Damn, where have I been?
Well, it's been a hell of a few busy months. We moved out of the awful neighborhood I hated. So that took approximately forever to search for a house, go through the buying process, pack, and get (mostly) settled in. Actually, it took just a few months. But I did kind of vanish. Anyway, out with the old and in with the new. And I'm going to jump right in.
Amy has turned two. And, as anyone with a two-year-old can tell you, extended periods of senseless screaming can lead even the most rational human being to contemplate murder. (And I am not the most rational human being.) I'm sure this applies doubly so for parents of teens. However, I don't have teens yet. And if this keeps up, I may never know what that particular feeling is like, because I may be locked in a psych ward somewhere just yelling at the walls to "Please let mommy poop in peace!". But, I digress. They make children small and cute and portable in size specifically so you DON'T kill them. Being able to lift her up and move her about, essentially bending her to my will when she is stubborn, is probably the only reason I haven't left her in a supermarket by now. She is a little princess. And I do not mean that in the pretty, sweet, flowery, Disney sort of way. More in the entitled, stubborn, "mine, mine, gimme" way. She pushes my buttons, drags me to the very edge of sanity, and then, just for shits and giggles, throws me over the brink. Yes, I get into screaming matches with a two-year-old. I'm THAT person. But-and this is very important-I do NOT abuse her. Of course, she's so headstrong, careless, and clumsy she's basically got a new bruise and/or scratch every day anyway. So thank goodness my nearest neighbors are an acre away these days right?
Alex is adjusting pretty well. He likes the new school and riding the bus and the two girls I've taken to watching after school a few days a week. More he likes bossing around two girls older than him, but I'm trying to break him of the habit. And trying to get the mousy little creatures to break him of it for me. He is NOT their boss. I am HIS boss. But more on them another time. Most of the time when he's home he's playing video games now that it gets dark so early. I'm trying to break that habit a bit. But it is hard. I've met a couple of his friend's moms and am trying to arrange times to have them play. They play well-like normal kids, not like the kids he played with back in our old neighborhood. The other moms and I watched these three beat eachother up with an air filled bat, steal shoes, and tackle eachother in the grass, all while taking turns doing so and actively trying not to hurt the other kids and not getting all pissed off when they weren't "winning". And not one of them came crying to us. You know, being normal boys. I'm so not used to it. I thoroughly enjoyed that afternoon. Alex still has his attitude issues to an extent along with his inability to understand that I haven't forgotten my answer was "no" just because he asks again three minutes later. But I think the incidents are fewer. Time will tell. Or maybe Amy is just making him look good.
Nick is working his ass off. He's been doing so much overtime you'd think we wouldn't be having trouble paying the bills. Sadly, the bills don't want to let up. It's been quite some time since we've experienced this level of work for this little money left after bills are paid. So I'm with the kids all day and he works more hours. That coupled with the now long commute (almost 2 hours as opposed to 30 minutes) means I don't see him much. And when I do we try to do family things or we have this home to take care of. It is alot of work. I miss my husband. I wish I could say more on the subject of him but I feel like we're distant lately. He wouldn't get that. And I wouldn't bother with an explanation because we'd only fight. Maybe it'll be better after the holidays. After all, it isn't anyone's fault this time. This is just life.
Is it all worth it? Well, my house is beautiful. I'm not surrounded by the hordes of obnoxious hipsters I couldn't bear being around. My kids are essentially happy. And I've even made a few friends here (more on them later). I'm getting outside my comfort zones more comfortably and I feel less constricted by the skin of the old perception of me. It feels like maybe a new start if I just keep hacking at it. Of course, I might also still just snap and have to be hauled away in a white jacket if I have to spend one more long day alone listening to these damned screaming brats. Really, it could go either way.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
I Blame My Husand's Penis
When I asked Nick what he wanted for Father's Day this year I got a very simple and to the point answer. "Cook my favorite meal and give me a toe-curling blow job." Hey, this was something I could do easily, inexpensively, and without leaving home. Awesome! So he got his chicken parmesan and not just a toe-curler, but an entire body wrencher, and was snoring in my ear about 30 seconds later.
The next morning I woke up feeling like my tongue was wearing a fur coat. It was, to say the least, uncomfortable. Throughout the day the feeling spread to include my inner cheeks and the roof of my mouth. I thought maybe allergies were just giving me an intense case of cotton mouth and so I drank like I was in the middle of the desert. I pissed like a race horse, yet I still coughed all day feeling like I had been licking my dog. And my mouth was getting this whitish coating. By bed time my throat was a little sore and I was considering seeing a doctor the next day.
That would be today. Today I woke up and there was a thick white sherpa covering my tongue and roof of my mouth. I used a tooth brush to remove it and immediately began to bleed. I though maybe strep, but I'm an old hand at strep. I have strep at least once a season and this was not like strep. No fever, no pain up into the ears, no gradual progression, no real swelling that I could tell. And what the hell was with the white coating? And then I remembered something I had heard of before. It was called thrush. Which basically means a yeast infection in the mouth and throat. And I recalled that my husband is a rather large, sweaty, uncircumcised man who has been known to get male yeast infections from time to time that come and go and are, essentially, symptomless. And he had shot a load down my throat the night before the white crap appeared.
I looked up all the symptoms online and, sure enough, they fit. Right down to pictures. I made the doctor appointment for the afternoon. But, by the time I got there, it felt as if my throat was closing up and my chest was beginning to hurt. I hadn't eaten all day and could barely swallow saliva. The physician on duty took a good look, listened to what I managed to choke out, and said she thought I had thrush. But I also had two huge lumps in my throat which concerned her. She gave me two options. Go to the hospital, or wait and see the ENT when he arrived at 4PM. Either way, I needed an endoscopy. Also, she made me call Nick home from work because I was in no shape to deal with the kids. The hospital visit was ER only and would cost $300 to walk in the door and I would have to wait my turn. The ENT took my insurance, would definitely see me first, and is a sadist. I grit my teeth and chose to see the ENT. For practicality's sake it was cheaper and probably faster.
So Nick took me home and we waited for 4PM, left the kids with my parents. and made our way back to the clinic. He did the endoscopy, rolled his eyes at me, and informed me that my throat was not going to close up. Then he said it was an infection. Really? No shit Sherlock. I came in telling you I had an infection. I asked him if he was going to do a culture and he looked at me like I had several heads and one had just vomited on his shoes. Then he wrote me a prescription for a "powerful broad spectrum antibiotic" and a "corticosteroid". He then asked if I had any questions. I again asked him what it was, exactly, that was wrong with me. He told me, again, that it was an infection. I asked if it was strep, or something else, or thrush as the other doctor thought. He said all infections are different and this was an infection. I hate this man.
