Right. So you know how I was all, "I posted in my sleep. Hardeeharhar." Yeah. It's not so funny anymore. Apparently I slip in and out of consciousness more than just at night and last week did it while driving. Going 50mph. On a highway. I ran into an oak tree. There aren't enough thank you prayers in the universe to account for the fact that my children weren't in the car with me.
The car flipped, bounced on the roof, and landed upright in a ditch on the other side of the highway. I have never in my life seen such wreckage.
I'm fine. I think. Mostly fine anyway. I sustained second degree burns from my shoulder to my breast from the seatbelt. I'm bruised and burned across my lap from the seatbelt and have some pretty nasty lacerations on my legs, but nothing too serious. I do not know how or why I am still here. I suppose I should really look into that.
Honestly, I'm just tired. So tired of everything. Life seems to be pressing from all sides and I feel suffocated. My hormones are all over the place. My kids are, well, kids. Joseph is Joseph, and life is life. All I want to do is crawl under the covers and sleep. For the rest of forever.
Which is so contradictory, because after the "wreckage" I've been positively panicked that my run was almost ended. That I was finished. That, "that", was it. I'm so careful, so paranoid, about so many things. And yet, ultimately it's so out of our control. And that is the crux of my anxiety. That at the end of the day, I really don't have all that much say in how the pendulum swings. And yet, that which I can control, I want to give to my sheets.
Enough. Enough for today. It's night and the sheets can win for now. I hope they'll win a little bit less tomorrow.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
What the What?!!
So I come upstairs to check my email and see that my old blog is open on my screen. Huh. I wonder why this is open? Wait. What? I updated? What the WHAT?! Friends, I went to bed at 8pm last night. I have ABSOLUTELY NO RECOLLECTION of writing this. None. Zip. Apparently I sleep write. Wake up to use the bathroom? Check. Pump a little milk? Check. Write a drugged blog post after a several year hiatus? Check CHECK! I clearly cannot be trusted right now. Oh dear.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Wednesdays are dead days. Oh, and I'm back. I think. Whatever.
So (awkward silence) it's been a while. Years really. And the whys of it are many, but mostly because I didn't want to remember that time in my life. Which looking back now, seems dumb. It would have been a survivor blog (If I survived it). And perhaps there is the reason why. I wasn't very optimistic that I would come out the other side. But alas, here I am, and none of it is recorded.
So we march on. Claire is 5 and in Kindergarten. Lily is 4 and in pre-school. Thomas is 11 weeks and he loves him the foody very much thank you. Tanktankrthomas. And now it seems we are back on the precipice, trying to decide what course of action is best for our little family. The PPD has been lurking, not good lurking. Not HEY, I've been your reader for a while now and I love you so much how's about if I set up a fund for your three kids and take care of college for you? (You: clearly PPD is not your only disorder at the moment. Me: So true) But angry lurker. Lurker who throws spit wads and creates tension and truly truly wants me to feel ugly about myself, my life, my journey through motherhood and wiveliness (word?).
I feel myself slipping and the only consolation I have is that I came back from it all last time. I came back. It was ugly and less than graceful. It was scary and turbulent. At times the outlook was well, not so good. But here I am. On the other side, a survivor. I managed. I grew. Got REALLY optimistic/delusional, and threw my hat in the ring one more time. With the knowledge that there are many options available, less than ideal though they may be, they are options nonetheless, and I CAN do this. Have I mentioned I'm on Ambien right now, because I really think that ought to be noted. The screen and my surroundings are a bit floaty and not entirely real...so we'll let that be our theme for todays syntax. Druggy otherworldy. Oh. My English teachers would be so proud.
So today is Wednesday. Wednesdays for me, are hell. Pure unadulterated hell. Get the kids to school (seperate schools, seperate times) with a newborn who wants to eat every 14.2 minutes lest armageddon unfold. Pick up Claire from bus stop (and oh yes, I was manually pumping while waiting for her in the van. Howdy doody bus driver!! Why yes my nipples do appear to be in some kind of medieval torture device. Want one? No? Well see you tomorrow!! Milk is dripping down my shirt. My boobs are shamed.
Drive to pick up Lily from Preschool/swim class. Thomas blows out diaper in car seat on the way. Throw Lily in locker room shower, Pull Thomas from poo-soaked infant carrier. Lovely. It's at this point of the day where I switch into what I fondly refer to as, "I am dead inside and have no feelings" mode. I've found it works brilliantly for days like this. Wednesdays are generally a day of anxiety, emotional melt-downs, and mild hysterics round these parts. Okay, in my brain. And this seems to help. Operation Zombie Robot. I do not allow myself feelings on Wednesdays. I can cry about it on Thursday. Feel overwhelmed about it on Friday. Wednesday? Well, we're in crisis mode and we simply must push through.
So! Repeating my dead inside mantra to myself repeatedly, I change the diaper, dry off the milk leak stains from the tatas under the hand dryer. Don't judge. I pumped in the car. While driving. Because I've got everything under control...
Target doesn't have our prescriptions? No problem! I have no feelings! Lily pooped her pants? Wonderful! Zombies love defecation! We change for dance class (at this point I have changed their clothes five times. And have i mentioned my dislocated rib? Lots a vicaden. Can't worry about that and breastfeeding though, because today IS NOT THE DAY FOR THAT!
At this point we only have two hours before Joseph gets home (Blessed be all that is good and holy) and two hours before I start teaching and have orchestra rehearsal. Until 10pm. 30 minutes away.
