’s a cheap fix, we’ll put it on the credit card and move on. If it’s not a cheap fix, it may be time to look into another car. A car payment is the last thing we need. Especially since my car is supposed to be the reliable one – Aaron’s car is a 96 Plymouth Breeze we bought from my grandmother. It also has high miles and could sputter and die at any time.

So now the big green monster is exerting his power over us. And like money has the ability to do, it’s affecting other areas of our lives. Aaron and I were snippy with each other last night, which I can only attribute to our money discussion. (It’s not my PMS. It’s never my PMS. Are we clear?) We accuse each other of wasting money, and then try to defend our own spending choices. Aaron and I rarely get into arguments, but I could feel the tension last night. It’s the same tension we had last year when my car’s repairs had made it’s own cozy space on our credit card bill, and the contracting jobs fell through.

Can you imagine what life would be like if money was no object? When you could just walk into a store and buy the item you want, not even concerned with the price tag? I’ve found myself occasionally jealous of people who have more money, but then I remind myself, you’re the one who chose a History degree. Should have gone to school for something more sensible, like Computer Science. Which is partially why I’m now back in school working on a nursing degree.

With the fate of my car unknown, this adds even more pressure to Aaron to get the job he interviewed for. Still no word from them yet, which is both promising and terrifying at the same time. I hope we’ll hear something, preferably positive, this week.

Things aren’t awful for us. Even with the car problems, we’ll still have food, we’ll still manage to keep our house, and we’ll still keep some luxuries. We may have to cut back in some areas (like eating out, which as of yesterday has been cut down to practically nothing) but we’ll figure out a way to make it all work.

But things would be so much easier if we didn’t have to worry about money.

It’s official: my daughter watches too much Wiggles.

Don’t get me wrong – I am thankful to the Wiggles. When Cordy was a cranky 5 month old (and 6 month old, and 7 month old…), the Wiggles were like an off switch for her crying fits. We could try 100 different ways to comfort her, and nothing would work, but when we turned on the Wiggles it was like she became a zen baby. Happy, joyful, at peace.

She didn’t watch a lot of TV back then, because nothing else had the mystical calming ability that those four guys from Australia had. Like nearly every parent, we tried the cult of Baby Einstein. However, our non-conformist wanted nothing to do with it. There were only two things that earned a glance at the TV: Wiggles and Cirque du Soleil. (Our musical, artsy child.)

Sure, many people hate the Wiggles. But I love them. Sure, some of their songs are unimaginative and stick in your head worse than William Hung singing She Bangs. However, I would happily listen to Wiggly Safari over and over again if it meant having a happy baby. And I have to admit, it’s sweet to see four men, three of them dads, take such an interest in children.

Luckily, her musical tastes have evolved as she has become a toddler. Sure, the Wiggles are still her first boy band crush, but now she also likes Laurie Berkner and other musicians.

So why have we reached a point where she has watched too much of the Wiggles? Because yesterday, after a very early morning wakeup by Cordy, I was laying on the couch while she watched Wiggles, and I started to drift off to sleep. I woke up to find Cordy on the couch, hovering over me.

Wan, too, feee…waaake oop mumaaay!

(For those who don’t watch, she was attempting to wake me up the way the Wiggles wake up their narcoleptic purple brother, Jeff: One, two, three, wake up Jeff!)

This morning, when Aaron got her out of bed, she ran into our room and did the same thing to me in bed. Wan, too, feee…waaake uup mumaaay! I could only laugh. She’s never said more than two words together, and now suddenly we have an entire sentence, thanks to Wiggles. It wasn’t the first sentence I was expecting from her.

And truthfully, I think I’m more surprised that she actually called me mommy.

We all make mistakes. Don’t get used to it, lady.

(Sorry if this seems a little disjointed. It was written with a 19 month old hanging off my neck most of the time.)

It all started with this in January 2004:

Oh wow, am I really pregnant? Will it stick? Will I miscarry? Worry, worry, worry.

And then she grew, and we got to see the proof of her existence beyond two lines.

Is the baby normal? Are there any problems? Are you sure we can tell people it’s a girl? Worry, worry, worry.

