My experience with oceans was, until this week, primarily limited to the Pacific. The cold, angry, unforgiving, beautiful in its bleakness Pacific Ocean.
The Outer Banks are more beautiful than I could have imagined. There's something insanely peaceful about lounging on a giant sand bar. At one point about half an hour south of here, you can actually see from the Atlantic shore to the shore on the sound -- the whole island is about 150 yards across there, at most.
The water is warm. The sand is velvety soft. The sun is hot, and the air is sultry and serene.
In bits and pieces, I am floating back to myself here. I can remember feeling this good at some indistinct point in the past, and it is an unexpected joy to find myself there again. A few things have not gone according to plan -- I've called a halt to weaning until we get home, which has saved me the frustration of the first 2 days with a hungry, wailing infant. Also? Apparently Hurricane Ernesto may be rolling through here in the next 48 hours. We're hanging tight with a "wait and see" attitude, because we are not about to leave here early unless absolutely necessary.
I thought I would be updating more frequently while we are up here, seeing as how there's wi-fi and all, but to be honest, I have been too busy out LIVING life this week to take the time to write about it. I do promise copius photos and maybe even a video or two when we get back. And maybe one more update before we leave on Saturday.
Suffice it to say that - for now? I almost feel alive again. The layers of baked on stress are dissolving away in the Atlantic surf, and I almost feel clean and shiny and new again.
Will wonders never cease....
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
Remembering Why I Married Him...
...Because he went to Wal-Mart (which he hates) and picked up feminine products all by himself. Okay, not JUST feminine products, he was getting supplies for our trip, but he did get me tampons and maxi pads and he DID get exactly the right brand, type, size, and style.
It's things like this that explain why I totally do all the dirty stuff that most wives don't do.
Wish us luck driving tomorrow; between the rugrats, I suspect it will be.. um.. interesting to say the least. But, at the end of that very long drive? Sand, surf, and nary a cell phone or traffic jam for miles. *swoon*
It's things like this that explain why I totally do all the dirty stuff that most wives don't do.
Wish us luck driving tomorrow; between the rugrats, I suspect it will be.. um.. interesting to say the least. But, at the end of that very long drive? Sand, surf, and nary a cell phone or traffic jam for miles. *swoon*
tags: love
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Please Keep Arms And Legs Inside The Car
Holy Mood Swing Roller Coaster, Batman. Just cutting out one nursing session has thrown my hormones into a tailspin the likes of which has not been seen since the great meltdown of 98. I have been up and down and back again so many times today I'm a bit dizzy with the whiplash.
I'll break it down into lists. Since, you know... we crazies need our lists. They make the chaos presentable, so we can pretend it's not as screwy as it really is.
3 things that made me feel Fantastic today:
1. Coffee. Hot coffee.
2. Getting Toby to take 4 ounces from a bottle. Willingly, if slowly.
3. Buying $250 worth of groceries, but only spending $200 after store discounts and coupons (Thank You Belinda!). I am officially hooked on coupon clipping, and I have a feeling there will be a sick obsession with watching my savings percentage increase with each shopping trip. I may even save enough money to justify buying more of this stuff. Which would be sweet.
and, because into every life a little rain must fall (or insert your own cliche for "sometimes things just suck" here)
3 things that turned me into a raving maniac today:
1. $20 for a prescription that I can't take until Toby is weaned. It sits in the medicine cabinet, taunting me as I struggle between the emotional trauma of weaning and the desire to NOT feel always on the verge of screaming "NO WIRE HANGERS!"
2. Jack peed in the potty at the grocery store today. Which actually made me feel great, but it was a set-up for the letdown when we got home and he went to his room, pulled off his pants, and put on a clean diaper in which to poop. Preschool (which is already paid for, by the way) starts in just over a month, and it is not looking good on the "potty trained or not welcome" front.
3. Screaming children. LOUDLY screaming children. Both for no discernable reason. Both at the exact moment I was finally sitting down to get my first bite of actual food today. Exhausted kids (3 hours of running errands will do that) + low blood sugar mommy = disaster. And me with my fingers in my ears for a good minute or so while I hummed the 1812 overture.
But, my lovelies, I would not leave you on such a down note. No siree! You see, tomorrow will be a hellaciously busy day.. but it is for a good cause. Tomorrow I pack us up for the beach! For an entire, glorius week I will be slathering the spf 50 on my miles of alabaster flesh and vegetating in the sand of the outer banks. I've never been before. I hear it's spectacular. I'm pre-inclined to agree.
Never fear, however. I am told the house (which we are sharing with the family of the effervescent PK, who - at 20-some-odd weeks pregnant - still looks better in a bathing suit than I do) comes fully equipped with wi-fi. So if T doesn't pry the laptop from my clammy mitts, I may throw up a post or two from paradise.
Catch ya on the flip side...
I'll break it down into lists. Since, you know... we crazies need our lists. They make the chaos presentable, so we can pretend it's not as screwy as it really is.
3 things that made me feel Fantastic today:
1. Coffee. Hot coffee.
2. Getting Toby to take 4 ounces from a bottle. Willingly, if slowly.
3. Buying $250 worth of groceries, but only spending $200 after store discounts and coupons (Thank You Belinda!). I am officially hooked on coupon clipping, and I have a feeling there will be a sick obsession with watching my savings percentage increase with each shopping trip. I may even save enough money to justify buying more of this stuff. Which would be sweet.
and, because into every life a little rain must fall (or insert your own cliche for "sometimes things just suck" here)
3 things that turned me into a raving maniac today:
1. $20 for a prescription that I can't take until Toby is weaned. It sits in the medicine cabinet, taunting me as I struggle between the emotional trauma of weaning and the desire to NOT feel always on the verge of screaming "NO WIRE HANGERS!"
2. Jack peed in the potty at the grocery store today. Which actually made me feel great, but it was a set-up for the letdown when we got home and he went to his room, pulled off his pants, and put on a clean diaper in which to poop. Preschool (which is already paid for, by the way) starts in just over a month, and it is not looking good on the "potty trained or not welcome" front.
3. Screaming children. LOUDLY screaming children. Both for no discernable reason. Both at the exact moment I was finally sitting down to get my first bite of actual food today. Exhausted kids (3 hours of running errands will do that) + low blood sugar mommy = disaster. And me with my fingers in my ears for a good minute or so while I hummed the 1812 overture.
But, my lovelies, I would not leave you on such a down note. No siree! You see, tomorrow will be a hellaciously busy day.. but it is for a good cause. Tomorrow I pack us up for the beach! For an entire, glorius week I will be slathering the spf 50 on my miles of alabaster flesh and vegetating in the sand of the outer banks. I've never been before. I hear it's spectacular. I'm pre-inclined to agree.
Never fear, however. I am told the house (which we are sharing with the family of the effervescent PK, who - at 20-some-odd weeks pregnant - still looks better in a bathing suit than I do) comes fully equipped with wi-fi. So if T doesn't pry the laptop from my clammy mitts, I may throw up a post or two from paradise.
Catch ya on the flip side...
tags: Loopy,
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Chasing Down My Lane
This has all spun a bit out of control. In a good way!... I think.
When I started blogging over 3 years ago, it was all a bit of a lark. Just a way to let my endless family know what was going on in our household without calling all 54368926 relatives to spread the news as Jack started hitting his milestones.
Somewhere along the way, it became something else entirely. Slowly, it evolved into a way to stretch my atrophied writing muscles, an exhibitionist journal of sorts, and a catalog of my relationships with T, the boys, and mental illness.
When I finally gave in and got a stat tracker (Hello person who found me by googling "clogged milk ducts"! a heating pad will help clear that right up...) I was floored by how many people are actually tuning in to read what my addled brain spews out.
The internet is such a strange medium. This whole "web 2.0" thing still freaks me out more often than not, because it's so... open. So out there. Basically all of the things I am not in my every day life. But it appears that, without having a clue, I have been opening up to an audience. Something I would never have done in the past, especially if I had realized it was happening.
Hello, Internet!
I am generally plagued by self-doubt in my writing - my own worst critic, so far. (That is until the hate mail begins rolling in. And all indications point to "yes" that it WILL eventually start rolling in.) When I realized what a "blogger" was, and that I had been doing it for quite some time with no idea that's what I was doing, I started reading other blogs. Many. Many. Other. Blogs. I suddenly felt very much like a poser. Here were people more articulate than I, more educated, more confident... many of whom get paid for their writing, or have had a career in a public forum at some point.