I've had three hours of sleep for three nights now, and today we started our morning at 430. My favorite time of the day!
So, no matter how craptastically fabulous it would feel to melt into a puddle of goo and cry until 2015, today is the day of no feelings. No goo puddle for you.
You may start to question your sanity and/or the decision making process that lead you to this point in your life. But no. You are dead inside. And those effers just keep on keepin on.
We zombies try to be pleasant. Smile when appropriate and sometimes laugh (we don't really mean it. It is Wednesday after all.) But mostly we stick our elbows out, put our heads down and plow through. Emotions in check. Until tomorrow. When all hell breaks loose.
I never said it was a perfect system.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
My sweetest day.
Claire told me "I love u" for the first time today. (or for the first time to any human for that matter. oh yes, she already said it to my father's dog who she knew for a whole ten minutes before the coveted words came forth.)
And I cried. Being a mom is hella hard, but man...
And I cried. Being a mom is hella hard, but man...
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Plane rides and Jack Daniels-- Part Deux
With my daughter Lily screaming in the background I truly feel as though I'm writing in the necessary atmosphere to re-create part two of our story. (She's in her crib. Trying to fall asleep. I don't just let them scream for my writing purposes. Usually.)
4 pm-- At the gate and waiting for permission to board. Other passengers are eyeing us suspiciously.
425 pm-- I approach the check-in counter to see if there are any open seats on the plane so that we might bring aboard one or two carseats for the little littles. There is one. But it's because the stewardess who shall not be named moved my husband from his original seat next to me to across the aisle. Something about oxygen masks and two lap kids in the same row. I don't know. What I do know is that they moved my husband across the aisle from us and plunked him down in a MIDDLE seat with an almost two year old. And then the passengers next to him started eyeing him suspiciously. (Rightfully so good friends, rightfully so!)
430 pm-- Our seating arrangement is as follows
Window (Claudia) Middle (Baby seat and Lily) Aisle (Me) -------- Aisle (Poor man who got what he had coming) Middle (Joseph and Claire) Window (Man who is still in therapy)
Joseph and I kept looking at the man who got what he had coming with doe eyes in effort to get him to switch seats, but to no avail. And so... he got what he had coming. He has no one to blame for what transpired but himself. And my child. And maybe the stewardess who shall not be named.
432 pm-- We have already pulled out most of the toys from the bag and Claire is bored with all of them. She wants to run up and down the aisles.
445 pm-- We pull out the dvd player and put on one of her favorite Sesame Street episodes.
446 pm-- Claire apparently hates earphones. Man who got what he had coming hates Claire.
450 pm-- Man who got what he had coming starts ordering JACK DANIEL shots each time the drink cart passes by.
5 pm-- Claire throws a full on fit because Joseph won't let her close the book of the man who is still in therapy.
The next couple of hours are still a bit hazy as I have blocked them from my memory until my mind is in a safe enough place to handle it. Which roughly translated means I probably never will. I do know that Claudia got some type of food poisoning from the chicken/spongy thing she ordered off the "gourmet" menu and that I kept running back to the forbidden land of stewardesses to get more ginger ale, ice, and lemons. (their suggestion. apparently this has happened before.) The people behind me watched bouncing baby head for about two hours and Joseph and Claire well... let's just say the man formerly known as he who got what he had coming changed his name to drunk as a skunk and after four hours we all exited the plane glassy eyed and ten years closer to meeting our maker.
On the way home there were TWO empty seats by us and the girls both rode in their carseats happily for the majority of the ride. Aaaaaah. How about you? Do your littles (or bigs. whatever.) travel better when strapped down? Or do you rely on some other magic ploy?
4 pm-- At the gate and waiting for permission to board. Other passengers are eyeing us suspiciously.
425 pm-- I approach the check-in counter to see if there are any open seats on the plane so that we might bring aboard one or two carseats for the little littles. There is one. But it's because the stewardess who shall not be named moved my husband from his original seat next to me to across the aisle. Something about oxygen masks and two lap kids in the same row. I don't know. What I do know is that they moved my husband across the aisle from us and plunked him down in a MIDDLE seat with an almost two year old. And then the passengers next to him started eyeing him suspiciously. (Rightfully so good friends, rightfully so!)
430 pm-- Our seating arrangement is as follows
Window (Claudia) Middle (Baby seat and Lily) Aisle (Me) -------- Aisle (Poor man who got what he had coming) Middle (Joseph and Claire) Window (Man who is still in therapy)
Joseph and I kept looking at the man who got what he had coming with doe eyes in effort to get him to switch seats, but to no avail. And so... he got what he had coming. He has no one to blame for what transpired but himself. And my child. And maybe the stewardess who shall not be named.
432 pm-- We have already pulled out most of the toys from the bag and Claire is bored with all of them. She wants to run up and down the aisles.
445 pm-- We pull out the dvd player and put on one of her favorite Sesame Street episodes.
446 pm-- Claire apparently hates earphones. Man who got what he had coming hates Claire.
450 pm-- Man who got what he had coming starts ordering JACK DANIEL shots each time the drink cart passes by.
5 pm-- Claire throws a full on fit because Joseph won't let her close the book of the man who is still in therapy.