Just as an aside, this is the same asshole that did an endoscopy on Alex when he was just 5 without even the preface of an explanation to the poor child of what was about to happen. He just sat the kid in a chair, pushed his head back, and shoved this long uncomfortable tube all the way down his throat via his nostril. Then complained when Alex cried out, pushed away, and nearly threw up. For anyone who's even gotten one of these things, they're scary and invasive enough when you're prepared for it. When you're 5 and it's just done to you while you're being chastised for not sitting still, it's downright abusive. Then the guy had the nerve to say my kid must have ADHD and, furthermore, most kids do, since so few sit still for it. He then stuck him on steroids for six months for allergies despite my protests of sticking a 5-year-old on steroids for an extended period of time. Luckily, Alex's pediatrician called a "What the hell!?" on him and I filed a complaint. But then, maybe that's why he doesn't care to find out what's actually wrong with me now and just wants to give me steroids.
Anyway, after I didn't find out what's actually wrong and did get the prescriptions to basically nuke it out of me, he goes on to casually say that should my throat close I should call 911. But I thought he'd just said it wasn't going to? Asshole. Nick picked up the meds while I glowered and reconsidered whether the hospital wouldn't have been a better choice. The steroids came with all sorts of fun warnings. Of of which was that the contraindications were that it shouldn't be used if a fungal infection was present. Thrush, which the original doctor who examined me (without my suggesting it mind you, just by my symptom description and examination) said she believed I have, is a fungal infection. Apparently, the ENT said "fuck that I'm smarter" and gave me a drug that shouldn't be used for what the initial physician believes me to have. Another serious risk factor? Depression and psych meds. Did this asshole even glance at the chart right fucking in front of him? Probably not. Because it was also too much work to take a culture to determine what was actually wrong with me as well. His approach is to throw steroids at everything. And then I opened the antibiotics. Keep in mind I can barely swallow my own spit. These pills are roughly the size of a small continent. Now he's just fucking with me. Oh, and, not that he thinks there's anything wrong or can be bothered with me, but I have another endoscopy tomorrow. For some reason. Probably because he wants to see me choke and cry and almost vomit again.
Despite all this, and my feeble (since my speech sounds like that of a deaf person) protests, Nick got me to eat soup and melted ice cream and take all the fucking pills. Along with my regularly scheduled med routine. But if, for any reason, they don't miracle cure me, I'm never giving him head again. Because I still blame his evil penis. Next year he's getting a tie.
The next morning I woke up feeling like my tongue was wearing a fur coat. It was, to say the least, uncomfortable. Throughout the day the feeling spread to include my inner cheeks and the roof of my mouth. I thought maybe allergies were just giving me an intense case of cotton mouth and so I drank like I was in the middle of the desert. I pissed like a race horse, yet I still coughed all day feeling like I had been licking my dog. And my mouth was getting this whitish coating. By bed time my throat was a little sore and I was considering seeing a doctor the next day.
That would be today. Today I woke up and there was a thick white sherpa covering my tongue and roof of my mouth. I used a tooth brush to remove it and immediately began to bleed. I though maybe strep, but I'm an old hand at strep. I have strep at least once a season and this was not like strep. No fever, no pain up into the ears, no gradual progression, no real swelling that I could tell. And what the hell was with the white coating? And then I remembered something I had heard of before. It was called thrush. Which basically means a yeast infection in the mouth and throat. And I recalled that my husband is a rather large, sweaty, uncircumcised man who has been known to get male yeast infections from time to time that come and go and are, essentially, symptomless. And he had shot a load down my throat the night before the white crap appeared.
I looked up all the symptoms online and, sure enough, they fit. Right down to pictures. I made the doctor appointment for the afternoon. But, by the time I got there, it felt as if my throat was closing up and my chest was beginning to hurt. I hadn't eaten all day and could barely swallow saliva. The physician on duty took a good look, listened to what I managed to choke out, and said she thought I had thrush. But I also had two huge lumps in my throat which concerned her. She gave me two options. Go to the hospital, or wait and see the ENT when he arrived at 4PM. Either way, I needed an endoscopy. Also, she made me call Nick home from work because I was in no shape to deal with the kids. The hospital visit was ER only and would cost $300 to walk in the door and I would have to wait my turn. The ENT took my insurance, would definitely see me first, and is a sadist. I grit my teeth and chose to see the ENT. For practicality's sake it was cheaper and probably faster.
So Nick took me home and we waited for 4PM, left the kids with my parents. and made our way back to the clinic. He did the endoscopy, rolled his eyes at me, and informed me that my throat was not going to close up. Then he said it was an infection. Really? No shit Sherlock. I came in telling you I had an infection. I asked him if he was going to do a culture and he looked at me like I had several heads and one had just vomited on his shoes. Then he wrote me a prescription for a "powerful broad spectrum antibiotic" and a "corticosteroid". He then asked if I had any questions. I again asked him what it was, exactly, that was wrong with me. He told me, again, that it was an infection. I asked if it was strep, or something else, or thrush as the other doctor thought. He said all infections are different and this was an infection. I hate this man.
Just as an aside, this is the same asshole that did an endoscopy on Alex when he was just 5 without even the preface of an explanation to the poor child of what was about to happen. He just sat the kid in a chair, pushed his head back, and shoved this long uncomfortable tube all the way down his throat via his nostril. Then complained when Alex cried out, pushed away, and nearly threw up. For anyone who's even gotten one of these things, they're scary and invasive enough when you're prepared for it. When you're 5 and it's just done to you while you're being chastised for not sitting still, it's downright abusive. Then the guy had the nerve to say my kid must have ADHD and, furthermore, most kids do, since so few sit still for it. He then stuck him on steroids for six months for allergies despite my protests of sticking a 5-year-old on steroids for an extended period of time. Luckily, Alex's pediatrician called a "What the hell!?" on him and I filed a complaint. But then, maybe that's why he doesn't care to find out what's actually wrong with me now and just wants to give me steroids.