I still feel like a poser, but I'm beginning to realize that the same reasons I began writing about my life in honest terms still apply - I write this for me, to vet the chaos in my head and let myself in on what's really going on in my brain. To record stories for the boys: stories about themselves, but also to represent me. Because one day I will be gone, and I will be able to leave them with this snapshot of who I was when I was young.
If anyone else finds some value in it, well.. that's just the icing on my giddy schoolgirl cupcake.
So, again... Hello, Internet! Welcome to my fishbowl. Don't forget to tip your waitress. And in the words of the unsinkable Jon Stewart... Yahtzee!
When I started blogging over 3 years ago, it was all a bit of a lark. Just a way to let my endless family know what was going on in our household without calling all 54368926 relatives to spread the news as Jack started hitting his milestones.
Somewhere along the way, it became something else entirely. Slowly, it evolved into a way to stretch my atrophied writing muscles, an exhibitionist journal of sorts, and a catalog of my relationships with T, the boys, and mental illness.
When I finally gave in and got a stat tracker (Hello person who found me by googling "clogged milk ducts"! a heating pad will help clear that right up...) I was floored by how many people are actually tuning in to read what my addled brain spews out.
The internet is such a strange medium. This whole "web 2.0" thing still freaks me out more often than not, because it's so... open. So out there. Basically all of the things I am not in my every day life. But it appears that, without having a clue, I have been opening up to an audience. Something I would never have done in the past, especially if I had realized it was happening.
Hello, Internet!
I am generally plagued by self-doubt in my writing - my own worst critic, so far. (That is until the hate mail begins rolling in. And all indications point to "yes" that it WILL eventually start rolling in.) When I realized what a "blogger" was, and that I had been doing it for quite some time with no idea that's what I was doing, I started reading other blogs. Many. Many. Other. Blogs. I suddenly felt very much like a poser. Here were people more articulate than I, more educated, more confident... many of whom get paid for their writing, or have had a career in a public forum at some point.
I still feel like a poser, but I'm beginning to realize that the same reasons I began writing about my life in honest terms still apply - I write this for me, to vet the chaos in my head and let myself in on what's really going on in my brain. To record stories for the boys: stories about themselves, but also to represent me. Because one day I will be gone, and I will be able to leave them with this snapshot of who I was when I was young.
If anyone else finds some value in it, well.. that's just the icing on my giddy schoolgirl cupcake.
So, again... Hello, Internet! Welcome to my fishbowl. Don't forget to tip your waitress. And in the words of the unsinkable Jon Stewart... Yahtzee!
tags: shoutout
Mother Fetchin' Son Of A Biscuit-Eater!
Pasting my comment from BlogHer Forums. Because I can.
Comment by Melkist posted Wed, 2006/08/23 - 4:36pm
Having grown up in a very highly, extremely, and Superlatively Mormon household, I had the squeakiest clean vocabulary known to man. If there was an award for most creative UN-swearing, I would have won it every time. Even words like "butt" and "crap" and "suck" were totally out of bounds in our house.
The result, of course, is that I grew into an adult who can, at the drop of a hat, flip the switch on my inner potty mouth and use curse words so foul that even a sailor might have to look some of them up on Wikipedia.
Of course, I'm extraordinarily careful to watch what I say around my precocious 3 year old, at play groups, and when around relatives or acquaintances with sensitive ears. The rest of the time, I reserve strong language for highly appropriate situations - like dropping the hammer on my foot, or stepping into a puddle of cat puke while blearily heading for the coffee pot at 6am.
I struggled with the blog issue once I realized some of my family reads it, and I was hesitant to use language that might show them a side of me they have never seen. In the end, though, I went with the most judicious path. I use swears the same way I would if I was having coffee with a girlfriend and our kids were playing in the next room. Only for emphasis, or if it's funny, and in tones that don't draw undue attention to the inherent "naughty-factor" of it all.
Because it's not the sixth grade, and using "fuck" is only worth it to me for shock value if it happens to be part of a sentence that also includes words like "elderly grandmother", "3-legged-dog" or, maybe "clown-car funeral procession".
Comment by Melkist posted Wed, 2006/08/23 - 4:36pm
Having grown up in a very highly, extremely, and Superlatively Mormon household, I had the squeakiest clean vocabulary known to man. If there was an award for most creative UN-swearing, I would have won it every time. Even words like "butt" and "crap" and "suck" were totally out of bounds in our house.
The result, of course, is that I grew into an adult who can, at the drop of a hat, flip the switch on my inner potty mouth and use curse words so foul that even a sailor might have to look some of them up on Wikipedia.
Of course, I'm extraordinarily careful to watch what I say around my precocious 3 year old, at play groups, and when around relatives or acquaintances with sensitive ears. The rest of the time, I reserve strong language for highly appropriate situations - like dropping the hammer on my foot, or stepping into a puddle of cat puke while blearily heading for the coffee pot at 6am.
I struggled with the blog issue once I realized some of my family reads it, and I was hesitant to use language that might show them a side of me they have never seen. In the end, though, I went with the most judicious path. I use swears the same way I would if I was having coffee with a girlfriend and our kids were playing in the next room. Only for emphasis, or if it's funny, and in tones that don't draw undue attention to the inherent "naughty-factor" of it all.
Because it's not the sixth grade, and using "fuck" is only worth it to me for shock value if it happens to be part of a sentence that also includes words like "elderly grandmother", "3-legged-dog" or, maybe "clown-car funeral procession".
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Weaning and Other Scary Stories...
Even though Toby is baby #2, I am learning to wean for the first time. At 9 months, Jack decided he was finished nursing and refused to do so absolutely. He took to a bottle of formula and that was the end of it. No muss, no fuss and, except for me being not quite emotionally ready at the time, very little fanfare.
At 10 months and counting, Toby is attached to my breasts as though they emit oxygen. He is much smaller for his age than Jack was, but also more coordinated in his movements. That is to say, he has now negotiated the exact sequence of movements necessary to go from sitting on my hip to laying sideways in my arms and lifting my shirt to grant himself access to a ready snack.
Needless to say, this is less than thrilling for me when I happen to be, say, pushing a shopping cart full of groceries down the checkout line. The baby-faced cashier really does not need to be exposed to my armor-like nursing bra while he's scanning my frozen pizzas.
After a few less-than-totally-successful attempts to get Toby to take a bottle of breastmilk, he finally conceded to drink from a disposable sippy cup. At least ocassionally.
He does not, however, so far appear to be fooled into thinking that this is an acceptable substitute for a big, soft, boob. As evidenced last night, when he grew claws, fangs, and inordinate amounts of fur. My sweet little baby morphed into a rampaging beast who tracked my mammaries like a trained bloodhound. There was a victory howl when he caught the scent, and I swear he growled as they neared striking distance.
Then he nursed for about 40 seconds, decided it was time to morph back into Baby Tobin, and crawled sweetly away to explore an empty box. Leaving me feeling wounded, vaguely used, and uncomfortably full of let-down milk.
Something tells me that - for all of his protests? The child isn't really that interested in what I have to offer. He's just in it for the hunt, and the thrill of conquest. After that, he's immediately bored with the whole thing.
Isn't that just like a man?
At 10 months and counting, Toby is attached to my breasts as though they emit oxygen. He is much smaller for his age than Jack was, but also more coordinated in his movements. That is to say, he has now negotiated the exact sequence of movements necessary to go from sitting on my hip to laying sideways in my arms and lifting my shirt to grant himself access to a ready snack.
Needless to say, this is less than thrilling for me when I happen to be, say, pushing a shopping cart full of groceries down the checkout line. The baby-faced cashier really does not need to be exposed to my armor-like nursing bra while he's scanning my frozen pizzas.
After a few less-than-totally-successful attempts to get Toby to take a bottle of breastmilk, he finally conceded to drink from a disposable sippy cup. At least ocassionally.