The next couple of hours are still a bit hazy as I have blocked them from my memory until my mind is in a safe enough place to handle it. Which roughly translated means I probably never will. I do know that Claudia got some type of food poisoning from the chicken/spongy thing she ordered off the "gourmet" menu and that I kept running back to the forbidden land of stewardesses to get more ginger ale, ice, and lemons. (their suggestion. apparently this has happened before.) The people behind me watched bouncing baby head for about two hours and Joseph and Claire well... let's just say the man formerly known as he who got what he had coming changed his name to drunk as a skunk and after four hours we all exited the plane glassy eyed and ten years closer to meeting our maker.
On the way home there were TWO empty seats by us and the girls both rode in their carseats happily for the majority of the ride. Aaaaaah. How about you? Do your littles (or bigs. whatever.) travel better when strapped down? Or do you rely on some other magic ploy?
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Planes rides and Jack Daniels--Part I
Just got back from "vacation" ala "the baby tour" and have 234 posts in my google reader. In part this is because I've been gone but mostly it's because my computer has had a VIRUS for two weeks. It's on antibiotics now and is doing much better thank you.
ANYWAY, so I could really talk about fourteen bajillion things for this post. Fun with pack 'n plays, so your toddler's in love with a dog, sleep training--get some!, another anniversary comes and goes, funnest (yes a word. back off) friend in the world--a. this one's for you, or journey into the seventh dimension of hell--four hours on a plane with a toddler and a baby, two seats. DAMN! AND I THINK WE HAVE A WINNER!
Son of a bitch! Now I'd heard from friends (ala read on other blogs) that though you need not buy a seat for humans under two it's recommended that you do so for your sanity and for the sake of the other 459 passengers on the plane. BAH! I said. We'll save $900 dollars if we just hold em on our laps! And so our descent begins. Good Lord.
3 pm-- Arrive at airport with babies and 965 pieces of luggage in tow. Back off Delta man eyeing me suspiciously, we're only checking one per person, the rest are carry-ons.
315 pm-- Approach nuclear x-ray machine with 963 remaining pieces of luggage. Security man eyes me suspiciously.
317 pm-- And so the undressing/disassembling begins. For EVERYONE. Really? Really?! My toddler looks to the be the type hiding bombs in her keds? My ten month old too? Bet that's been a real problem for you in the past. And IT'S FORMULA. You can swipe your bomb swabs over it again and again but it's not going to change the fact that it's not going to explode! Nevermind though, you just keep trying.
345 pm the next day-- Complete metal detector fun.
346 pm-- Notice husband has been detained and guards are searching one of his carry-ons.
346.5 pm-- I approach and explain that I packed all the bags. His included. If there's anything suspicious involved it's my fault. (How dumb am I? When in doubt blame the au pair! Just kidding Claudia. We love you. We'd never let them haul you away for packing those fingernail clippers.)
347 pm-- Man asks me if there's anything sharp in the bag.
347.5 pm-- I'm peeved that we've been here for twenty minutes already and sarcastically joke about the Dr. Seuss books inside and how they could be considered a hazard.
348 pm-- Man pulls out GIGANTIC SHARPENED SHANK from bag. WHAT THE HOLY HELL?
348.2 PM-- I pee myself.
348.7 pm-- Man is embarrassed for me and thinking what detaining room would best suit me and my "carry-ons".
348 pm-- Seriously. This thing was a foot and a half long, looked to be some kind of letter opener slash machete and had ornate carvings all over it. AND I'D NEVER SEEN IT BEFORE IN MY LIFE. Someone slipped a freaking WEAPON (letter opener/machete) into one of our carry-on bags.
349 pm- Frantic non-sensical explanations and profuse sweating ensue.
350 pm-- Security guard eyes me suspiciously AGAIN and then HANDS ME BACK THE WEAPON. Because he didn't think that it could do any "serious damage."
351 pm-- Mouth agape and shoeless I am left speechless at this turn of events. Does guard want me to hijack a plane? Is this some kind of test? Am I being punked?
352 pm-- I Bewilderingly look around for hidden cameras and/or swat team.
353pm-- Take shank and put back into carry-on.
354 pm-- My hand sanitizer was confiscated.
To be continued . . .
ANYWAY, so I could really talk about fourteen bajillion things for this post. Fun with pack 'n plays, so your toddler's in love with a dog, sleep training--get some!, another anniversary comes and goes, funnest (yes a word. back off) friend in the world--a. this one's for you, or journey into the seventh dimension of hell--four hours on a plane with a toddler and a baby, two seats. DAMN! AND I THINK WE HAVE A WINNER!
Son of a bitch! Now I'd heard from friends (ala read on other blogs) that though you need not buy a seat for humans under two it's recommended that you do so for your sanity and for the sake of the other 459 passengers on the plane. BAH! I said. We'll save $900 dollars if we just hold em on our laps! And so our descent begins. Good Lord.
3 pm-- Arrive at airport with babies and 965 pieces of luggage in tow. Back off Delta man eyeing me suspiciously, we're only checking one per person, the rest are carry-ons.
315 pm-- Approach nuclear x-ray machine with 963 remaining pieces of luggage. Security man eyes me suspiciously.
317 pm-- And so the undressing/disassembling begins. For EVERYONE. Really? Really?! My toddler looks to the be the type hiding bombs in her keds? My ten month old too? Bet that's been a real problem for you in the past. And IT'S FORMULA. You can swipe your bomb swabs over it again and again but it's not going to change the fact that it's not going to explode! Nevermind though, you just keep trying.
345 pm the next day-- Complete metal detector fun.
346 pm-- Notice husband has been detained and guards are searching one of his carry-ons.
