Love and crowns

It's all about finding things in life that you love. That inspire you. My daughter received this crown as a present the other day and hasn't taken it off since. She loves it. Everything about it. It's the first thing she goes for in the morning and won't take it off until she needs to go to bed. And even then I find I'm the one prying if from her head. Like the crown stealer that I am.

And it's got me thinking, what things do I love? Back in the day (before the babes in arms) I could have answered this question easily, but now I find that my days are so full of the necessary I don't have much time for "crowns" anymore. And so I'm setting a goal for myself, to find things that I love to do, to enjoy, every day.

Today I am taking a bath. ALONE. With m&m's. And Diet Coke. And salts. ALONE. What do you love?

Changing my title

For the love of all that's holy I am so freaking tired. Pflaahh! I mean seriously. I get a little sick of people referring to what I do as "Stay at Home Mom" (Yes, I know that I even have it listed on my profile. Enough! I'm changing it.). A dog stays at home. Cats, stay at home. Women at home who are taking care of a child/children do not simply stay at home. They work their effing asses off. That's my new title. Mom working her ass off in the vicinity of where she also happens to sometimes sleep. MWHAOITVOWSAHTSS for short.

I got two and half hours of sleep last night and picked up poop off the floor today with my BARE HANDS! (Too much information? Too bad! If I have to do it, you have to read it.) I was talking to a girlfriend of mine the other day (really she's just an acquaintance, but friend sounds so much nicer) and she told me about how her husband wouldn't take night shifts with their colicky baby because he didn't want to be "mentally exhausted for WORK the next day." What the hell.

I feel that we live in a time where motherhood isn't valued as highly as it ought. What I do, is work. It's exhausting, mind-numbing, stressful, all-consuming, never-ending, thankless work. It's also exhilarating, joyful, endlessly rewarding, and unbelievably fulfilling. Usually all at the same time. Which is part of what makes it so damn difficult. The highs, the lows, the flatlining, you really never know what you're going to get. It's not rational. There is no "schedule". I'm unappreciated and loved beyond my own comprehension by the same people at the same time. At the end of the day I have nothing left. And yet, there really isn't an end of the day.

I cook. I clean. I pick up poop. I nurture. I teach. I comfort. I love. I read. I play. I don't pee alone.

So don't tell me I'm a stay at home mom. I work. And I want a raise.

And sigh.

Claire's 15 month check-up (I know a month late. We're working on it.) Check.

Lily's 2 month check-up (also almost a month late. freakinfrackin.) Check.

I hate the pediatrician's office. I mean really. I used to live in Arlington, VA which is really just an extention of DC if you ask me and while there were very few perks of living in such a metropolitan area (if there are more than a gajillion people living in a single block radius for the majority of a city it's metropolitan. moving on.) check-ups at the peds were one of them. First of all there were like 900 doctors in the office at any given time so our wait time was pretty much non-existent and for the most part they knew what they were talking about (Mr. Doctor man who insisted on calling my sweet little girl "him" the entire time, I am not referring to you here.)

I now live in the sticks. Which I love. Subject for another day. And our peds visits aren't run with quite the same clock-work expediency as before. The registration nurse calls me hun (which is kind of sweet) but cannot for the life of her figure out how to make a copy. Every. Time. I just need it for Flex. I'm sure I'm not the only one who asks. It's really not that difficult.

And every time I take my daughters there it's a two hour event. I say event because really, there just aren't words. Claire hates the doctor. With the passion from the fire of a thousand suns. Hates. Which leads to the inevitable meltdown at about minute 13 of our time in baby doctor hell. Lily usually lasts about 3.5 seconds longer than sis before her taking cue and coming completely unglued as well. There are cameras in those rooms (okay, not really). For I cannot think of any other reason as to why they would make us sit there for 45 minutes before gracing us with the presence of someone who has somehow managed to obtain a medical degree. It's like Big Brother. Only I'm the one who keeps trying to vote myself out of the house.

Only when I'm at complete wits end with two screaming babies will they send someone in and by this point there are almost always tears in my eyes and I am DRIPPING with perspiration. Without fail I get the "this is what you get for having your children this close together" look. And sigh.

Then the questions. And the answers. It's worse than taking the SAT. My kingdom to simply be comparing vocabulary terms again. Does my child do the crazy walk? Yes. Does she point and look at me then point again? Yes. Can she impersonate Leonard Bernstein and haw like a burro? Uhhh... At the end of our discussion she briefly noted that my child might be autistic and then moved on to Lily. Uh. Hello. Could we go back a space please.

Claire won't talk. She has a vocabulary of five words and seems reasonably contented to stay at this level for the rest of forever. She's happy, healthy, social, responsive, and delightful in every way (except in doctor hell) and because she can't write in chiasmus there is a chance she is autistic. My doctor is a moron.

My reasons are twofold, er three, okay six.

I've struggled with severe anxiety/depression for a long long time. It's manageable as long as I take care of myself. Exercise is NOT an option. It's not something I do just to stay fit (tiny lie) or because I enjoy cramming my patonky-tonk butt into lycra (not even a little lie). I do it because IT IS ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL TO OUR VERY HAPPINESS as a unit. Because if mamma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

Nobody been happy in my house the last two weeks. We are still sick. This is day 11. Though we're definitely on the upswing my will to live has been dramatically depleted. I'm hoping to recover it someday.