Anyway, after I didn't find out what's actually wrong and did get the prescriptions to basically nuke it out of me, he goes on to casually say that should my throat close I should call 911. But I thought he'd just said it wasn't going to? Asshole. Nick picked up the meds while I glowered and reconsidered whether the hospital wouldn't have been a better choice. The steroids came with all sorts of fun warnings. Of of which was that the contraindications were that it shouldn't be used if a fungal infection was present. Thrush, which the original doctor who examined me (without my suggesting it mind you, just by my symptom description and examination) said she believed I have, is a fungal infection. Apparently, the ENT said "fuck that I'm smarter" and gave me a drug that shouldn't be used for what the initial physician believes me to have. Another serious risk factor? Depression and psych meds. Did this asshole even glance at the chart right fucking in front of him? Probably not. Because it was also too much work to take a culture to determine what was actually wrong with me as well. His approach is to throw steroids at everything. And then I opened the antibiotics. Keep in mind I can barely swallow my own spit. These pills are roughly the size of a small continent. Now he's just fucking with me. Oh, and, not that he thinks there's anything wrong or can be bothered with me, but I have another endoscopy tomorrow. For some reason. Probably because he wants to see me choke and cry and almost vomit again.
Despite all this, and my feeble (since my speech sounds like that of a deaf person) protests, Nick got me to eat soup and melted ice cream and take all the fucking pills. Along with my regularly scheduled med routine. But if, for any reason, they don't miracle cure me, I'm never giving him head again. Because I still blame his evil penis. Next year he's getting a tie.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
At The Seams
So I haven't written in awhile. I've thought about writing and wanted to write and even sat in front of the blank screen, fingers at the keys, eager to type away. But I just haven't. I've given up my Twitter entirely. I've been suffering from total writer's block. I've actually been suffering from far more than that. I'm like a really slow moving train wreck, relentlessly moving onward, that nothing is able to stop. Here we reach one of the true awful downsides of bipolar. The anxiety ridden manic event.
My vacation came and went. I was hoping that was going to be the balm which soothed my savage soul. But, being I'm a SAHM now, it was more like a business trip than a true vacation. Hell, I did laundry and made breakfast every day. And it was not only 24/7 with BOTH children, but 24/7 with my husband, who was forced to be with the children 24/7. Were parts of it wonderful? Absolutely. And at some point, when my hair is not (literally) falling out in clumps, I'll write some great stories about it. Like the story of Alex trying to mount the dolphin. Or how we ended up the proud(?) owners of a time share. But not now. For the last couple of months my mindset has not been a happy, sarcastic, poke at life and write about it in an upbeat tone type of thing.
I'm struggling to hold on. It's brain chemistry. It's the unease of so long feeling like I'm in limbo, without a true base under my feet. We're supposed to be moving upstate and now that's on shaky ground for various reasons. We're still moving but we may now have to rent rather than buy, which still means a few years before I have a place that's truly "mine". The light at the end of the tunnel keeps winking brighter and then dimmer and I'm not sure I believe it's really the outside anymore and not just a train coming at me. Alex's behavior has been awful. Nick and I have had our problems. Amy is entering the terrible two's. And I'm home and bored and isolated and lonely. And hitting that Spring mania with just enough negative triggers to make it unpleasant.
So I haven't been sleeping. I can barely eat anything without it running right through me or trying to fight it's way back up. I'm shedding pounds, which would be great, except I don't look healthy doing so, what with the loss of muscle tone from sheer exhaustion. My eyes are black underneath and I'm pretty sure I could pack an overnight bag in the rings around them. My hair's been falling out. My skin's been bruising if I sneeze too hard. Which I do often given my seasonal allergies. And I'm walking around looking and talking like a speed freak filled with all this wired up nervous energy. I have very little patience for any of the usual stupidity of humanity or even the misbehavior of my children. I'm irritable and moody with them. And I've been ducking my friends and picking fights with Nick over things I normally let slide. Maybe things I shouldn't let slide as often as I do, being they're really obnoxious, but still, I'm not myself.
In short, if I had the option of hiding from the world, that's what I'd be doing right now. But I care about too many people too deeply to pull that crap anymore. My husband, my kids, my good friends, yeah even my dopey family members. So I grit my teeth and remember that I am a human being as, as such, I need and am needed by other members of the species. And being here with them now, even when I want to run under the bed, or possibly bite them all (I won't), ensures they will be there for me later when I snap out of this funk. And that's what makes the world go round. But I will still probably avoid the blog for a bit. Otherwise I'll just sound all emo.
My vacation came and went. I was hoping that was going to be the balm which soothed my savage soul. But, being I'm a SAHM now, it was more like a business trip than a true vacation. Hell, I did laundry and made breakfast every day. And it was not only 24/7 with BOTH children, but 24/7 with my husband, who was forced to be with the children 24/7. Were parts of it wonderful? Absolutely. And at some point, when my hair is not (literally) falling out in clumps, I'll write some great stories about it. Like the story of Alex trying to mount the dolphin. Or how we ended up the proud(?) owners of a time share. But not now. For the last couple of months my mindset has not been a happy, sarcastic, poke at life and write about it in an upbeat tone type of thing.
I'm struggling to hold on. It's brain chemistry. It's the unease of so long feeling like I'm in limbo, without a true base under my feet. We're supposed to be moving upstate and now that's on shaky ground for various reasons. We're still moving but we may now have to rent rather than buy, which still means a few years before I have a place that's truly "mine". The light at the end of the tunnel keeps winking brighter and then dimmer and I'm not sure I believe it's really the outside anymore and not just a train coming at me. Alex's behavior has been awful. Nick and I have had our problems. Amy is entering the terrible two's. And I'm home and bored and isolated and lonely. And hitting that Spring mania with just enough negative triggers to make it unpleasant.
So I haven't been sleeping. I can barely eat anything without it running right through me or trying to fight it's way back up. I'm shedding pounds, which would be great, except I don't look healthy doing so, what with the loss of muscle tone from sheer exhaustion. My eyes are black underneath and I'm pretty sure I could pack an overnight bag in the rings around them. My hair's been falling out. My skin's been bruising if I sneeze too hard. Which I do often given my seasonal allergies. And I'm walking around looking and talking like a speed freak filled with all this wired up nervous energy. I have very little patience for any of the usual stupidity of humanity or even the misbehavior of my children. I'm irritable and moody with them. And I've been ducking my friends and picking fights with Nick over things I normally let slide. Maybe things I shouldn't let slide as often as I do, being they're really obnoxious, but still, I'm not myself.