346.5 pm-- I approach and explain that I packed all the bags. His included. If there's anything suspicious involved it's my fault. (How dumb am I? When in doubt blame the au pair! Just kidding Claudia. We love you. We'd never let them haul you away for packing those fingernail clippers.)
347 pm-- Man asks me if there's anything sharp in the bag.
347.5 pm-- I'm peeved that we've been here for twenty minutes already and sarcastically joke about the Dr. Seuss books inside and how they could be considered a hazard.
348 pm-- Man pulls out GIGANTIC SHARPENED SHANK from bag. WHAT THE HOLY HELL?
348.2 PM-- I pee myself.
348.7 pm-- Man is embarrassed for me and thinking what detaining room would best suit me and my "carry-ons".
348 pm-- Seriously. This thing was a foot and a half long, looked to be some kind of letter opener slash machete and had ornate carvings all over it. AND I'D NEVER SEEN IT BEFORE IN MY LIFE. Someone slipped a freaking WEAPON (letter opener/machete) into one of our carry-on bags.
349 pm- Frantic non-sensical explanations and profuse sweating ensue.
350 pm-- Security guard eyes me suspiciously AGAIN and then HANDS ME BACK THE WEAPON. Because he didn't think that it could do any "serious damage."
351 pm-- Mouth agape and shoeless I am left speechless at this turn of events. Does guard want me to hijack a plane? Is this some kind of test? Am I being punked?
352 pm-- I Bewilderingly look around for hidden cameras and/or swat team.
353pm-- Take shank and put back into carry-on.
354 pm-- My hand sanitizer was confiscated.
To be continued . . .
Monday, April 14, 2008
I'll take "Are you Insane?!" for 800 Alex
She's crazy. Oh she's still sweet, and fun, and lovable in a million different ways. But crazy. We've entered full blown tantrum mode this past week, which I know is perfectly normal for things her age. But MY WORD. I don't even think SHE knows what she wants but hooboy is she ever willing to hurt herself over it.
When we have "hurts" with the littles they're called "bonks." So if Claire trips and bumps her knee she cries over the "bonk" gets hugged and kissed and we move on. Lately, it seems she's become a little too attached to this process though because there's been a suspicious rise of bonks around the house. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all about luvs and attention whenever I can get it (except at night when I'm tired please don't touch me) but even I realize that there are rules.
Before when Claire went Hiroshima she’d fling her body back full force and bang her head into the ground. Carpet, tile, wood floor, whatever. Now I know that these things aren't the smartest at this age but damn. Time and time again she'd knowingly bash herself about in mad attempt to demonstrate just how deep the rage lied. And then despairingly cry, "BONK!" Right... But you still can't play with the toilet plunger or have the cookies for breakfast. They're mine.
Then she upped the ante. Now when facing dejection she looks me straight in the eye with her tear filled blues and accusingly yells "BONK!" before launching her cranium into the floor. All with the face of "THIS IS GOING TO HURT ME A LOT MORE THAN IT HURTS YOU!" Yes indeedy and WTF?
Now I can't judge her too harshly for this crazy ass behavior because I did much the same thing during my single years in college. In fact head banging might have even been the better solution. But alas. Why?! And how do I make it stop?!
When we have "hurts" with the littles they're called "bonks." So if Claire trips and bumps her knee she cries over the "bonk" gets hugged and kissed and we move on. Lately, it seems she's become a little too attached to this process though because there's been a suspicious rise of bonks around the house. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all about luvs and attention whenever I can get it (except at night when I'm tired please don't touch me) but even I realize that there are rules.
Before when Claire went Hiroshima she’d fling her body back full force and bang her head into the ground. Carpet, tile, wood floor, whatever. Now I know that these things aren't the smartest at this age but damn. Time and time again she'd knowingly bash herself about in mad attempt to demonstrate just how deep the rage lied. And then despairingly cry, "BONK!" Right... But you still can't play with the toilet plunger or have the cookies for breakfast. They're mine.
Then she upped the ante. Now when facing dejection she looks me straight in the eye with her tear filled blues and accusingly yells "BONK!" before launching her cranium into the floor. All with the face of "THIS IS GOING TO HURT ME A LOT MORE THAN IT HURTS YOU!" Yes indeedy and WTF?
Now I can't judge her too harshly for this crazy ass behavior because I did much the same thing during my single years in college. In fact head banging might have even been the better solution. But alas. Why?! And how do I make it stop?!
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Because love is heroic
After several days of resisting formula Lily worked herself into quite the predicament. And it was painful for her. Twisting and turning, she cried helplessly as her body struggled to rid itself of toxins. We ran out of prune juice last week and running to the store takes time. I stripped her down, placed a diaper and a towel underneath her and gently cycled her legs while tears ran down her face. Then I held her feet up by her head with one hand and massaged her little bottom with the other. Finally I took a baby wipe and cleaned her bottom area hoping that perhaps the stimulation would motivate some movement. It did. After the mess was cleaned I bathed her and put her in some comfies. She laughed and smiled and went back to playing with her toys.
Later Claire and I went to the park while Lily napped at home under Claudia's supervision. It was the first sunny, warm day of the year and both of us were anxious to be out of the house. We arrived at the playground and the ground was a bit damp from the previous night's thundershowers. The slide was dry but for one large puddle that had pooled on the plastic at the bottom. It had been so long since we'd been able to play outside and my toddler was so excited to "side and sween sween". I hadn't brought anything with me besides one of my favorite jackets so we made due. We'll wash it later. We laughed and played for well over an hour.