And then we reached the end of the pregnancy, and thoughts shifted slightly.

Why is she still breech? Is something wrong? Are we really ready to be parents? Worry, worry, worry.

She was born via c-section (still breech), and she was beautiful and perfect. Well, perfect except for her stubborn personality.

Why won’t she nurse? What am I doing wrong? Does she not like me? Worry, worry, worry.

But the worst was over, right? From this point on, I could count those 10 fingers and 10 toes each night, and we found a combination of solutions to feed her, so there was no reason to worry. Yeah, right. How naive I was.

That was just the practice worry. It served as the warm-up for the real thing that takes hold when you finally have your child in your arms. Because now the dangers are 100-fold and there are a million signs that could point to developmental problems.

Now everything could lead to certain death, or at least put her behind her peers in some small developmental milestone. Is TV evil or OK? Totally organic foods or not? When she wasn’t sitting up at six months old, I wondered what the problem was. Did I not provide enough tummy time to strengthen her muscles? (Truth is, she had a monster head to balance on that tiny neck.)

I think worrying is the natural state of motherhood. It is simply our nature to constantly worry about our offspring, constantly driving ourselves crazy second guessing our decisions and spending hours to make a simple decision on how much clothing is too much for a 40 degree day, but not so little as to freeze our child.

No one warned me about the level of worry I would be taking on by becoming a mother. Now that there is no way out (and for the record I wouldn’t want a way out even if it was offered), I can see down the path to the future, and I see only more worry ahead of me.

Oh sure, some worries will ease with time. Since she became a toddler, I’ve finally stopped worrying that Cordy will stop breathing in the middle of the night. When she’s older I’m sure I will worry less about her falling down the stairs.

But for every worry that eases, another will appear in the night to take its place. Oh sure, I won’t worry that she’ll fall down the stairs, but instead I’ll worry about her falling off of the tall climbing equipment on the playground. When she’s secure riding her bike, I will worry less until she wants to get her driver’s permit.

I’m sure some people think they don’t worry about their children much. I even feel that way sometimes. But I think the reality is that we’ve internalized that worry so well that we don’t even notice it at times. When Cordy was sick this weekend, the worry I had was not obvious until I later realized just how tense and sore my shoulders were. I was worried about her, but it only showed itself in the tension in my muscles.

I probably know why we exert so much mental effort worrying about our children. Millions of years ago, our natural state of worrying protected our young from predators and other dangers. All that worry developed into the sharp maternal instincts we have today. We worry, but with that worry we can go from calm to crisis mode in 0.67 seconds flat.

Once, we were at a mall play area when Cordy was only crawling and Cordy was attacked by an older kid. I had seen him taking an interest in her, and the worry set in right away. I knew he was too old to play with her, I knew he didn’t seem like a nice kid. When he kicked her and scratched her, suddenly that worry was confirmed and the mommy instinct took over. My rational side resisted the urge to wring the kid’s neck, but I felt that urge as I quickly flung myself between them. And even though I didn’t pummel the kid, much like a mama gorilla, I scooped up my child and moved her away from this source of danger.

When will the worrying end? Seeing that my mom still worries about me, I think the answer is it never will. When you have a child, a small piece of your heart is in that child, and that missing piece creates an invisible link between us. And with that link comes worry.

So when you see me lost in thought, just know I’m probably worrying about what crisis I will need to protect Cordelia from next. Because that’s what I do.

Will she fall off the bench? Will she become a brilliant yet tortured musician? Will she develop arthritis or carpal-tunnel? Worry, worry, worry.

Just when I start to convince myself that humanity as a whole is good and loving and caring, I get a few news stories thrown in my face to counter that argument.

I’ve been really feeling the love since this past weekend. HBM’s mommy-blogger love-fest was a huge hit, as can be seen by the awe-inspiring number of bloggers who joined in. I thought to myself, maybe the world isn’t so screwed up. Just look what can happen when a few people get together to spread a little love.

And then I read this over at Diary of a Reluctant Housewife. And my jaw dropped. Someone is actually encouraging white people to have more babies to counter the number of minority children being born. Can someone really be so racist and stupid as to suggest something like this on national TV? And can a network be so insensitive and backwards as to let this guy keep his job?