In short, if I had the option of hiding from the world, that's what I'd be doing right now. But I care about too many people too deeply to pull that crap anymore. My husband, my kids, my good friends, yeah even my dopey family members. So I grit my teeth and remember that I am a human being as, as such, I need and am needed by other members of the species. And being here with them now, even when I want to run under the bed, or possibly bite them all (I won't), ensures they will be there for me later when I snap out of this funk. And that's what makes the world go round. But I will still probably avoid the blog for a bit. Otherwise I'll just sound all emo.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Those Three (Dreaded) Little Words
About a week ago my parents gave Alex yet another stuffed animal to add to his ever increasing menagerie. I swear at this point I don't know how he finds space on his bed to sleep amongst the damned things. But they all sleep with him and they all have names, all of which he remembers. This one was a little hound dog he named Honey.
He's ridiculously protective of these creatures and hates when Amy plays with them, which to be fair, usually involves getting snots and drool on them as she worries them like a dog with a rat in its mouth. So we have a rule. If he doesn't want them touched they stay on his bed. But he's a child, so that rule is forgotten approximately 152 times a day. And the stuffed animals are taken down, Amy gets them, tears into them like a pitbull with a rope toy, and I'm breaking up another fight. I do not have patience for this shit. And my daughter is stubborn and son absent-minded. I could see this going on well into their teens.
So, once again, she's got his stupid stuffed dog. And I told him this time he's letting her keep it. A few minutes later she climbed onto a chair, stuffed animal in hand, and fell over. When she started crying, both Alex and I rushed over to her. My first thought was how sweet it was that he was so concerned with his little sister's well-being. But, of course, I was wrong. In her fall she'd dropped Honey. He snatched it up, yelled "Mine" and ran away. Are you kidding me!? Once I'd calmed her down I calmly walked over, yanked the dog, gave a speech about the value of his sister over the value of a toy, put in a mention of the standing rule he had once again failed to obey, and proceeded to toss Honey on top of a high bookshelf, to be kept away from him "until further notice".
His face darkened. He pouted. The tears of rage began to form. And then those three dreaded words whined from my child's mouth. "It's not fair!"
No. You know what's not fair? The fact I had to deal with that entire situation and can't just set a bonfire in the backyard with all the stuffed animals because it would psychologically scar my son. So, here's a list of other things that are "not fair":
*"Sleeping in" means 8AM. Due to this, conversely, a "late night" usually means 2AM.
*Two hours of chasing a toddler around a playground at break-neck speeds apparently does not count as cardio. If you want proof, look at my ass.
*Kids need new clothes every few months. That means I can only get new clothes every couple of years. This doesn't keep them from doing everything in their power to stain/rip/stretch/otherwise ruin my clothes.
*Parents don't get sick days.
*I haven't had a party with cake, balloons, and a bouncy house in years. Yet I still seem to be getting older.
*Stretch marks. Enough said.
*Listening to favorite songs censored because children will repeat everything. And a toddler will ONLY repeat the choice words. That and having to listen to children's songs. Then realizing you know the words and are singing them unconsciously.
*Sex timed around whether the children are sleeping, quiet, and have not psychically sensed you were possibly thinking of getting it on.
*No matter what you do, your child will, at some point, "hate you and you're the worst parent ever!"
*Picking up the same toys 187 times a day.
*No matter how many times you check and recheck, after the laundry is done you will always find that one dirty sock/pair of underwear in a ball under a bed. And it wasn't there before.
*Your child will make at least one good friend with someone whose parent you cannot stand. They will want to see this other child constantly.
*At some point your kid will be sick with a high fever, a rash, and fluids leaking from every orifice, scaring you to death. You will rush them to the ER, wait several hours, at which point all symptoms will have magically cleared up and they will get a clean bill of health. Immediately upon getting home your child will puke on your shoes and the fever will return.
*Children are never born with instruction manuals. Sure, you can pick up various guides on how raise your child to be happy/educated/empathetic/religious/vegan/republican/zombie/other/etc. But, no matter how detailed those books are, your kid's never going to fit a specific mold and not every tip is going to work. Instead, they're born with a placenta. And, while medical science has come up with some pretty great uses for said afterbirth in recent years, personally, I still would have preferred a model-specific detailed programming guide for each of my children.
*You have have to hear "It's not fair!" When, in fact, it totally WAS!
He's ridiculously protective of these creatures and hates when Amy plays with them, which to be fair, usually involves getting snots and drool on them as she worries them like a dog with a rat in its mouth. So we have a rule. If he doesn't want them touched they stay on his bed. But he's a child, so that rule is forgotten approximately 152 times a day. And the stuffed animals are taken down, Amy gets them, tears into them like a pitbull with a rope toy, and I'm breaking up another fight. I do not have patience for this shit. And my daughter is stubborn and son absent-minded. I could see this going on well into their teens.
So, once again, she's got his stupid stuffed dog. And I told him this time he's letting her keep it. A few minutes later she climbed onto a chair, stuffed animal in hand, and fell over. When she started crying, both Alex and I rushed over to her. My first thought was how sweet it was that he was so concerned with his little sister's well-being. But, of course, I was wrong. In her fall she'd dropped Honey. He snatched it up, yelled "Mine" and ran away. Are you kidding me!? Once I'd calmed her down I calmly walked over, yanked the dog, gave a speech about the value of his sister over the value of a toy, put in a mention of the standing rule he had once again failed to obey, and proceeded to toss Honey on top of a high bookshelf, to be kept away from him "until further notice".
His face darkened. He pouted. The tears of rage began to form. And then those three dreaded words whined from my child's mouth. "It's not fair!"
No. You know what's not fair? The fact I had to deal with that entire situation and can't just set a bonfire in the backyard with all the stuffed animals because it would psychologically scar my son. So, here's a list of other things that are "not fair":
*"Sleeping in" means 8AM. Due to this, conversely, a "late night" usually means 2AM.
*Two hours of chasing a toddler around a playground at break-neck speeds apparently does not count as cardio. If you want proof, look at my ass.
*Kids need new clothes every few months. That means I can only get new clothes every couple of years. This doesn't keep them from doing everything in their power to stain/rip/stretch/otherwise ruin my clothes.
*Parents don't get sick days.
*I haven't had a party with cake, balloons, and a bouncy house in years. Yet I still seem to be getting older.
*Stretch marks. Enough said.