He does not, however, so far appear to be fooled into thinking that this is an acceptable substitute for a big, soft, boob. As evidenced last night, when he grew claws, fangs, and inordinate amounts of fur. My sweet little baby morphed into a rampaging beast who tracked my mammaries like a trained bloodhound. There was a victory howl when he caught the scent, and I swear he growled as they neared striking distance.
Then he nursed for about 40 seconds, decided it was time to morph back into Baby Tobin, and crawled sweetly away to explore an empty box. Leaving me feeling wounded, vaguely used, and uncomfortably full of let-down milk.
Something tells me that - for all of his protests? The child isn't really that interested in what I have to offer. He's just in it for the hunt, and the thrill of conquest. After that, he's immediately bored with the whole thing.
Isn't that just like a man?
tags: weaning
Monday, August 21, 2006
Doing That VooDoo That They Do...Part I
Friday was an interesting day. Like a trip to the dentist's office, or a colonoscopy is interesting.
The day started off well enough. We've been on a crepe kick lately, so I whipped up a batch for breakfast and served 'em up with butter, a squirt of lemon, and dusting of granulated sugar. Health Food, I know, right? But I needed courage food. (What? Yes. Crepes. They're french. Oh shut up, that is SO not ironic. Okay, maybe just a little...)
I arrived for my appointment a full 10 minutes early. Now, it would probably be apropos to point out here that I NEVER arrive early. For anything. In fact, I was 20 minutes late for my own wedding. So being early was the first harbinger of doom.
When I arrived at the building, my first thought was "the receptionist wasn't kidding - it really is in a bank." Apparently the practice recently acquired the building to use as a satellite office, and it used to be an F&M Bank. It still has the drive-thru banking window, which gave me a chuckle as I amused myself with the thought of "drive-thru therapy". You see the funny, no?
My humor quickly dissolved, however, when I realized that the building was locked up and seemingly abandoned. So I waited. In the hot hot outdoors, in my jeans (which are also hot, but cover the whiteness of my white, white legs).
After I had waited as long as I could physically stand it (which admittedly is probably not long. Attention Span of a Ferret On Crack. I think that's the official diagnosis..) I headed back home, where I got the message that the woman I was supposed to see was still at the main office - about 30 minutes away. After sitting on hold for several eternities, broken up by "are you still there? Don't hang up!" every few minutes, the receptionist timidly asked if there was any way I could come to the main office for this visit. Otherwise, could we reschedule for another day?
Since T had taken the day off work to be with the boys while all of this was going on, I hopped in his hot, hot, airconditioning-less car and headed out into the hot hot heat.
Upon arriving at the office, covered in sweat from the air conditioning-less drive and looking for all the world like I had just escaped from the facility I was now entering, I was hustled from the waiting room to an office so filled with knick-knacks I was immediately dizzy. For the next hour, I was quizzed on every detail of my mental state and several details of my intimate life.
I also learned several things.
- The shrink did not approve of my choice of birth control (as evidenced by her raised eyebrow and blank look)
- The shrink casually chastised me for leaving nursing school (ignoring the part where I said things like "pregnant" and "husband laid off")
- The shrink knew less about my medication and the possible effects on my nursing infant than I did. Much much less.
Luckily for me, I was scheduled for a follow-up consult for today. With a real psychiatrist.
Dr. Joe was calm and collected. He was friendly and matter-of-fact, and did not talk to me like I have the intelligence level of a small child. He assessed my situation, asked pertinent questions, and generally made me feel like he actually knows what he is doing.
And thus begins the next phase of the journey. I will be starting a new medication to treat the ADD, which necessitates that I begin the process of weaning Toby in earnest. On the one hand, I think he and I are both ready. On the other hand? I am having a hard time giving up that cuddle time and the benefit of giving him breastmilk while he takes it so happily.
So the plan is thus: I will be giving him 50/50 breastmilk and formula for tonight's feeding. If all goes well, he will get the same in the morning. If he is weaned in the next 2 weeks, I will be starting the new meds and hopefully? Hopefully I will start to be a much, much better mommy. And then maybe I'll be able to stop getting misty-eyed every time the subject of weaning comes up.
The day started off well enough. We've been on a crepe kick lately, so I whipped up a batch for breakfast and served 'em up with butter, a squirt of lemon, and dusting of granulated sugar. Health Food, I know, right? But I needed courage food. (What? Yes. Crepes. They're french. Oh shut up, that is SO not ironic. Okay, maybe just a little...)
I arrived for my appointment a full 10 minutes early. Now, it would probably be apropos to point out here that I NEVER arrive early. For anything. In fact, I was 20 minutes late for my own wedding. So being early was the first harbinger of doom.
When I arrived at the building, my first thought was "the receptionist wasn't kidding - it really is in a bank." Apparently the practice recently acquired the building to use as a satellite office, and it used to be an F&M Bank. It still has the drive-thru banking window, which gave me a chuckle as I amused myself with the thought of "drive-thru therapy". You see the funny, no?
My humor quickly dissolved, however, when I realized that the building was locked up and seemingly abandoned. So I waited. In the hot hot outdoors, in my jeans (which are also hot, but cover the whiteness of my white, white legs).
After I had waited as long as I could physically stand it (which admittedly is probably not long. Attention Span of a Ferret On Crack. I think that's the official diagnosis..) I headed back home, where I got the message that the woman I was supposed to see was still at the main office - about 30 minutes away. After sitting on hold for several eternities, broken up by "are you still there? Don't hang up!" every few minutes, the receptionist timidly asked if there was any way I could come to the main office for this visit. Otherwise, could we reschedule for another day?
Since T had taken the day off work to be with the boys while all of this was going on, I hopped in his hot, hot, airconditioning-less car and headed out into the hot hot heat.
Upon arriving at the office, covered in sweat from the air conditioning-less drive and looking for all the world like I had just escaped from the facility I was now entering, I was hustled from the waiting room to an office so filled with knick-knacks I was immediately dizzy. For the next hour, I was quizzed on every detail of my mental state and several details of my intimate life.
I also learned several things.
- The shrink did not approve of my choice of birth control (as evidenced by her raised eyebrow and blank look)
- The shrink casually chastised me for leaving nursing school (ignoring the part where I said things like "pregnant" and "husband laid off")
- The shrink knew less about my medication and the possible effects on my nursing infant than I did. Much much less.
Luckily for me, I was scheduled for a follow-up consult for today. With a real psychiatrist.
Dr. Joe was calm and collected. He was friendly and matter-of-fact, and did not talk to me like I have the intelligence level of a small child. He assessed my situation, asked pertinent questions, and generally made me feel like he actually knows what he is doing.
And thus begins the next phase of the journey. I will be starting a new medication to treat the ADD, which necessitates that I begin the process of weaning Toby in earnest. On the one hand, I think he and I are both ready. On the other hand? I am having a hard time giving up that cuddle time and the benefit of giving him breastmilk while he takes it so happily.
So the plan is thus: I will be giving him 50/50 breastmilk and formula for tonight's feeding. If all goes well, he will get the same in the morning. If he is weaned in the next 2 weeks, I will be starting the new meds and hopefully? Hopefully I will start to be a much, much better mommy. And then maybe I'll be able to stop getting misty-eyed every time the subject of weaning comes up.
tags: therapy
Cannot. Stop. Watching.
This is bringing me unholy amounts of glee. I keep watching it over and over. It's like a fish tank, or a lava lamp. Oddly hypnotic, and yet serving no actual purpose...other than to make me giggle hysterically and clap like a circus monkey, that is...
Thursday, August 17, 2006
In Which I Do Not Detail Our Sexploits.
Even though I already got my anniversary gift (sweet digital camcorder) and we're planning to attempt to go out to dinner on Friday to celebrate "officially", it seemed like a waste to let our anniversary go by without somehow marking the actual day.
I decided to surprise T when he got home last night with a mini-celebration for the two of us.
I bought a so-so bottle of champagne (neither one of us is a big fan of the stuff, but it seemed only apropos for the situation to have it) I picked up some strawberries and a bar of fairly nice, espresso infused, dark chocolate. After I grated the chocolate into the double boiler and slowly melted it down, I carefully dipped each of the strawberries. Popped them into the fridge for an hour, and they were set.
I bought a boquet of red roses, stripped them of their leaves, and arranged the in a cut crystal vase. Once a few candles were lit, and the champagne, glasses and a tray of glistening berries were set out, the scene was set.