Our days are filled with the mundane. Sometimes the repetition stifles and feels as though it will never end. The sacrifices we make for those we care for are uncomfortable, frustrating, and constant. With deep breaths and closed eyes we endure moments (days. weeks.) of mind-numbing tedium and irritation. We wipe spaghetti from the walls, sleep when we can, try to rationalize with the unreasonable, stimulate "business", and sometimes cry in the laundry room.
My husband eats lunch with senators and ambassadors on a daily basis. He helps to influence legislation that affects millions of people around the globe. He's an educated man who uses his intelligence to solve problems on a grand scale.
I clean peanut butter out of the VCR and kiss fingers that have been shut in cupboard doors. It's what I do that matters. I make the difference. I am needed and I am loved. It's the love we give that's heroic.
Later Claire and I went to the park while Lily napped at home under Claudia's supervision. It was the first sunny, warm day of the year and both of us were anxious to be out of the house. We arrived at the playground and the ground was a bit damp from the previous night's thundershowers. The slide was dry but for one large puddle that had pooled on the plastic at the bottom. It had been so long since we'd been able to play outside and my toddler was so excited to "side and sween sween". I hadn't brought anything with me besides one of my favorite jackets so we made due. We'll wash it later. We laughed and played for well over an hour.
Our days are filled with the mundane. Sometimes the repetition stifles and feels as though it will never end. The sacrifices we make for those we care for are uncomfortable, frustrating, and constant. With deep breaths and closed eyes we endure moments (days. weeks.) of mind-numbing tedium and irritation. We wipe spaghetti from the walls, sleep when we can, try to rationalize with the unreasonable, stimulate "business", and sometimes cry in the laundry room.
My husband eats lunch with senators and ambassadors on a daily basis. He helps to influence legislation that affects millions of people around the globe. He's an educated man who uses his intelligence to solve problems on a grand scale.
I clean peanut butter out of the VCR and kiss fingers that have been shut in cupboard doors. It's what I do that matters. I make the difference. I am needed and I am loved. It's the love we give that's heroic.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Some things that I just don't understand
As the mother of a toddler and a nine month old (not an infant. not a toddler. what then?) I find myself confused most of the day (hell let’s throw nights in there too just for good measure). And I’ve found that three words pretty much sum up the whole of my day lately. I. Don’t. Understand.
Claire loves juice as I’m sure most toddlers do. Past the point of reason in my opinion but that’s another entry for another day. (Oh My. You know you need to get out when you could write an entire post on the all-consuming passionate love your toddler holds for her juice filled sippy. But alas that too is a post for another day.) But as much as she loves drinking the juice from her sippy she loves jamming the spout of the cup into the carpet more. WHY? It makes a huge mess. (You: that’s why) Every day we have this battle. And everyday we both lose. I don’t understand.
Lily. Lily HATES to do her business. After yesterday’s (You; HAH! Yesterday!) Right. And after last week’s post I’m going to go ahead and tone down the nasty talk. NO we’re not going to stop talking about it crazies. “Business” is a most repeated task her in the nasty house and as such I MUST DISCUSS. Anyway, so she hates it. And is surprisingly savy in her knowledge on the subject. She’s figured out that when she’s a little backed up a big ol bottle of formula usually does the trick. And so… drinking formula must be avoided at ALL costs. She’d rather starve. Starve and let us all know just how hungry she is, but won’t eat because it causes the YOU KNOW. I don’t understand. We’ve tried a couple different techniques, none of which are going to land us in Parenting magazine I’m pretty sure, but the most effective is prune juice in the applesauce. (Thank you dear Swistle for the juice idea. You are wise beyond your years.) And… once her business is complete she’ll take the bottle again. The fun with this game really is manifold. If it’s the middle of the night and she senses a business coming, It’s a big hell no for the 3am bottle. If we’re out somewhere and I didn’t think to pack solids… ahhh the fun continues. She’s done this since she was a wee little little and I thought she’d grow out of it. She hasn’t.
Okay, so I guess I can understand avoiding something that you HATE to do even though it’s good for you a little bit. But dang it POOP! You’ll feel better! We all will.
Claire loves juice as I’m sure most toddlers do. Past the point of reason in my opinion but that’s another entry for another day. (Oh My. You know you need to get out when you could write an entire post on the all-consuming passionate love your toddler holds for her juice filled sippy. But alas that too is a post for another day.) But as much as she loves drinking the juice from her sippy she loves jamming the spout of the cup into the carpet more. WHY? It makes a huge mess. (You: that’s why) Every day we have this battle. And everyday we both lose. I don’t understand.
Lily. Lily HATES to do her business. After yesterday’s (You; HAH! Yesterday!) Right. And after last week’s post I’m going to go ahead and tone down the nasty talk. NO we’re not going to stop talking about it crazies. “Business” is a most repeated task her in the nasty house and as such I MUST DISCUSS. Anyway, so she hates it. And is surprisingly savy in her knowledge on the subject. She’s figured out that when she’s a little backed up a big ol bottle of formula usually does the trick. And so… drinking formula must be avoided at ALL costs. She’d rather starve. Starve and let us all know just how hungry she is, but won’t eat because it causes the YOU KNOW. I don’t understand. We’ve tried a couple different techniques, none of which are going to land us in Parenting magazine I’m pretty sure, but the most effective is prune juice in the applesauce. (Thank you dear Swistle for the juice idea. You are wise beyond your years.) And… once her business is complete she’ll take the bottle again. The fun with this game really is manifold. If it’s the middle of the night and she senses a business coming, It’s a big hell no for the 3am bottle. If we’re out somewhere and I didn’t think to pack solids… ahhh the fun continues. She’s done this since she was a wee little little and I thought she’d grow out of it. She hasn’t.