*Listening to favorite songs censored because children will repeat everything. And a toddler will ONLY repeat the choice words. That and having to listen to children's songs. Then realizing you know the words and are singing them unconsciously.
*Sex timed around whether the children are sleeping, quiet, and have not psychically sensed you were possibly thinking of getting it on.
*No matter what you do, your child will, at some point, "hate you and you're the worst parent ever!"
*Picking up the same toys 187 times a day.
*No matter how many times you check and recheck, after the laundry is done you will always find that one dirty sock/pair of underwear in a ball under a bed. And it wasn't there before.
*Your child will make at least one good friend with someone whose parent you cannot stand. They will want to see this other child constantly.
*At some point your kid will be sick with a high fever, a rash, and fluids leaking from every orifice, scaring you to death. You will rush them to the ER, wait several hours, at which point all symptoms will have magically cleared up and they will get a clean bill of health. Immediately upon getting home your child will puke on your shoes and the fever will return.
*Children are never born with instruction manuals. Sure, you can pick up various guides on how raise your child to be happy/educated/empathetic/religious/vegan/republican/zombie/other/etc. But, no matter how detailed those books are, your kid's never going to fit a specific mold and not every tip is going to work. Instead, they're born with a placenta. And, while medical science has come up with some pretty great uses for said afterbirth in recent years, personally, I still would have preferred a model-specific detailed programming guide for each of my children.
*You have have to hear "It's not fair!" When, in fact, it totally WAS!
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Fork Me
The other night while eating dinner, Amy stabbed a forkful of ziti into her ear, pulled the fork back, blinked at it, and yelled, "Fuck!" She proceeded to wave the fork around and say, "fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," in a sing-song voice.
Not wanting to miss a teaching moment, or risk an embarrassing recreation of her impromptu fork opera the next time we went out to dinner, I helpfully corrected my daughter. "Sweetie. That's a fork. Can you say fork? Fooooork."
She smiled at me. She held up her fork. "Fork momma. Fork." As perfect a pronunciation as you could hope for from an 18-month-old child. It was angelic. I beamed with pride. And then she took that fork, jabbed it into her ear again, and yelled "Fuck! Fuck momma!" Pulled out the fork, showed me, "fork", jabbed herself with the fork, "fuck!" "Fork fuck!" And then back into sing-song voice while waving her fork around in the air, "fork, fuck, fork, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!"
Oh. So she didn't need my help in learning how to say the word fork after all. Apparently she knew what a fork was. Apparently she knew her "fork" from her "fuck" very well. Because is seemed to me she was using the term "fuck" to express her displeasure at her "fork" having stabbed her in the ear. And then she went on to explain her use of the colorful language to me. How very interesting. Especially since I don't recall speaking like a trucker around my daughter all that often.
According to my parents, this is probably the influence of my younger brother. Now I might have insight as to why everything was a "cock" a few months ago. But I'm not going to be dismayed by this. Actually, I'm going to choose to see this as a sign that she's a budding linguistic genius. Can you say that your child at 18 months properly uses a word so complex and fluid as "fuck", and is able to differentiate it from such a similar sounding word as "fork", and then explain the difference to you in mime? I bet not! Furthermore, she conducts whole versus of song displaying her verbal talents.
Now if she could possibly master the art of not repeatedly stabbing herself in the forking face when she's doing something as simple as eating ziti maybe I could take her out in public.
Not wanting to miss a teaching moment, or risk an embarrassing recreation of her impromptu fork opera the next time we went out to dinner, I helpfully corrected my daughter. "Sweetie. That's a fork. Can you say fork? Fooooork."
She smiled at me. She held up her fork. "Fork momma. Fork." As perfect a pronunciation as you could hope for from an 18-month-old child. It was angelic. I beamed with pride. And then she took that fork, jabbed it into her ear again, and yelled "Fuck! Fuck momma!" Pulled out the fork, showed me, "fork", jabbed herself with the fork, "fuck!" "Fork fuck!" And then back into sing-song voice while waving her fork around in the air, "fork, fuck, fork, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!"
Oh. So she didn't need my help in learning how to say the word fork after all. Apparently she knew what a fork was. Apparently she knew her "fork" from her "fuck" very well. Because is seemed to me she was using the term "fuck" to express her displeasure at her "fork" having stabbed her in the ear. And then she went on to explain her use of the colorful language to me. How very interesting. Especially since I don't recall speaking like a trucker around my daughter all that often.
According to my parents, this is probably the influence of my younger brother. Now I might have insight as to why everything was a "cock" a few months ago. But I'm not going to be dismayed by this. Actually, I'm going to choose to see this as a sign that she's a budding linguistic genius. Can you say that your child at 18 months properly uses a word so complex and fluid as "fuck", and is able to differentiate it from such a similar sounding word as "fork", and then explain the difference to you in mime? I bet not! Furthermore, she conducts whole versus of song displaying her verbal talents.
Now if she could possibly master the art of not repeatedly stabbing herself in the forking face when she's doing something as simple as eating ziti maybe I could take her out in public.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
One Got Over The Cuckoos Nest
If you've ever been to a Renaissance Fair you've probably seen those wine glasses with the pewter bases made so that the matching set fits together to form something, usually the shape of a heart. Sometimes the base is a bunch of flowers, or fairies, or stars. Today my mother came home from her bowling league and handed me a wrapped bundle, saying that one of the women on her league, the mother of an ex, had told her to bring it to me. Inside was one of those wine glasses, the pewter base in the shape of a dragon, the flute a deep royal blue, and the matching glass on display inside my TV stand, where it's been standing solitary for about five years. Before that it was in storage for a few years and before that it was on various shelves, always solitary. Within minutes, my eyes were misty, despite the fact I was smiling. I knew exactly what the glass symbolized. He was over me. Finally.
Rewind to the summer of 1999. I was dating Angel and I was actually going to marry the guy. That was the plan anyway. Aren't twenty-year-olds and their plans adorable? Anyway, he was perfect. Except that he had an issue with us being the same height so I wasn't allowed to wear heels because they made him look short. And he loved the sexy way I dressed-until we started dating, because then it drew too much male attention. And he thought it was great that I was self sufficient and confident, except he wanted me to quit working and start popping out kids and stay home once we were married. (I'm his dream come true now.) Also, it was great I had my own life and friends. Except could I please not hang out with any males and drop all my friends because they were bad influences, and instead be with him every waking moment? But that meant he really loved me right? Like I said, aren't twenty-year-olds adorable?