When T finally rolled in from his grand adventure to Colorado at 10pm last night, he was full of stories about mullet wigs, hiking mountains, and being surprised with the work group with tickets to the Journey/Def Leppard concert at Red Rocks. It made for a feast of grown-up conversation while we lingered over his welcome home/happy anniversary suprise.
After we polished off the berries and the champagne, we headed up to bed.
I would love to tell you that I'm stopping the story here because we proceeded to stay up all night having wild monkey sex. Or that we talked until dawn and fell in love all over again.
But, you see... we have children. And though we may seem young and full of vim and vigor, once you have kids... it's all an illusion. You basically throw in the towel and start aging in dog years.
So you will understand when I say I would like to tell you that I'm protecting your delicate sensibilities by ending the story here.
The truth? Is much more pedestrian.
We fell into bed and, totally knackered from the past few days, fell instantly asleep.
I decided to surprise T when he got home last night with a mini-celebration for the two of us.
I bought a so-so bottle of champagne (neither one of us is a big fan of the stuff, but it seemed only apropos for the situation to have it) I picked up some strawberries and a bar of fairly nice, espresso infused, dark chocolate. After I grated the chocolate into the double boiler and slowly melted it down, I carefully dipped each of the strawberries. Popped them into the fridge for an hour, and they were set.
I bought a boquet of red roses, stripped them of their leaves, and arranged the in a cut crystal vase. Once a few candles were lit, and the champagne, glasses and a tray of glistening berries were set out, the scene was set.
When T finally rolled in from his grand adventure to Colorado at 10pm last night, he was full of stories about mullet wigs, hiking mountains, and being surprised with the work group with tickets to the Journey/Def Leppard concert at Red Rocks. It made for a feast of grown-up conversation while we lingered over his welcome home/happy anniversary suprise.
After we polished off the berries and the champagne, we headed up to bed.
I would love to tell you that I'm stopping the story here because we proceeded to stay up all night having wild monkey sex. Or that we talked until dawn and fell in love all over again.
But, you see... we have children. And though we may seem young and full of vim and vigor, once you have kids... it's all an illusion. You basically throw in the towel and start aging in dog years.
So you will understand when I say I would like to tell you that I'm protecting your delicate sensibilities by ending the story here.
The truth? Is much more pedestrian.
We fell into bed and, totally knackered from the past few days, fell instantly asleep.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Like A Horse And Carriage...
Dear T,
4 years ago today was a very busy day. You were happily employed at BigTelecomCorp. I was registering for fall classes in Nursing school, wrangling an apartment full of women, buying lingerie, and hyperventilating.
Literally? All on the same day.
Oh, yes. And we got married.
Just three months later, you got laid off. Three days after that, we found out I was pregnant. We burned through our nest egg to make ends meet. We moved from a one bedroom efficiency apartment to a two bedroom for the same rent so there would be room for a crib. I went back to work full time and worked 2 jobs throughout my pregnancy.
2 weeks before Jack was born, you started your new job. Which was over an hour from home. And also? It ended up requiring about 90% travel. So you lived out of suitcases and spent a few days or a week at home (if we were lucky) between going to upstate NY and Montgomery, AL for weeks at a time.
Your grandmother passed away. Then your grandfather.
After six months of being Miserable-But-At-Least-We-Are-Employed, you got your current job. We bought our house in the Wild Burbs of West Virginia. We moved. Your parents separated. We got pregnant again. My grandfather died. Toby joined our little empire.
This year, we began fighting the battle with depression. You came home to dirty dishes, a dirty house, and often a dirty wife. You never complained. You walked in the door, rolled up your sleeves, and went to work. You made my appointments when I couldn't do it for myself, you held me while I cried, and you gave me foot rubs when you didn't know what else to do. You made meals, changed diapers, and did unholy amounts of laundry.
Through it all, you loved me. You told me I was strong, that I would make it through. We made mistakes and learned together. We got marooned on this emotional island, and we have clung to each other and our boys and kept fighting.
We have laughed together. We have watched good movies, played good games, and eaten and drunk of the best life has to offer.
You have done so much for me in the 7 years we have been together, and the 4 of those we have been married. I don't know where to begin to tell you everything.
Thank you for:
Teaching me to drink good beer
Getting me hooked on Diablo II, WoW, Civilization games, The Sims.......
Giving up smoking
Selling your Z06 so we could afford to live
Giving the world's best bear hugs
Teaching me to appreciate Cajun and Creole foods
Inventing the Perfect Pancake Recipe
Supporting my decision to go back to school
Supporting my decision to go back to work
Supporting my decision to stay home
Introducing me to Art House cinema
Taking me to Maine, New Orleans, and Mexico
Giving up your fast car YET AGAIN because it was best for the family
Introducing me to Sushi
Supporting my decision to be a mormon or not, as long as I was happy
Most especially, thank you for loving me, for never giving up on me, for our boys and our dreams and the life we have together.
I can't wait to see what is in store for us in the next 4 years, or the next 40 for that matter. I feel like we're standing in the storm and holding our own, and I want to scream at life to "BRING IT ON!" because we can handle anything as long as we're together.
Tell that pilot to bring you home safe to me tonight, and to watch out for those pockets of turbulence over the Rocky Mountains. I can't wait to see you and snog you and toast ourselves on our anniversary and all the anniversaries yet to come.
I love you.
Au jour d'hui, demain, toujours.
Yours till the wheels fall off,
MeL
4 years ago today was a very busy day. You were happily employed at BigTelecomCorp. I was registering for fall classes in Nursing school, wrangling an apartment full of women, buying lingerie, and hyperventilating.
Literally? All on the same day.
Oh, yes. And we got married.
Just three months later, you got laid off. Three days after that, we found out I was pregnant. We burned through our nest egg to make ends meet. We moved from a one bedroom efficiency apartment to a two bedroom for the same rent so there would be room for a crib. I went back to work full time and worked 2 jobs throughout my pregnancy.
2 weeks before Jack was born, you started your new job. Which was over an hour from home. And also? It ended up requiring about 90% travel. So you lived out of suitcases and spent a few days or a week at home (if we were lucky) between going to upstate NY and Montgomery, AL for weeks at a time.
Your grandmother passed away. Then your grandfather.
After six months of being Miserable-But-At-Least-We-Are-Employed, you got your current job. We bought our house in the Wild Burbs of West Virginia. We moved. Your parents separated. We got pregnant again. My grandfather died. Toby joined our little empire.
This year, we began fighting the battle with depression. You came home to dirty dishes, a dirty house, and often a dirty wife. You never complained. You walked in the door, rolled up your sleeves, and went to work. You made my appointments when I couldn't do it for myself, you held me while I cried, and you gave me foot rubs when you didn't know what else to do. You made meals, changed diapers, and did unholy amounts of laundry.
Through it all, you loved me. You told me I was strong, that I would make it through. We made mistakes and learned together. We got marooned on this emotional island, and we have clung to each other and our boys and kept fighting.
We have laughed together. We have watched good movies, played good games, and eaten and drunk of the best life has to offer.
You have done so much for me in the 7 years we have been together, and the 4 of those we have been married. I don't know where to begin to tell you everything.
Thank you for:
Teaching me to drink good beer
Getting me hooked on Diablo II, WoW, Civilization games, The Sims.......
Giving up smoking
Selling your Z06 so we could afford to live
Giving the world's best bear hugs
Teaching me to appreciate Cajun and Creole foods
Inventing the Perfect Pancake Recipe
Supporting my decision to go back to school
Supporting my decision to go back to work
Supporting my decision to stay home
Introducing me to Art House cinema
Taking me to Maine, New Orleans, and Mexico
Giving up your fast car YET AGAIN because it was best for the family
Introducing me to Sushi
Supporting my decision to be a mormon or not, as long as I was happy
Most especially, thank you for loving me, for never giving up on me, for our boys and our dreams and the life we have together.
I can't wait to see what is in store for us in the next 4 years, or the next 40 for that matter. I feel like we're standing in the storm and holding our own, and I want to scream at life to "BRING IT ON!" because we can handle anything as long as we're together.
Tell that pilot to bring you home safe to me tonight, and to watch out for those pockets of turbulence over the Rocky Mountains. I can't wait to see you and snog you and toast ourselves on our anniversary and all the anniversaries yet to come.