Okay, so I guess I can understand avoiding something that you HATE to do even though it’s good for you a little bit. But dang it POOP! You’ll feel better! We all will.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Le Sigh. And better.
Riight. So hello again. Where to even begin.
Things are better here. And when I say better I mean I haven't curled up in a ball and slept in the corner of the spare bedroom for months. Baby steps people. I cannot believe the force with which post-partum has absolutely turned my life upside down. I mean really. I always kind of figured that I'd struggle with it as I've battled depression/anxiety for most of my life but you know there are drugs and doctors and diet coke and chocolate therapy available now, so I didn't think it would be all THAT traumatic. I am a dumbass.
We're nine months out now and things are finally looking up. The meds I'm on work reasonably well and we'll keep tweaking them I'm sure for months, but I can now handle being in the same room with my toddler without bringing on a full-blown panic attack. And I'm even able to play with her. And like it. I know, rockstar.
But for months I have to say that wasn't possible and just the fact that I can look at my children without fear wrapping itself around my heart is a big step. I do wonder from time to time if I'll ever be the same again, but after having kids who is really?
And....
I have help. We hired an au-pair. I know. Say it out loud and let the implications just roll off your tongue. Showering every day. Exercise. Making dinner with an extra set of hands that are NOT trying to blow up the house by playing "chef" with the knobs on the stove. And I've started teaching again. I've taught violin lessons for years and years, but since moving to Virginee I'd kind of let it go. Now I teach for a couple hours (depending on the day) in the afternoon and am able to bring in a little extra flow in the process--along with doing something that I'm good at and love. It's a win. A really big one. I've also started playing more weddings and events. My last "gig" was at the Supreme Court and I played for four justices. Antonin Scalia even came over to flip through our music and chat. Bah!! You: yawn. Me: AWESOME!
Soooo.... lest we think that we're getting too fancy and out of touch with mothering not to worry. I was pooped on twice in the tub last week. That's right poo. Claire likes to tub with momma and apparently I am the nasty whisperer because OMG it keeps happening! In fact there's crap on my pants right now. (too much defecation talk?) Le Sigh. So yeah, life's kept on a rollin but it seems that we've found a way to make it manageable for our family. And I'm happy. And it's nice.
Things are better here. And when I say better I mean I haven't curled up in a ball and slept in the corner of the spare bedroom for months. Baby steps people. I cannot believe the force with which post-partum has absolutely turned my life upside down. I mean really. I always kind of figured that I'd struggle with it as I've battled depression/anxiety for most of my life but you know there are drugs and doctors and diet coke and chocolate therapy available now, so I didn't think it would be all THAT traumatic. I am a dumbass.
We're nine months out now and things are finally looking up. The meds I'm on work reasonably well and we'll keep tweaking them I'm sure for months, but I can now handle being in the same room with my toddler without bringing on a full-blown panic attack. And I'm even able to play with her. And like it. I know, rockstar.
But for months I have to say that wasn't possible and just the fact that I can look at my children without fear wrapping itself around my heart is a big step. I do wonder from time to time if I'll ever be the same again, but after having kids who is really?
And....
I have help. We hired an au-pair. I know. Say it out loud and let the implications just roll off your tongue. Showering every day. Exercise. Making dinner with an extra set of hands that are NOT trying to blow up the house by playing "chef" with the knobs on the stove. And I've started teaching again. I've taught violin lessons for years and years, but since moving to Virginee I'd kind of let it go. Now I teach for a couple hours (depending on the day) in the afternoon and am able to bring in a little extra flow in the process--along with doing something that I'm good at and love. It's a win. A really big one. I've also started playing more weddings and events. My last "gig" was at the Supreme Court and I played for four justices. Antonin Scalia even came over to flip through our music and chat. Bah!! You: yawn. Me: AWESOME!
Soooo.... lest we think that we're getting too fancy and out of touch with mothering not to worry. I was pooped on twice in the tub last week. That's right poo. Claire likes to tub with momma and apparently I am the nasty whisperer because OMG it keeps happening! In fact there's crap on my pants right now. (too much defecation talk?) Le Sigh. So yeah, life's kept on a rollin but it seems that we've found a way to make it manageable for our family. And I'm happy. And it's nice.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Intellectual Giantess
I've read a couple "recommended" books these past few weeks and after about a hundred pages was clawing at my eyeballs. Love in the Time of Cholera? Am I twelve? Do I just not get it? Do I have the attention span of a sea-monkey? I got half way through it and could.not.go.any.further. Cold Mountain. Same problem. I just read The Russian Concubine (loved Memoirs of a Geisha. thought hey! maybe same same? no. not maybe same same.). LAME. Lame. Lame. And more lame. Sometimes it feels that these authors are writing merely to put words on paper. Lots and lots of pretty words. Why say something in four lines when one can stretch it out into seventeen pages? Again. I'm twelve. And apparently I'm okay with it.
So I've discovered that some of my favorite reads of late are actually in the youth literature section. I know. Not one word.