To his credit I did cheat on him. It wasn't until after the thirty or fortieth time he accused me of it simply by virtue of there being a penis in the same building as me. But I probably would have anyway if I'm going to be honest. Most of my twenties were spent in a semi-buzzed hypomanic frenzy where every other person who met me thought they were in love with me and had to have me. I studied like a librarian, fucked like a porn star (mostly just Angel-the guy got a blow-job a day), worked like a day laborer, and partied like a rock star. Then occasionally slept and did it all over again. Hell, even if there wasn't a penis in the room I would have cheated. And did. I remember telling Angel one day I thought I might be interested in women and wanted to experience lesbian sex before we were married. He screamed at me about how disgusting and unnatural I was and forbade it. And he tried to kill us. Of course, I randomly came out with that while he was driving down Queens Blvd. at a good clip so maybe the attempted vehicular homicide wasn't intentional. But forbid me something and I don't take that shit well. I started up an affair the next week with a woman from work. I didn't even like her all that much. But that was kind of the point. I was going to marry Angel and didn't want to fall in love with someone else. I just wanted to dip my...umm...toe in the...umm...water.
I was a crazy bitch. But I kept it to myselves. And I had alot of selves. To this day I still have people come out of nowhere and say "Back in college I was in love with you and you were oblivious." I tell them to consider themselves lucky. To love me and to have been loved by me, in my fashion, at that point in my life, is like having a war story. I have an equal number of people who I did take notice of and who either avoid and hate me, are still telling me they have never found my replacement (creepy), or who call me whenever they've broken up with their latest partner to ask me why they are so broken and unlovable and how they can possibly be fixed. They call me, over ten years later, even though I am married and have two children, to receive my affirmations of love. Because I fucked their heads up to the point that, for whatever reason, my affections still matter to them. I still maintain none of them were ever really in love with me, only the ideal they thought I was. But try explaining that to someone you broke. Yes, I was an amazing person back then with alot going for me and I could, by proxy, make anyone dating me feel like an equally amazing person. And there are those who came away unscathed, some even better for the experience. But, for the most part, dating me in my twenties was like playing Russian roulette with five in the cylinder. An incredible rush, but probably not worth the long term risk.
Anyway, the wine glass. I bought the set at the Renaissance Fair in upstate NY in 1999 when I caught Angel looking at them over and over again. One glass went to him and I kept the other. The plan was that we'd use them as our champagne glasses on our wedding day and then they'd sit on our mantle, forever entwined in the heart shape they made. A great romantic story for the grandkids. It didn't work out so well when we broke up a couple of years later. Amazingly, not because he discovered my cheating heart. I finally ended things. Several times. It took several times because he didn't want to let go, even threatening suicide, and it hurt to hurt him and I was a coward. But it did end. And we each kept a glass. I have no idea what he did with his. But, after an appropriate amount of time, I put mine back on display. It's pretty. Every so often we'd talk and they'd come up and I'd offer to give him my glass. (After all, I did technically buy the set as a gift for him.) He always declined. And so I just had my solitary wine glass.
Angel was still talking to me and flirting with me for years, after his initial anger and pain died down. And after he got his vengeance by going out and slutting it up. (I'd popped his cherry, but hadn't been a virgin when we started dating.) We even went out and got a drink a couple of times. He always wanted to know what he'd done wrong to lose me. And I always answered him honestly. I never told him how badly I cheated. No reason to pour salt on the wound. But I did tell him I wasn't what he wanted in a woman anyway and he was trying too hard to create a perfect woman rather than find someone who already fit the bill. About a year or so ago he started dating Maggie. And they've been going strong. At first he was messaging me once a week asking me all sorts of things about dating advice and what to do with this new woman. Then once a month. Then every so often. Then I found myself initiating conversations with him just as often as he initiated them with me. And there's been much less flirting or anything inappropriate or weird from him.
Today, I got the wine glass. I was surprised at the sting. Small, but there. Angel was the only guy I was ever actually planning to marry. With Nick all this just sort of happened. We didn't have a plan. Yeah, right. Nick and I? He tied me down by knocking me up, and even that almost didn't quite work. But Angel I was actually planning on the happily ever after, despite the cheating and the undercover lesbian action and him trying to fit me into a cookie cutter mold at 20 that I'm still uncomfortable in at 31. So him being over me for realsies, as symbolizes by exorcising my demon wine glass, stung. But good for him. He found his perfect woman. I'm happy for him. And it means I can stop carrying the guilt of having broken his heart on my shoulders. Which is awesome since carrying two kids did a number on my spine. Besides, the pair of glasses looks so much cooler in my cabinet than the solo glass did. Score!
Rewind to the summer of 1999. I was dating Angel and I was actually going to marry the guy. That was the plan anyway. Aren't twenty-year-olds and their plans adorable? Anyway, he was perfect. Except that he had an issue with us being the same height so I wasn't allowed to wear heels because they made him look short. And he loved the sexy way I dressed-until we started dating, because then it drew too much male attention. And he thought it was great that I was self sufficient and confident, except he wanted me to quit working and start popping out kids and stay home once we were married. (I'm his dream come true now.) Also, it was great I had my own life and friends. Except could I please not hang out with any males and drop all my friends because they were bad influences, and instead be with him every waking moment? But that meant he really loved me right? Like I said, aren't twenty-year-olds adorable?
To his credit I did cheat on him. It wasn't until after the thirty or fortieth time he accused me of it simply by virtue of there being a penis in the same building as me. But I probably would have anyway if I'm going to be honest. Most of my twenties were spent in a semi-buzzed hypomanic frenzy where every other person who met me thought they were in love with me and had to have me. I studied like a librarian, fucked like a porn star (mostly just Angel-the guy got a blow-job a day), worked like a day laborer, and partied like a rock star. Then occasionally slept and did it all over again. Hell, even if there wasn't a penis in the room I would have cheated. And did. I remember telling Angel one day I thought I might be interested in women and wanted to experience lesbian sex before we were married. He screamed at me about how disgusting and unnatural I was and forbade it. And he tried to kill us. Of course, I randomly came out with that while he was driving down Queens Blvd. at a good clip so maybe the attempted vehicular homicide wasn't intentional. But forbid me something and I don't take that shit well. I started up an affair the next week with a woman from work. I didn't even like her all that much. But that was kind of the point. I was going to marry Angel and didn't want to fall in love with someone else. I just wanted to dip my...umm...toe in the...umm...water.