I love you.
Au jour d'hui, demain, toujours.
Yours till the wheels fall off,
MeL
tags: anniversary,love,marriage
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Driving Home The Point
I'm hopeful about this consult on Friday. I never, EVER, thought that I would see a psychiatrist. Not in my lifetime. Is it bizarre that it just never crossed my mind? I have never thought less of anyone else for it, but it was always something *other* people did. Just another step in this learning process, I suppose. I'm learning so much.
I looked at T on Sunday, in the midst of another discussion about all of this, and said "I just want to feel better - to BE better. Whatever that means, whatever is required, I want to do THAT."
And he said "What if this is just life? What if this is as good as it gets? What if nobody is really happy?"
("As Good As It Gets"... one of my favorites, for a plethora of reasons -- and because I got my mother to watch it with me a few years ago and made her admit that she liked a movie WITH A HOMOSEXUAL CHARACTER!) Ah the little battles we enjoy winning.... she may have just been humoring me, but I don't think so. I think she really "got it" in the same way I did. Another bridge across the space between us.
But I digress.
"You mean, everyone just pretends? That EVERYONE who seems happy is just pretending?" I asked, incredulously.
"Yeah, something like that. Yes."
I looked at him blankly. Then I burst into tears. "I won't believe that. I CAN'T believe that."
I told him I needed to get out. I needed to escape the house for a little while. The boys were both napping and there was plenty of time before they would wake up. And so, I got in the car and started driving.
I took a turn down the way onto a road I haven't explored before, and found it wound up and around the countryside. I passed neighborhoods I had never seen before, acres of corn and tall grasses. I went through shaded hollows and down the lane, which widened and narrowed as it traversed the hillsides. Somewhere along the way, I realized I was alone in the car for the first time in a very long time. I turned the stereo up loud, much louder than I ever do with the boys in the car, the way I did years ago. I let the sounds of The Cowboy Junkies wash over me, a melancholy hymn in my lonely little car.
I drove further than I had intended and began to wonder if I should turn around. There was no knowing where this road would lead me. But it was peaceful in the car, with the windows rolled down and the sun shining on me and the music coursing through me. I thought briefly how it might feel to just keep driving, until I hit the ocean or ran out of gas. The chatter in my head was quiet for a moment, and I didn't want to give that up. I didn't want to go back and crawl back into my skin and reshoulder my responsibilities.
Then I saw the black fringe of Jack's eyelashes, the curve of Toby's cheek. I saw the twinkle of T's eyes and that particular twist of his mouth when he's hiding his smile. Home was calling to me, and it wasn't such a responsibility after all.
And just like that, the winding road I was on rejoined the highway. I didn't have to turn around after all. By continuing forward, I had found my way again.
It was with a much clearer head that I pulled back into the driveway. It was also with the memory of a time long past, one I can't remember exactly - like trying to remember the details of the first house I lived in. I get a vague sense but can't recall any of the details. I rememberd a time when I was happy. Unafraid and unburdened by life. Because I didn't know any better.
We all have it, however brief it may be - that time when we accept life at face value, and experience our reality in a very immediate and innocent sort of way.
So the challenge ahead, as I see it, is to learn to do that again as best I can. Oh, I know we can never go back to the wide-eyed innocence of our youth - nor would I choose to. But we can be childlike in our wonder, learn to see the world around us again. We can relearn to take nothing for granted.
If swallowing my pride and sitting meekly before a psychiatrist can give me the insights required to go forward... well, then answering every uncomfortable question about myself might just be worth the price of admission.
Turning around might get me there faster, but I'd be passing all the same scenery on my way back and ending up exactly where I started.
But if I keep forging ahead, though the way forward is uncertain, I may just find that my little road rejoins the highway. And who knows? Maybe I'll end up closer to home than I think.
I looked at T on Sunday, in the midst of another discussion about all of this, and said "I just want to feel better - to BE better. Whatever that means, whatever is required, I want to do THAT."
And he said "What if this is just life? What if this is as good as it gets? What if nobody is really happy?"
("As Good As It Gets"... one of my favorites, for a plethora of reasons -- and because I got my mother to watch it with me a few years ago and made her admit that she liked a movie WITH A HOMOSEXUAL CHARACTER!) Ah the little battles we enjoy winning.... she may have just been humoring me, but I don't think so. I think she really "got it" in the same way I did. Another bridge across the space between us.
But I digress.
"You mean, everyone just pretends? That EVERYONE who seems happy is just pretending?" I asked, incredulously.
"Yeah, something like that. Yes."
I looked at him blankly. Then I burst into tears. "I won't believe that. I CAN'T believe that."
I told him I needed to get out. I needed to escape the house for a little while. The boys were both napping and there was plenty of time before they would wake up. And so, I got in the car and started driving.
I took a turn down the way onto a road I haven't explored before, and found it wound up and around the countryside. I passed neighborhoods I had never seen before, acres of corn and tall grasses. I went through shaded hollows and down the lane, which widened and narrowed as it traversed the hillsides. Somewhere along the way, I realized I was alone in the car for the first time in a very long time. I turned the stereo up loud, much louder than I ever do with the boys in the car, the way I did years ago. I let the sounds of The Cowboy Junkies wash over me, a melancholy hymn in my lonely little car.
I drove further than I had intended and began to wonder if I should turn around. There was no knowing where this road would lead me. But it was peaceful in the car, with the windows rolled down and the sun shining on me and the music coursing through me. I thought briefly how it might feel to just keep driving, until I hit the ocean or ran out of gas. The chatter in my head was quiet for a moment, and I didn't want to give that up. I didn't want to go back and crawl back into my skin and reshoulder my responsibilities.
Then I saw the black fringe of Jack's eyelashes, the curve of Toby's cheek. I saw the twinkle of T's eyes and that particular twist of his mouth when he's hiding his smile. Home was calling to me, and it wasn't such a responsibility after all.
And just like that, the winding road I was on rejoined the highway. I didn't have to turn around after all. By continuing forward, I had found my way again.
It was with a much clearer head that I pulled back into the driveway. It was also with the memory of a time long past, one I can't remember exactly - like trying to remember the details of the first house I lived in. I get a vague sense but can't recall any of the details. I rememberd a time when I was happy. Unafraid and unburdened by life. Because I didn't know any better.
We all have it, however brief it may be - that time when we accept life at face value, and experience our reality in a very immediate and innocent sort of way.
So the challenge ahead, as I see it, is to learn to do that again as best I can. Oh, I know we can never go back to the wide-eyed innocence of our youth - nor would I choose to. But we can be childlike in our wonder, learn to see the world around us again. We can relearn to take nothing for granted.
If swallowing my pride and sitting meekly before a psychiatrist can give me the insights required to go forward... well, then answering every uncomfortable question about myself might just be worth the price of admission.
Turning around might get me there faster, but I'd be passing all the same scenery on my way back and ending up exactly where I started.
But if I keep forging ahead, though the way forward is uncertain, I may just find that my little road rejoins the highway. And who knows? Maybe I'll end up closer to home than I think.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Monday, Monday...
My brain is refusing to entirely wrap itself around the current events of the past week or so. I will do my best to reduce it all down for you - preferably to the consistency of a nice cream sauce with a hint of curry, no?
Because T is a big kid at heart, he couldn't wait until our anniversary on Wednesday to give me my present. Which is really "our" present, as it will get equal use all around. It's a camcorder. A digital one. Is it wrong that it tickles me no end that I may now torment the internet with footage of our cat eating popcorn and Jack putting ants in the garbage can while he says "there you go, little fella"? C'mon, admit it. You're totally curious now. And yes, the cat really does love popcorn and she will not hesitate to steal it right out from under you.
Moving on.... Jack got into the fridge this morning while I was downstairs attempting to drink a cup of coffee. By the time I heard the fridge door open and then close, it was too late. Half a pack of bologna later, I'm now officially calling him "Oscar". And he keeps asking for more. I have explained that eating 6 PIECES OF BOLOGNA is more than a little excessive, and he isn't allowed to help himself from the refrigerator at any rate. He doesn't seem bothered by this, though, and I finally hid the bologna under a pile of sad wilted vegetables in the crisper drawer. Don't doubt that Oscar Myer will be receiving a frothy letter from me one of these days asking WHAT SORT OF CRACK they are including in their recipe.