I won't lie, I loved Harry Potter. Read em all. I love the Chronicles of Narnia series and Lord of the Rings (even before the movies. oooh!). These authors write the best stories. It's all about spinning a tale and taking you to another place (one where you actually want to be. none of this incest/opium/rape crap. not to say that I don't enjoy a good adult novel, but hell sometimes I read to get away from all the heavy heavy) .
And so here are my recommends. Two thumbs right on up. Read em to your kids/with your kids/under the covers by yourself at night.
- The Bayern Series and Princess Academy by Shannon Hale (I'm ordering Book of a Thousand Days tonight!) These are great great books for girls (maybe boys? maybe that's pushing it.).
- The Twilight Series by Stephanie Meyer (okay so this one comes with a disclaimer: while Hale's books are beautifully written and after reading Bayern you could easily talk about her use of imagery and prose and use all sorts of hoity-toity words to discuss your reading experience... Twilight not so much. but i couldn't put them down. (again twelve) but it was so fabulously deliciously fun that i don't even care.)
I'm starting The Uglies by Scott Westerfeld tonight. I'll let you know how it goes.
And now it's your turn. Spill it.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
It's a small world post-partum style
What can I say, when it comes to blogging consistency I'm a rockstar. But enough about my failings. Let's talk about my trip to Disneyland shall we? Yeah, so my post-partum issues are not getting better (Despite the thousands of cookies I've eaten. I'm so confused.). I've seen two psychologists, my OB three times, two regular doctors, and have been waiting three weeks to see a psychiatrist. Which I love. Because really, if you've finally caved and decided that you need to see a psychiatrist chances are that you can wait three to six weeks right? Hence my trip to Disneyland. And let me tell you, if you ever want or need to feel sane there are few places on the planet that will bring you to that conclusion faster than... or maybe I just got a particularly awesome Disneyland. Hard to say.
A few things I've learned since my last post (Or, things I took away from themental institution spa vacation):
1- A "six" on the homicidal feelings chart in group therapy from the woman sitting next to you will bring about more anxiety than say the person to the left of you who habitually steals people's shoes.
2- If you think it's hard to fall asleep at night when you're at home, it is even more difficult to do so when someone checks on you every fifteen minutes throughout the evening to make sure you have not been killed in your sleep. My reasons here are twofold. One "the check" involves the need to open the door, let in light, and shut it, which is obnoxious. And two because this has obviously been a problem in the past, and that's not a bedtime story I want to think about right before my attempt at shut-eye.
3- Psychiatrists (or at least mine) in the hospital don't believe in post-partum depression for women who had their babies a whole six months ago. It has to be something else. Something bigger. More permanent. Fixable? Doubtful.
4-Hovering while you pee is exercise.
5- The institution is not a relaxing get away for individuals who suffer from severe anxiety and/or panic.
6-If you can't laugh about the ridiculous you have bigger problems.
7- Individuals receiving treatment in the institution are some of the kindest and most non-judgemental people in all the world.
8- The state of our mental health system is so abominable that I cannot even find the right words.
And so I'm back. And I'd say none the wiser, but really I don't think that's true. I learned much during my short hospital stint. Mostly about compassion and kindness and the strength of the human spirit. But also about keeping a close eye on my shoes.
A few things I've learned since my last post (Or, things I took away from the
1- A "six" on the homicidal feelings chart in group therapy from the woman sitting next to you will bring about more anxiety than say the person to the left of you who habitually steals people's shoes.
2- If you think it's hard to fall asleep at night when you're at home, it is even more difficult to do so when someone checks on you every fifteen minutes throughout the evening to make sure you have not been killed in your sleep. My reasons here are twofold. One "the check" involves the need to open the door, let in light, and shut it, which is obnoxious. And two because this has obviously been a problem in the past, and that's not a bedtime story I want to think about right before my attempt at shut-eye.
3- Psychiatrists (or at least mine) in the hospital don't believe in post-partum depression for women who had their babies a whole six months ago. It has to be something else. Something bigger. More permanent. Fixable? Doubtful.
4-Hovering while you pee is exercise.
5- The institution is not a relaxing get away for individuals who suffer from severe anxiety and/or panic.
6-If you can't laugh about the ridiculous you have bigger problems.
7- Individuals receiving treatment in the institution are some of the kindest and most non-judgemental people in all the world.
8- The state of our mental health system is so abominable that I cannot even find the right words.
And so I'm back. And I'd say none the wiser, but really I don't think that's true. I learned much during my short hospital stint. Mostly about compassion and kindness and the strength of the human spirit. But also about keeping a close eye on my shoes.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Day of Sharing
Today’s post could have been labeled a couple different ways. Neverending Boogers. Love in the Time of Boogers. Lord of the Boogers. You get the idea.
My babies have colds (Thank you sister-in-law for knowingly bringing your sick child to play. I think of you fondly at 2:30, 4:00, and 5:15 in the morning when I’m up with my screaming miserable congested coughing children.) And it’s FUN. I’m not sure who’s the most miserable. Claire with her drippy EH! Lily with her coughing and inability to sleep. Husband with the tearful phone calls. Or mom. Poor poor mom. Who yesterday got halfway to the grocery store before realizing that she WASN’T WEARING SHOES. And who today poured apple juice on her turkey sandwich instead of in the empty glass RIGHT NEXT TO IT. Nice.