I was a crazy bitch. But I kept it to myselves. And I had alot of selves. To this day I still have people come out of nowhere and say "Back in college I was in love with you and you were oblivious." I tell them to consider themselves lucky. To love me and to have been loved by me, in my fashion, at that point in my life, is like having a war story. I have an equal number of people who I did take notice of and who either avoid and hate me, are still telling me they have never found my replacement (creepy), or who call me whenever they've broken up with their latest partner to ask me why they are so broken and unlovable and how they can possibly be fixed. They call me, over ten years later, even though I am married and have two children, to receive my affirmations of love. Because I fucked their heads up to the point that, for whatever reason, my affections still matter to them. I still maintain none of them were ever really in love with me, only the ideal they thought I was. But try explaining that to someone you broke. Yes, I was an amazing person back then with alot going for me and I could, by proxy, make anyone dating me feel like an equally amazing person. And there are those who came away unscathed, some even better for the experience. But, for the most part, dating me in my twenties was like playing Russian roulette with five in the cylinder. An incredible rush, but probably not worth the long term risk.
Anyway, the wine glass. I bought the set at the Renaissance Fair in upstate NY in 1999 when I caught Angel looking at them over and over again. One glass went to him and I kept the other. The plan was that we'd use them as our champagne glasses on our wedding day and then they'd sit on our mantle, forever entwined in the heart shape they made. A great romantic story for the grandkids. It didn't work out so well when we broke up a couple of years later. Amazingly, not because he discovered my cheating heart. I finally ended things. Several times. It took several times because he didn't want to let go, even threatening suicide, and it hurt to hurt him and I was a coward. But it did end. And we each kept a glass. I have no idea what he did with his. But, after an appropriate amount of time, I put mine back on display. It's pretty. Every so often we'd talk and they'd come up and I'd offer to give him my glass. (After all, I did technically buy the set as a gift for him.) He always declined. And so I just had my solitary wine glass.
Angel was still talking to me and flirting with me for years, after his initial anger and pain died down. And after he got his vengeance by going out and slutting it up. (I'd popped his cherry, but hadn't been a virgin when we started dating.) We even went out and got a drink a couple of times. He always wanted to know what he'd done wrong to lose me. And I always answered him honestly. I never told him how badly I cheated. No reason to pour salt on the wound. But I did tell him I wasn't what he wanted in a woman anyway and he was trying too hard to create a perfect woman rather than find someone who already fit the bill. About a year or so ago he started dating Maggie. And they've been going strong. At first he was messaging me once a week asking me all sorts of things about dating advice and what to do with this new woman. Then once a month. Then every so often. Then I found myself initiating conversations with him just as often as he initiated them with me. And there's been much less flirting or anything inappropriate or weird from him.
Today, I got the wine glass. I was surprised at the sting. Small, but there. Angel was the only guy I was ever actually planning to marry. With Nick all this just sort of happened. We didn't have a plan. Yeah, right. Nick and I? He tied me down by knocking me up, and even that almost didn't quite work. But Angel I was actually planning on the happily ever after, despite the cheating and the undercover lesbian action and him trying to fit me into a cookie cutter mold at 20 that I'm still uncomfortable in at 31. So him being over me for realsies, as symbolizes by exorcising my demon wine glass, stung. But good for him. He found his perfect woman. I'm happy for him. And it means I can stop carrying the guilt of having broken his heart on my shoulders. Which is awesome since carrying two kids did a number on my spine. Besides, the pair of glasses looks so much cooler in my cabinet than the solo glass did. Score!
Friday, April 15, 2011
Waa..Catherine Zeta's Life's Better Than Mine
Normally I'm really not into celebrity gossip. I don't find their lives any more special or exciting than the rest of us and I don't see what the hype is about. If they're not entertaining me on the big screen, they're not entertaining. But I did find this one bit of news interesting on a personal level. So Catherine Zeta Jones checked into a mental health facility to treat her Bipolar II disorder. This was on the heels of six months of the stress of being by the side of her husband while he went through cancer therapy and court battles with his ex-wife. And right before she's set to star in two upcoming movies. So it's a pretty stressful time for her, I'd imagine.
I was rather impressed with the dignified and public way in which she handled the ordeal. She didn't hide behind dark sunglasses and scoot off to a foreign county or have her publicists lie about what she was up to. She wasn't having a "relaxing spa vacation". She was having mental health treatment, openly and publicly, for a disorder that's pretty often stigmatized. Think about it. How often do you hear about bipolar people when they're not off going into a rage and shooting fellow employees or mothers going into delusional depressions and killing their children? Being that I was diagnosed as Bipolar I as a teen the way the media portrays the bipolar person as some seething lunatic just waiting to snap is an issue near and dear to my heart. And I think Ms. Jones is to be commended for her openness. My opinion might be a bit bias being I have a full on crush on her and this just makes her all the more sexy on the crazy/hot scale, but hey, you can't fault a girl for that. I mean, have you LOOKED at Catherine Zeta Jones? Seriously? If you're even a little lezbo you want her. If not, you might consider changing your mind.
Anyway, I have a friend, Mike, who I went to high school with and now we just sort of randomly chat on Facebook. Apparently, at some point in the last 10 years he was diagnosed as bipolar. I'm not sure when. I really don't care when. Because, just by his reaction to what happened with Catherine (I'm going to call her Catherine. She'd want me to.) he's apparently a whiner. He's one of those people who has received his label and, upon receiving it, has decided it's his "reason" for everything bad that he ever does and every bad thing that ever happens to him. One of those people. I can spot those people from miles away, over the internet, in chat rooms, in support groups, during my own hospitalizations. I HATE those people. Those people are the reason there is such a stigma for the rest of us. His reaction to Catherine was that "she's making bipolar disorder a fucking joke". When I inquired as to how he went on an angry rant about how one does not check into a rehab for it and one does not get better in five days and one does not do so because one is stressed out and one does not do so in order to get better to make movies.