Babies are babies. It doesn’t matter if they’re black, white, green, whatever. And a person’s skin color doesn’t determine what kind of a person they are, or what they will become. So Mr. Moron, get your head out of your ass and apologize, OK? Or do us all a favor and NOT reproduce, so you won’t pass on that level of hatred to a new generation.

OK, just one person, right? Oh sure, I mean, W. manages to depress me nearly every day, but that’s become a constant in my life. And besides, the more his public favor numbers drop, the more hope I have that some have finally seen the light.

But then I just saw this news story on Yahoo headlines. A small town in Missouri had a law on its books preventing more than three people who are not related to live together. I assume this was put into effect many years ago to prevent homes of prostitution. But it is now affecting unmarried couples with children. A couple with three children were not allowed to move into their home because of this law. So they took it up with the city council.

Sounds simple, right? An antiquated law on the books, ignored for years, just like all those other laws prohibiting sodomy, dressing your dog in clothing, and smoking on the third Saturday of the month when there’s a full moon. Here’s the twist, though: the city council voted to UPHOLD THE LAW! As in, they believed that unmarried couples should not be allowed to live in their town. Now, in this little town outside St. Louis, unmarried couples with children will face eviction. They’re essentially being run out of town for not getting married.

Gee, I wonder what this town would do to a gay couple? I think they might bring out the torches and pitchforks for them.

Again, I am baffled by the stupidity in that town. So just because a couple chooses to not get that legal document declaring them a committed couple, they are not allowed to live in your town? A piece of paper does not guarantee a happy relationship or raising children properly. Aaron and I got married, but it was because we both wanted to. There are those who don’t see the need for the paperwork and can be just as committed to each other as any married couple. Besides, with the divorce rate hovering at 50%, it’s clear that marriage is not the cure-all for society’s ills.

So I do still believe there are nice people in the world. I’ve met some of them, and I like to think myself one of them. But I also know that there are plenty of nutjobs to go around as well. These two stories are just the tip of the iceberg.

As promised, today is meme day. I was tagged by Mommy Off the Record last week, and now I’m finally going to make good on it.

So, without further ado, take a peek a little further into my soul:

I AM: a woman, a daughter, a wife, a mother, and a blogger. And I have a t-shirt so no one will forget it.

I WANT: Aaron to get this job he interviewed for.

I WISH: I could stay home more with Cordelia

I HATE: George W. Bush and all his cronies. Oh, and people who think mommy bloggers are a waste of bandwidth.

I MISS: all my friends back in Oxford, OH. We never get to see them enough.

I FEAR: crazy people who are willing to kill others over a belief in something that cannot be proven one way or another.

I HEAR: that Farrah hairdos are making a comeback, and I don’t like it one bit.

I WONDER: if having curves will ever come back into style?

I REGRET: not taking more classes on writing when I was in college.

I AM NOT: a 40-something overweight single man pretending to be a mommy blogger to prey on young moms. I swear.

I DANCE: rarely now, but I used to do Irish dancing.

I SING: along with musicals all the time in the car.

I CRY: at those “Having a baby changes everything” commercials.

I AM NOT ALWAYS: as interactive with my daughter as I should be. I confess to letting her watch TV so I can get things done.

I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: nothing food related, that’s for sure. I’m a lousy cook.

I WRITE: better than many, based on the message boards I’ve read on the internet, but not as well as many of my peers.

I CONFUSE: Aaron with my ability to change my mind in an instant.

I NEED: more sleep. (Doesn’t every mom answer this question with “more sleep”?)

I SHOULD: hurry to finish this list and get back to work.

I START: (or rather, We Start) trying for our second child later this summer, I hope.

I FINISH: each post wondering if anyone will read it. (Low self-esteem, you say? Why, yes!)

And now I must tag others, as these little games go. So, if you’re reading this post and thought, “Hey, that was kinda fun!” then you’re tagged!

Oh, and for those who want to see my happy dance: I’d like to say I dance like this, or maybe like this (I LOVE this video), but sadly it’s more like this in reality.