I had a long chat with my sister yesterday (Hi Shanna-BoNana!) and it was refreshing to realize I could speak so openly with someone I'm related to about all of...*this* (gesticulating madly at the air around me). I'm still learning how to let go of my innate defensiveness, at least enough to build trust relationships outside of T. But if there's anyone who shares my DNA who can do it, I think it's Shan. She hasn't let me down yet.
I also spent some time this weekend thinkng about how to keep myself on target this week. I had a few breakdowns here and there, but I also allowed my thoughts to flow more freely than I have in a long time. I went with my gut and wrote a letter to someone who was not expecting it (Hi Kelly!) and poured out a little of my soul into it. And she caught it in a cup, drank it in, and gave a little of herself to me in return. Seeing yourself reflected off of someone else is always a little surreal, but especially when it's someone you are just meeting. When that person is also eloquent, kind, and overflowing with wisdom... well, it's life-altering. That's the kind of person who can say "hey, it's all going to be okay"- and you don't hesitate before believing them.
And if it's all going to be okay, suddenly soaking in a little sunshine out in the Big Blue Room sounds a little less scary and a lot more peaceful.
Because T is a big kid at heart, he couldn't wait until our anniversary on Wednesday to give me my present. Which is really "our" present, as it will get equal use all around. It's a camcorder. A digital one. Is it wrong that it tickles me no end that I may now torment the internet with footage of our cat eating popcorn and Jack putting ants in the garbage can while he says "there you go, little fella"? C'mon, admit it. You're totally curious now. And yes, the cat really does love popcorn and she will not hesitate to steal it right out from under you.
Moving on.... Jack got into the fridge this morning while I was downstairs attempting to drink a cup of coffee. By the time I heard the fridge door open and then close, it was too late. Half a pack of bologna later, I'm now officially calling him "Oscar". And he keeps asking for more. I have explained that eating 6 PIECES OF BOLOGNA is more than a little excessive, and he isn't allowed to help himself from the refrigerator at any rate. He doesn't seem bothered by this, though, and I finally hid the bologna under a pile of sad wilted vegetables in the crisper drawer. Don't doubt that Oscar Myer will be receiving a frothy letter from me one of these days asking WHAT SORT OF CRACK they are including in their recipe.
I had a long chat with my sister yesterday (Hi Shanna-BoNana!) and it was refreshing to realize I could speak so openly with someone I'm related to about all of...*this* (gesticulating madly at the air around me). I'm still learning how to let go of my innate defensiveness, at least enough to build trust relationships outside of T. But if there's anyone who shares my DNA who can do it, I think it's Shan. She hasn't let me down yet.
I also spent some time this weekend thinkng about how to keep myself on target this week. I had a few breakdowns here and there, but I also allowed my thoughts to flow more freely than I have in a long time. I went with my gut and wrote a letter to someone who was not expecting it (Hi Kelly!) and poured out a little of my soul into it. And she caught it in a cup, drank it in, and gave a little of herself to me in return. Seeing yourself reflected off of someone else is always a little surreal, but especially when it's someone you are just meeting. When that person is also eloquent, kind, and overflowing with wisdom... well, it's life-altering. That's the kind of person who can say "hey, it's all going to be okay"- and you don't hesitate before believing them.
And if it's all going to be okay, suddenly soaking in a little sunshine out in the Big Blue Room sounds a little less scary and a lot more peaceful.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Which Explains My Voracious Consumption of Books...
...the books we need are the kind that act upon us like a misfortune, that make us suffer like the death of someone we love more than ourselves, that make us feel as though we were on the verge of suicide, or lost in a forest remote from all human habitation - a book should serve as the ax for the frozen sea within us.
- from a letter of Franz Kafka to Oskar Pollak
- from a letter of Franz Kafka to Oskar Pollak
Thursday, August 10, 2006
But you will struggle, Grasshopper.
Hearing the name "Seven of Nine", from Star Trek, always makes me grin. As the ninth of ten children (Did you miss the part where I said I was born of Mormons? Yes, Hello! Welcome to the party.) I was calling myself "Nine of Ten" long before Jeri Ryan ever donned that jaw-dropping spandex skinsuit.
My dad is a Mormon Bishop, retired from the private sector, borderling obsessive-compulsive, and an avid lover of computer flight-simulator games. My mom is a voracious reader of books, an extraordinarily talented artist, a television and radio news addict, and something of a mad creative genius. That two people representing opposite ends of the personality spectrum - his OCD, her ADD (which explains a lot about how I got this way) managed to make a marriage work through 10 children and 45 years (and counting) is something of an anathema to me.
When I stop to consider the sheer magnitude of the task of raising a family of that size, I begin to feel light-headed. The fact that my parents didn't start assigning us barcodes after the first 5 or 6, and the fact that we have all grown up to be reasonably well-adjusted human beings, speaks to their virtues.
The one thing I do understand about them is their reaction to my resignation from the church they have devoted their lives to. How do I begin to reach back out to them when I have nothing to say to soothe their hurt? They believe - they say they know - that they follow the one and only "true path to salvation". The believe that a farm boy named Joseph Smith was a chosen prophet of God.
What do I think? I think he was a very clever fraud, a talented con artist and supreme narcissist who, in the end, probably bought into his own fabrications. That's putting it simply and mildly. That's my own conclusion, after study and consideration. I have no inclination to convince others to believe as I do, but leave it to them to do their own study as they are so inclined.
The point of this little ramble is that, in delving into the past to deal with issues relating to my ADD, I have realized the enormity of the task ahead of me. Every moment in my memory is inextricably linked with the religion that defined my existence. The tentacles of mormonism touched on every moment of my formative years. Every. Single. Moment.
I never had to define the future for myself because it was all laid out for me according to God's plan. I had only to watch out for the signs to know which course to take on the smaller decisions - you know, like what to major in in college or where to live or who to marry.
So how much of my current struggle is wrapped up in ADD and how much comes from the way my mind was shaped? Like the tale of the grasshopper caught and kept in the jar who - upon being set free - never dared jump higher than the lid of the jar had allowed -- how many of my limitations stem from past surrender to never defining for myself how high I could go?
My dad is a Mormon Bishop, retired from the private sector, borderling obsessive-compulsive, and an avid lover of computer flight-simulator games. My mom is a voracious reader of books, an extraordinarily talented artist, a television and radio news addict, and something of a mad creative genius. That two people representing opposite ends of the personality spectrum - his OCD, her ADD (which explains a lot about how I got this way) managed to make a marriage work through 10 children and 45 years (and counting) is something of an anathema to me.
When I stop to consider the sheer magnitude of the task of raising a family of that size, I begin to feel light-headed. The fact that my parents didn't start assigning us barcodes after the first 5 or 6, and the fact that we have all grown up to be reasonably well-adjusted human beings, speaks to their virtues.
The one thing I do understand about them is their reaction to my resignation from the church they have devoted their lives to. How do I begin to reach back out to them when I have nothing to say to soothe their hurt? They believe - they say they know - that they follow the one and only "true path to salvation". The believe that a farm boy named Joseph Smith was a chosen prophet of God.
What do I think? I think he was a very clever fraud, a talented con artist and supreme narcissist who, in the end, probably bought into his own fabrications. That's putting it simply and mildly. That's my own conclusion, after study and consideration. I have no inclination to convince others to believe as I do, but leave it to them to do their own study as they are so inclined.
The point of this little ramble is that, in delving into the past to deal with issues relating to my ADD, I have realized the enormity of the task ahead of me. Every moment in my memory is inextricably linked with the religion that defined my existence. The tentacles of mormonism touched on every moment of my formative years. Every. Single. Moment.
I never had to define the future for myself because it was all laid out for me according to God's plan. I had only to watch out for the signs to know which course to take on the smaller decisions - you know, like what to major in in college or where to live or who to marry.
So how much of my current struggle is wrapped up in ADD and how much comes from the way my mind was shaped? Like the tale of the grasshopper caught and kept in the jar who - upon being set free - never dared jump higher than the lid of the jar had allowed -- how many of my limitations stem from past surrender to never defining for myself how high I could go?