The upside to the madness is that Claire seems to understand that I need a little extra TLC these days. She was ALL about sharing her binkie (can you say congestion yumminess!) and her sippy (same applies here) and her blankie today. When she’s tired or not feeling well or sad she’ll take the corner of her blanket and sniff it or rub it against her nose. For long periods. It’s not as weird as it sounds. And today while I was rocking her she held up the corner and pushed it into my nose. Again, not as weird as it sounds. But rather, sweet. Very sweet. Love in the Time of Boogers it is.
My babies have colds (Thank you sister-in-law for knowingly bringing your sick child to play. I think of you fondly at 2:30, 4:00, and 5:15 in the morning when I’m up with my screaming miserable congested coughing children.) And it’s FUN. I’m not sure who’s the most miserable. Claire with her drippy EH! Lily with her coughing and inability to sleep. Husband with the tearful phone calls. Or mom. Poor poor mom. Who yesterday got halfway to the grocery store before realizing that she WASN’T WEARING SHOES. And who today poured apple juice on her turkey sandwich instead of in the empty glass RIGHT NEXT TO IT. Nice.
The upside to the madness is that Claire seems to understand that I need a little extra TLC these days. She was ALL about sharing her binkie (can you say congestion yumminess!) and her sippy (same applies here) and her blankie today. When she’s tired or not feeling well or sad she’ll take the corner of her blanket and sniff it or rub it against her nose. For long periods. It’s not as weird as it sounds. And today while I was rocking her she held up the corner and pushed it into my nose. Again, not as weird as it sounds. But rather, sweet. Very sweet. Love in the Time of Boogers it is.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Breakfast Prayer
Dear God,
Please bless this food that it will provide me with strength. I'm grateful for it. And please bless that I might make it through this day with a semblance of my sanity intact. For it is only 9 in the morning and already I'm laughing at things that aren't funny.
Amen
Please bless this food that it will provide me with strength. I'm grateful for it. And please bless that I might make it through this day with a semblance of my sanity intact. For it is only 9 in the morning and already I'm laughing at things that aren't funny.
Amen
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Month 17--Claire
(Totally stole the idea from Dooce and am not even a little sorry.)
Love,
Dear Claire,
Sweetheart on October 31st you turned 17 months old. I cannot believe how fast it's gone. Really. You're such a little girl now. I look at you and wonder when you stopped being my little baby. Who are we kidding, you'll always be my baby. You're just getting so big.
This month you discovered your belly button. And mine. And dad's. And Lily's. You go for the button whenever possible. On whoever. You get so frustrated when you're wearing a onesie (It's cold. And it keeps you from exposing your navel. You may still be wearing them in high school. We'll talk about it later.) because it keeps you from sticking your finger in your favorite place. Sometimes you'll point to your ears when I ask you where they are and every once in a blue moon your toes. But your belly button? Gold every time.
You're still a little slow on the speech development which concerns your dad a bit but I know you'll start talking when you're ready. That's always how you've been. No prodding, cajoling, or bribing gets you any closer to doing things you're not ready to do. It's just how you are. Stubborn. In a way that only your father can understand. You remind me of him so much. You're so sweet natured, and for the most part even tempered (you're a toddler, let's keep it real), but when you set your mind to something. It's over. Until you say otherwise.
You have developed a somewhat questionable obsession with balls. You love them. Beyond all reason love them. And Elmo. When we go to the gym in the mornings you head straight for the ball section and stay there until I come to pick you up an hour later. We have about 900 in our house right now. You love to kick them and throw them and bounce on them and put them in buckets/tupperware/baskets/cupboards. You used to frustrate yourself beyond reason trying to pick up more tennis balls than your little arms could carry. We got you a ball bucket and now you can walk around with at least ten. This appeases you. You'll share all of your toys with any friend who comes over to play, except your balls. Let's not get stupid.
You have a little crush on Elmo and as such we hear him singing on our tv for at least an hour every day. You like to sit in your Elmo chair holding your Elmo balls and your blankie while we watch him on the screen. He loves you. And you love him.
You also so incredibly sweet with your baby sister. You really love her. When she first arrived you weren't quite sure what to think and I'm pretty sure it was a little hard to start sharing the attention, but you're over that now and so gentle with baby sis. You give her loves all the time. Gently you'll lower your head to hers for cuddles and often I find you looking at her when you play to see if she's watching. You give her kisses whenever she's on your level. You also like to steal her binkie as we are trying to wean you off of yours. Smart girl.
You blow kisses to whoever stays downstairs with Lily as you are being carried off to bed. You giggle non-stop and have the cheesiest grin I've ever seen. Your curls flip over your ears and you love to wear your crown. Dr. Seuss is your favorite, especially the ABC and One Fish, Two Fish books. You love to bounce. Your adore your father. You want your mom when you're hurt. You still think peek-a-boo's the greatest game ever and if given the chance you'd adopt the dog next door in an instant.
We love you so much. Everyone loves you so much. You are everything that is good in this world and your dad and I constantly marvel at how incredibly lucky we are to have you in our lives. You are joy to us.
Love,
Momma
Un-ostriching
Hmmmm... how to crawl out of my hole. I've been in isolation/seclusion mode for the past month or so because I've been sad. Not the wisest approach I know. Life has become quite overwhelming and I'm looking to switch medications and seek out counseling in hopes to find my smile. My real one, not just the one I plaster on my face while in public (who are we kidding here, Target).
I'll talk more about it later. It's easier to joke about or discuss horrible times with a little distance.
I'll talk more about it later. It's easier to joke about or discuss horrible times with a little distance.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
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?
Friday, October 5, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, October 1, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
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.)
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.)
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