Because of the aforementioned struggle my immune system does not rebound quickly. In college I was on a first name basis with most of the attending physicians in the ER. They offered me a punch pass card where I could earn free scrubs after x number of visits. They later recanted on this offer. I'm still a little bitter.

Long and boring story short, I went on Zoloft when Claire was born to help with the post-partum and still breastfeed. I went off it when Lily was born because I am insane. Right. So no exercise, no sleep, no Zoloft. We've hit DEFCOM FIVE people. Hold onto your butts and RUN.

I went off this craptastic little pill because it sucks the life right on out of life. I mean I feel NOTHING. Which is good in that I don't sit in a corner and cry for hours but am rather, a robot. Intimacy? Really? Really? No. Chocolate ball? Yes. (Unfortunately chocolate balls do not satisfy my husband quite as well as they do me. Cruel.) It's like Botox without the Botox. No good. So my options here are Zyborg or Hiroshima. Cruel again.

My husband wants me to see my OB, whom I LOVE (seriously. not even just a little love. big big love.), but every time I mention depression to her she gets all excited and starts talking about how good it will be for me to spend a little time in the institution. That's right. The institution. Like it's DISNEYLAND. I've never been to the institution but can't imagine that it's all that she thinks it is. Unless then have chocolate balls there. In which case, I'll consider it. So I can't call her.

I'm thinking that I'll just suck it up for a few months and go Zyborg. It bites, but it's better than the alternative I think.

(Just finished this post when I popped on over to Swistle's. I love this woman.)

Taking my chances with the third eye

Still sick. And getting worse. Do you know what I love? That little disclaimer on all of the medication websites about how this medicine is considered "safe" for breastfeeding/pregnant women but that you should weigh the risks first. What the hell? Who writes this crap? Men. Men who have thought of the perfect way to get back at all those girls who burned them in high School.

With guilt. I mean, I know that if a woman is reading this little "disclaimer" in the middle of the night chances are she can't breath and has been hacking for days and days and days... So how about a zinger? Let's make her question just how much she really loves her child. I mean, is a little comfort worth the third eye? I don't know. Only you can answer that question mamma.

Worst Day Ever

There really just aren't enough words . . . You know how I was all "the gym is the best thing ever?!!" (Insert peppy cheerleader head bob here.) Right. I retract that statement. Instead of "for $30 a month they'll watch my children for one hour every day!" It should read, "for only $30 a month I can bring home any and every kind of plague imaginable!" Bubonic? Ebola? Sure! This gym's playland has it all! We made it to the land where germs flow a plenty three freaking times before we three ladies came down with the hanta virus (okay not really, but surely it couldn't be much worse than this). Everyday this week I've gone to bed thinking, "surely the worst is over, surely we'll be on the upswing tomorrow. Surely I'll find my will to live after a good night's sleep." I'm a jackass for even setting myself up for such supreme disappointment.

Surely the worst is not over. Surely Lily (my 2 1/2 month old) will fuss from 10pm to 2pm non-freaking stop so that our misery might be compounded even more. Surely Claire's (15 months) nose will run like a faucet 24/7. Forcing her to choose between her pacifier or breathing (binky by a landslide). It's not pretty. Surely I will wish for death more times today than I can count. And cry.

And so I'm going to rethink the gym thing. Though when at the grocery store picking up my cake the other day (Oh yeah, and it's my birthday) the man at the checkout counter asked me WHEN I WAS DUE. Bitchin. So maybe not.

Little tip. When tempted to ask a woman when she's due, ask yourself this simple question. Is the answer to this going to be tomorrow? If not, don't ask. Ever.

I lied to him. He was very nice and his wife was pregnant and he simply wanted to bond in his blissful having a baby state. I told him I was five months along. "WOW! You look great!!" Don't I though . . .

Bringing about my own demise

We had a big day planned for yesterday. First we were going to the gym (For only $30 a month they will watch BOTH of my children for an hour every day. Right?! It’s my happiest discovery since Lindt Dark Chocolate Balls.), then to the playground, and after naps and lunch, to the babysitter’s house for two hours. Fun, fun, fun. Out of the house, out of the house, out of the house.

SonofaFrickinfrakinmumblemumblemumble.

We supposedly own a smart car. Smart in the sense that it knows that the keys have been absentmindedly left behind and like a guardian angel won’t allow the auto-lock feature to engage while they are still inside. It’s like it can sense that I am a numbnut who will lock myself out of my vehicle every damn day if provided the opportunity. It’s saved us many a times. Yesterday, I got the best of smart car. (Who’s the smart one now?!) Thankfully none of my children were inside. My wallet and positive outlook were not so fortunate.

I must say that getting out of the house drastically improves my mood and my feelings towards the whole stay at home mom thing. When they say “stay at home” they can’t possibly mean it or there would be no progeny. We’d all be raising llamas in Montana instead. Because they let you out to do that.

And so I stood in the garage staring at my keys somewhat wild-eyed willing the doors to open. Spare you ask? With my husband at work. An hour and a half away. Handy. I grew up with a poodle who would freak right on out when left inside the car for ten seconds without us. She’d sit in the back window of the vehicle, face pressed against the glass, howling and panting until we returned. I used to think it was a little funny. I don’t anymore.