Vying For Mother Of The Year
Jack is, at this moment, eating a breakfast of cheese and crackers.
In the nude.
My mom would be so proud.
In the nude.
My mom would be so proud.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Mental Health Can Be Hell
So just over a week ago I trooped myself and the boys down to the trusty Mental Health Center - located the typical "oh-so-convenient" (not) 30 minutes from my home. I had called to become a new patient, only to be informed that they did not accept new patients over the phone - you are required to "walk-in" the first time - supposedly to fill out all the documentation, but the cynic in me suspected they really just like to get a look at the patients to determine if they should just put them in a straight jacket in a rubber room straight away.
The harried receptionist, from behind her four foot high desk and quarter-inch-thick plexiglass window, handed me a clipboard of paper work and explained in an "I'm not sure how crazy you are, so I'll talk slowly" tone that I should be careful to check for a back side to each page and fill out all information completely.
I found a padded chair, in a corner of the inexplicably spacious waiting area, and sat down next to a table covered with kids toys so Jack could play while I filled out yet another set of forms that would want to know my entire medical/mental history.
Finding the toys were actually bolted to the top of the coffee table? Okay, that made me a little nervous. In fact, it was at that moment that it suddenly dawned on me that I was not in D's comfy, very homey office any more. This was a serious clinical institution; behind those big locked doors was an inpatient facility for people with dangerous tendencies and total nervous breakdowns. A few people in the waiting room were visibly agitated, and I was suddenly glad for the buffer zone afforded by the size of the room.
I had to take a few deep breaths and remind myself that I wouldn't be here if it wasn't necessary - that this disorder has had such a crushing impact on my life that I really have no choice but to deal with it now that I have a name to put to it. And this is the only place to find a licensed psychiatrist within an hour of my house who took my insurance. I really didn't have any other options, so I heaved a sigh and started writing.
I finished filling out my stack of paperwork and headed back to the counter. The receptionist informed me that they were at a three to five week wait for an appointment with a psychiatrist. I told her I was hoping to be seen at the satellite office, which is only a few miles from my house, and she brightened up and said that the delay should be much shorter there. She briefly talked with another woman behind the fortress window, then returned to tell me they weren't sure if the doc at the local office was on my insurance. The other woman went to check something "in the back" which would, presumably, give her that information.
I stood there uncomfortably for a few minutes, the infant carrier in my hand growing heavier by the second. The receptionist opened her window, apparently having caught sight of the top of Jack's curly head, and leaned out to see him.
"Oh my goodness! Is he yours?"
I confirmed that yes, indeed, I am the owner of the "Hemi Engine in a PowerWheels body" that is my oldest son. She gushed over him for a moment, and I realized she must have decided I couldn't be all THAT crazy because, after all, a madwoman could hardly have such adorable (and clean) children, right? I ignored the awkwardness of the situation and thanked her pleasantly for her compliments. Jack, having recognized an audience, decided to tell her that he is getting a puppy for learning to "go poopy in the potty!". She laughed, while I squirmed a little at the curious looks from around the waiting room.(Why oh why must the boy have inherited his father's carrying timbre? Couldn't he have a nice quiet voice, like me? Especially when discussing bowel movements? In front of the crazies?)
Finally, the other woman returned to say that the information they needed was apparently proving more difficult to find than she thought. Could I call them tomorrow to find out if I could be seen at the local office? Relieved to have an opening for escape, I said that would be fine and beat a hasty retreat to the car.
I called the next day only to be told (without explanation) that I should call back in a week and they would have something for me. SO, looking at my calendar this morning, I realized it had been a week and (with lots of self-talk to overcome my as-yet-unexplained anxiety over making phone calls) dialed their number again.
Bada-bing, we have an appointment. In approximately a week and a half, I will be sitting down with a bona-fide Psychiatrist for my official evaluation.
Want to know something? At this point, I have no doubts about the ADD. I have concerns about it sure, but at least I know what it is and what can be done about it. That's actually not what worries me the most.
What I'm most afraid of is what ELSE the shrink might say. The part of me that grew up blissfully ignorant of so many things and never gave a moment's thought to mental illness? That part would just as soon STAY ignorant of what else is likely wrong with my brain.
The harried receptionist, from behind her four foot high desk and quarter-inch-thick plexiglass window, handed me a clipboard of paper work and explained in an "I'm not sure how crazy you are, so I'll talk slowly" tone that I should be careful to check for a back side to each page and fill out all information completely.
I found a padded chair, in a corner of the inexplicably spacious waiting area, and sat down next to a table covered with kids toys so Jack could play while I filled out yet another set of forms that would want to know my entire medical/mental history.
Finding the toys were actually bolted to the top of the coffee table? Okay, that made me a little nervous. In fact, it was at that moment that it suddenly dawned on me that I was not in D's comfy, very homey office any more. This was a serious clinical institution; behind those big locked doors was an inpatient facility for people with dangerous tendencies and total nervous breakdowns. A few people in the waiting room were visibly agitated, and I was suddenly glad for the buffer zone afforded by the size of the room.
I had to take a few deep breaths and remind myself that I wouldn't be here if it wasn't necessary - that this disorder has had such a crushing impact on my life that I really have no choice but to deal with it now that I have a name to put to it. And this is the only place to find a licensed psychiatrist within an hour of my house who took my insurance. I really didn't have any other options, so I heaved a sigh and started writing.
I finished filling out my stack of paperwork and headed back to the counter. The receptionist informed me that they were at a three to five week wait for an appointment with a psychiatrist. I told her I was hoping to be seen at the satellite office, which is only a few miles from my house, and she brightened up and said that the delay should be much shorter there. She briefly talked with another woman behind the fortress window, then returned to tell me they weren't sure if the doc at the local office was on my insurance. The other woman went to check something "in the back" which would, presumably, give her that information.
I stood there uncomfortably for a few minutes, the infant carrier in my hand growing heavier by the second. The receptionist opened her window, apparently having caught sight of the top of Jack's curly head, and leaned out to see him.
"Oh my goodness! Is he yours?"
I confirmed that yes, indeed, I am the owner of the "Hemi Engine in a PowerWheels body" that is my oldest son. She gushed over him for a moment, and I realized she must have decided I couldn't be all THAT crazy because, after all, a madwoman could hardly have such adorable (and clean) children, right? I ignored the awkwardness of the situation and thanked her pleasantly for her compliments. Jack, having recognized an audience, decided to tell her that he is getting a puppy for learning to "go poopy in the potty!". She laughed, while I squirmed a little at the curious looks from around the waiting room.(Why oh why must the boy have inherited his father's carrying timbre? Couldn't he have a nice quiet voice, like me? Especially when discussing bowel movements? In front of the crazies?)
Finally, the other woman returned to say that the information they needed was apparently proving more difficult to find than she thought. Could I call them tomorrow to find out if I could be seen at the local office? Relieved to have an opening for escape, I said that would be fine and beat a hasty retreat to the car.
I called the next day only to be told (without explanation) that I should call back in a week and they would have something for me. SO, looking at my calendar this morning, I realized it had been a week and (with lots of self-talk to overcome my as-yet-unexplained anxiety over making phone calls) dialed their number again.
Bada-bing, we have an appointment. In approximately a week and a half, I will be sitting down with a bona-fide Psychiatrist for my official evaluation.
Want to know something? At this point, I have no doubts about the ADD. I have concerns about it sure, but at least I know what it is and what can be done about it. That's actually not what worries me the most.
What I'm most afraid of is what ELSE the shrink might say. The part of me that grew up blissfully ignorant of so many things and never gave a moment's thought to mental illness? That part would just as soon STAY ignorant of what else is likely wrong with my brain.
Monday, August 07, 2006
S.O.S.D.D.
I have officially been in the greater DC area for 7.5 years now, and I have begun to realize something.
I am running out of things to see. With 2 kids 3 and under and a 30 minute drive to anywhere interesting, I spend an awful lot of time at home these days; but even if I lived closer to the buzz of the local Urbana, I've SEEN it. In three quarters of a decade, I have become familiar enough to transverse a hefty portion of territory both in and outside of the beltway without a map. Considering my complete lack of aptitude for directions, that is truly scary. Saturday, I drove from Wild West Virginia through Herndon to Fairfax, Virginia and realized I knew the ins and outs of every back road on the way. Typically? I can get lost in a paper bag. Or a mall parking lot. (Especially a mall parking lot.)
