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.

I'd like to change my vote

Sometimes when my daughter doesn’t want to take a nap she’ll run back and forth in her crib yelling WHEEEE at the top of her lungs. I feel like giving it a try tonight, not because I don’t want to sleep (Oh God do I want to sleep) but because I feel like that’s the sound that one should make as the last bits of sanity slip away.

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

I was talking to a friend of mine over the weekend and when the conversation turned to babies she mentioned that she’s ready to have another. Number four. In my mind I was screaming for the love of all that’s holy don’t do it!! But, “that’s great, babies are so much fun!” came out instead. I am a liar. And I am going to hell. I wonder if they’ll let me sleep there.

My husband comes from a large family (eight boys—I know) and I from a family of four (three brothers). Before we married we discussed how many kids we’d like to have, just to make sure we were on the same page and that he in no way shape or form thought I was kicking out more than a basketball team. String quartet, maybe.

Now the very thought gives me a tick. Just thinking about the two that I have gives me a tick. I absolutely cannot even fathom wanting to do this again. And like everyone else, I love my daughters. I just love them a little more when they’re sleeping. Is that so terrible?

Permission Granted

So here we go. The maiden voyage of Sensible Absurdity. I've been pondering the subject of my first post for days (okay weeks) and well, have decided on potatoes. Potatoes. You see, my life is something of a mess, but a planned mess. I'm the mother of two brilliantly beautiful girls, ages 15 months and 2 months. Fifteen months. Two months. Say it out loud. Think about the implications. I spend all day trying not to. And so, everyday provides itself with an abundance of topics to be discussed, dissected, and blogged. But the first post, that's something. It should be special. And so it is.

This evening while preparing dinner (and by preparing I mean throwing chicken in the oven and cutting open a bag of Simply Potatoes to throw in a skillet--what can I say, I'm a culinary sage) I found directions that appealed to me, and would that I could contact the person who wrote them and have them direct my life. They read as follows:

Lightly Cover . . .
Heat . . .
Add . . .
Cook for 12 to 15 minutes or until golden brown turning potatoes every 3 to 4 minutes. Skillet should remain covered while cooking (except while turning potatoes).

Right. Thanks for that. Lest I stand at the stove with my covered skillet of diced potatoes with onion pondering the conundrum of how in the hell I was going to cook the other side of my Atkins nightmare without explicit permission. Should I beat the lid with my spatula or shake the whole thing with pot holders? Ah but, permission granted.

I want more. Permission's granted that is. You see I am starting this blog in a desperate attempt to preserve/maintain/retrieve some semblance of sanity. For it feels that I am indeed losing my mind. Quite literally. I spend 13 hours a day alone with two individuals who don't talk and who require my absolute undivided attention. All of the time. They tag team. One wakes up, eats, poops, gets rocked back to sleep and then the other awakens. And repeat. Oh, sometimes they are awake simultaneously, but alas that is a post for another day. I love my curmudgeons with my whole person. But sometimes, I simply need a permission granted. I need some of myself back. And so I'm going to write. Maybe people will read, and maybe they won't. It really isn't about that. It's about me. Me, me, me. As the rest of my life really isn't.

I'm not telling anyone that I know about this, because I'm really just not looking for judgment right now. And so it begins, permission granted to lift the lid off the pot to flip my potatoes. Should be interesting.