The time is approaching when I think it will be time to say Au Revoir to our little home in the hills and head for parts unknown. It makes me sad to realize the boys will remember little, if anything, about this place... but the sense of adventure, knowing there are places yet to be explored somewhere far, far away, is also giving me a good little buzz. At least there is plenty of time before this little pipe-dream becomes a reality, eh?
I am running out of things to see. With 2 kids 3 and under and a 30 minute drive to anywhere interesting, I spend an awful lot of time at home these days; but even if I lived closer to the buzz of the local Urbana, I've SEEN it. In three quarters of a decade, I have become familiar enough to transverse a hefty portion of territory both in and outside of the beltway without a map. Considering my complete lack of aptitude for directions, that is truly scary. Saturday, I drove from Wild West Virginia through Herndon to Fairfax, Virginia and realized I knew the ins and outs of every back road on the way. Typically? I can get lost in a paper bag. Or a mall parking lot. (Especially a mall parking lot.)
The time is approaching when I think it will be time to say Au Revoir to our little home in the hills and head for parts unknown. It makes me sad to realize the boys will remember little, if anything, about this place... but the sense of adventure, knowing there are places yet to be explored somewhere far, far away, is also giving me a good little buzz. At least there is plenty of time before this little pipe-dream becomes a reality, eh?
Sunday, August 06, 2006
SNAFU... (Gesundheit!)
For all 3 of you who were pissed because you couldn't find my site feed? It is un-broken now.
Feed Here
Now it will be so, so much easier to scratch your SAAM itch. Even though you KNOW if you scratch it will never heal properly, and you will totally end up with a scar. Which is cool if you're into scars.
Scars are The HOTTness... just so there's no question as to where I stand on the issue.
Feed Here
Now it will be so, so much easier to scratch your SAAM itch. Even though you KNOW if you scratch it will never heal properly, and you will totally end up with a scar. Which is cool if you're into scars.
Scars are The HOTTness... just so there's no question as to where I stand on the issue.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Excerpt from my life...
Details to be explained, perhaps, at a later date... An excerpt from a piece of life-altering correspondence I composed today...
"I am in the early stages of beginning to examine (via counseling) who I am and how I got here so I may assign events in my life a meaning and a purpose as I move forward as a wife, as a mother, as a woman, and as a human being. "
Perhaps one of the most profoundly meaningful statements of my life. Just down the list a ways from "I Do" and "It's a Boy", and far above "Amen".
"I am in the early stages of beginning to examine (via counseling) who I am and how I got here so I may assign events in my life a meaning and a purpose as I move forward as a wife, as a mother, as a woman, and as a human being. "
Perhaps one of the most profoundly meaningful statements of my life. Just down the list a ways from "I Do" and "It's a Boy", and far above "Amen".
Random Funny Of The Day
Five tips for a woman....
1. It is important that a man helps you around the house and has a job.
2. It is important that a man makes you laugh.
3. It is important to find a man you can count on and doesn't lie to you.
4. It is important that a man loves you and spoils you.
5. It is important that these four men don't know each other.
1. It is important that a man helps you around the house and has a job.
2. It is important that a man makes you laugh.
3. It is important to find a man you can count on and doesn't lie to you.
4. It is important that a man loves you and spoils you.
5. It is important that these four men don't know each other.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Confessions of a dangerous mind... Part Deux
Several weeks or months ago, I started talking about my diagnosis of Depression/PPD and generalized anxiety. My subsequent treatment has included a daily dose of Zoloft and bi-monthly counseling. My therapist, we'll call her "D", is the kind of woman you wish could be your third Grandmother. The kind who is instantly kind and generous of spirit, puts you immediately at ease, and who doesn't judge when you sometimes say things like "I swear to God, one of these days I'm going to sell that kid on eBay." Because sometimes? Moms need to say those things, even though .42 milliseconds later we realize we don't really mean it.
At my most recent session I happened to mention, quite casually, that my mother informed me that one of my sisters is being treated for PPD and another sister for Adult ADD. D asked me if I had considered whether or not I might have ADD. I was dumbstruck for a moment. My only experience has been with ADHD in my 13-year-old niece, who has a host of other complicating factors - not the least of which has been the Hyperactivity. D recommended this book, which I picked up on my way home from the session.
As I got home and started thumbing through the pages, I was riveted. Then I started looking for the hidden cameras because THIS BOOK WAS WRITTEN ABOUT ME. I read a few more pages every chance I could get and felt the lightbulbs going on over my head constantly. My entire life, in a bizarre but very real way, suddenly started making sense. My childhood, my struggles in school in spite of scoring high on intelligence testing, my difficulties in studying and paying attention in class, the drifting off in the middle of conversations... even, to some degree, the depression and anxiety.
T was highly skeptical; he's never been a big believer in ADD and wasn't convinced it really existed until the experiences with our niece. Every so often, I would hand him a page with a description or a check list to read. By the end of the weekend he was seeing things a bit differently. We both agreed I should follow up with D.
I debated whether or not to blog about this at all. I've never put a lot of faith into ADD. I was brought up with the philosophy that a little hard work and determination (and prayer) could overcome almost anything- that a person should heft themselves up by the boot straps, just "buck up", "buckle down", and get over it.
You know - basically all the same arguments that kept me from seeking treatment for depression until I was perpetually in my pajamas, huddling in the Lay-Z-Boy, going days without showering and bursting into hysterical sobbing whenever one of the kids cried.
And so, I embark on a new journey of discovery. The next step is a consultation with a Psychiatrist for a clinical evaluation to see if I do, indeed, meet the technical description for Adult ADD.
At this point? It's a strong possibility.
At my most recent session I happened to mention, quite casually, that my mother informed me that one of my sisters is being treated for PPD and another sister for Adult ADD. D asked me if I had considered whether or not I might have ADD. I was dumbstruck for a moment. My only experience has been with ADHD in my 13-year-old niece, who has a host of other complicating factors - not the least of which has been the Hyperactivity. D recommended this book, which I picked up on my way home from the session.
As I got home and started thumbing through the pages, I was riveted. Then I started looking for the hidden cameras because THIS BOOK WAS WRITTEN ABOUT ME. I read a few more pages every chance I could get and felt the lightbulbs going on over my head constantly. My entire life, in a bizarre but very real way, suddenly started making sense. My childhood, my struggles in school in spite of scoring high on intelligence testing, my difficulties in studying and paying attention in class, the drifting off in the middle of conversations... even, to some degree, the depression and anxiety.
T was highly skeptical; he's never been a big believer in ADD and wasn't convinced it really existed until the experiences with our niece. Every so often, I would hand him a page with a description or a check list to read. By the end of the weekend he was seeing things a bit differently. We both agreed I should follow up with D.
I debated whether or not to blog about this at all. I've never put a lot of faith into ADD. I was brought up with the philosophy that a little hard work and determination (and prayer) could overcome almost anything- that a person should heft themselves up by the boot straps, just "buck up", "buckle down", and get over it.
You know - basically all the same arguments that kept me from seeking treatment for depression until I was perpetually in my pajamas, huddling in the Lay-Z-Boy, going days without showering and bursting into hysterical sobbing whenever one of the kids cried.
And so, I embark on a new journey of discovery. The next step is a consultation with a Psychiatrist for a clinical evaluation to see if I do, indeed, meet the technical description for Adult ADD.
At this point? It's a strong possibility.
Naked Blogging?
All this construction behind the house is usually just a sometimes-annoyance... what with the occasional blasting and odd hours of hammering and such. But today? Well, let's just say there's nothing quite like walking into your kitchen in a t-shirt and a pair of panties to discover a gaggle of construction workers just outside your window. With a cement truck.
The epiphany of it all for me, really, was that when the construction workers are done and gone there will be a permanent house there. With neighbors who will live there and be looking out their windows occasionally.
I really need to invest in a few more pairs of pajama pants.
The epiphany of it all for me, really, was that when the construction workers are done and gone there will be a permanent house there. With neighbors who will live there and be looking out their windows occasionally.
I really need to invest in a few more pairs of pajama pants.
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