Oh? Really Mike? Well, being that I'm a veteran of bipolar I felt I could educate him. My credentials? I was diagnosed at 14 after years of cycling through hypomania and depression finally topping out at a full blown psychotic episode complete with visual and auditory hallucinations which nearly caused me to jump from a second story window. I've been doing the therapy and medi-go-round ever since. I've been hospitalized for both depression with suicidal thoughts and attempts as well as full blown manic episodes at least six times I can remember ranging anywhere from 24 hours to two weeks. I've read every single thing I can get my hands on regarding bipolar disorder since my diagnosis, from internet articles to scientific journals, and watched countless documentaries and attended support groups and talks. I've been the subject of published articles by some of my therapists and college professors. (I won't ever reveal which ones. I never kept copies.) I've been studying psychology formally since sophomore year in high school when the teacher invited me into the class earlier than usually allowed because of my interest and knowledge. I have my BA in Psychology with an emphasis on Developmental Psychology and studies in Abnormal Psychology and was just shy a minor in Early Childhood. I also have a son who's most likely suffering from a mood disorder, most likely early onset bipolar. And, when my kids are old enough, I'm going back to school to continue my education so I can help others with disorders to live a fulfilling life. I don't claim to be a doctor. But I think I have a pretty good handle on life with bipolar disorder.
So, Mike the whiner, now that you know who you're talking to, let me explain something. Catherine is not making this a joke. She didn't check into rehab. That's something the papers say. She checked into a mental health facility that also happens to treat celebrities who need rehab. But a mental health facility nonetheless. It's what people do when they're being responsible and adult enough to admit they're having a serious issue with their mental health. And I applaud her for being open about it and therefore taking away some of the stigma. You're right. One does not get better in five days. But one might only need five days to get their meds adjusted correctly to feel better. Or to get the talk therapy they need to cope and feel ready to go back out into the world. Or feel they've been away from the stressful situations that led them there long enough that they and their doctors feel they are ready to handle being back outside. And don't forget, she checked herself in. If she's showing all signs of being mentally competent she can check herself out. No one said she was all better. She said she's feeling better. You can feel better when you're bipolar. It doesn't mean you're better forever. You never will be. But if you never, ever feel good at all, you're not bipolar. You're clinically depressed. Whole other disorder. Go find a better doctor because yours obviously doesn't know how to diagnose. One does go into inpatient because one is stressed out. Why the hell else would a person go inpatient? For the hospital food? I have episodes all the time, even on meds. Some for days and some for weeks, some worse than others. And I'll tell you there is almost always a trigger, even if it's just a small thing like a stupid argument with my husband while I feel fat. I'd say her husband having cancer and being in court battles while she had to be the strong one the whole time was probably pretty fucking stressful. And, now that he's feeling better, she can break down for five god damned days. Leave her alone. And your issue she's doing it to come out and make movies? Well what the hell dude? If you or I go into the hospital why do we go? So we get better to come back out and go back to work and keep living our lives as normally as possible right? Well, her job is to make movies. She went inpatient to get better to come out and...do her job. So...in conclusion...shut the fuck up. You're just jealous that she has a better life than you. Just because she's bipolar AND managed to have a pretty great life and you're bipolar and want to sit around and use it a crutch for all the bad crap that has ever happened to you and an excuse as to why it'll never get better doesn't make your illness any more valid than hers.
Guess what? My life is better than yours too. Sure I get into my episodes and I blame my messy house and the fact I haven't washed my hair in three days on my "mood swings" at times. And sometimes it feels as if the entire world is going to crash down. And more than once I feel like I should have been sterilized before having children because now I've probably passed this horrible thing on to my son. And then the realization hits that this is FOREVER and I am ALWAYS going to be mentally ill. And it sucks. It sucks more than anyone can possibly understand who is not living with this illness. But I refuse to let that define me. I am a loving mother. I am a devoted wife. I am a loyal friend. And, yes, I am a raging psychotic. Sometimes bipolar disorder has me, but more often I have bipolar disorder. And I have a whole lot else.
Now stop talking shit about Catherine or I'll get all crazy eyes and cut ya. You know how us crazy people can be Mikey. I know where you live. The same place you did when I wouldn't date you in high school. Oh, do you blame that on the bipolar disorder too? Because that wasn't the bipolar disorder. That was because you skeeved me out.
I was rather impressed with the dignified and public way in which she handled the ordeal. She didn't hide behind dark sunglasses and scoot off to a foreign county or have her publicists lie about what she was up to. She wasn't having a "relaxing spa vacation". She was having mental health treatment, openly and publicly, for a disorder that's pretty often stigmatized. Think about it. How often do you hear about bipolar people when they're not off going into a rage and shooting fellow employees or mothers going into delusional depressions and killing their children? Being that I was diagnosed as Bipolar I as a teen the way the media portrays the bipolar person as some seething lunatic just waiting to snap is an issue near and dear to my heart. And I think Ms. Jones is to be commended for her openness. My opinion might be a bit bias being I have a full on crush on her and this just makes her all the more sexy on the crazy/hot scale, but hey, you can't fault a girl for that. I mean, have you LOOKED at Catherine Zeta Jones? Seriously? If you're even a little lezbo you want her. If not, you might consider changing your mind.
Anyway, I have a friend, Mike, who I went to high school with and now we just sort of randomly chat on Facebook. Apparently, at some point in the last 10 years he was diagnosed as bipolar. I'm not sure when. I really don't care when. Because, just by his reaction to what happened with Catherine (I'm going to call her Catherine. She'd want me to.) he's apparently a whiner. He's one of those people who has received his label and, upon receiving it, has decided it's his "reason" for everything bad that he ever does and every bad thing that ever happens to him. One of those people. I can spot those people from miles away, over the internet, in chat rooms, in support groups, during my own hospitalizations. I HATE those people. Those people are the reason there is such a stigma for the rest of us. His reaction to Catherine was that "she's making bipolar disorder a fucking joke". When I inquired as to how he went on an angry rant about how one does not check into a rehab for it and one does not get better in five days and one does not do so because one is stressed out and one does not do so in order to get better to make movies.
Oh? Really Mike? Well, being that I'm a veteran of bipolar I felt I could educate him. My credentials? I was diagnosed at 14 after years of cycling through hypomania and depression finally topping out at a full blown psychotic episode complete with visual and auditory hallucinations which nearly caused me to jump from a second story window. I've been doing the therapy and medi-go-round ever since. I've been hospitalized for both depression with suicidal thoughts and attempts as well as full blown manic episodes at least six times I can remember ranging anywhere from 24 hours to two weeks. I've read every single thing I can get my hands on regarding bipolar disorder since my diagnosis, from internet articles to scientific journals, and watched countless documentaries and attended support groups and talks. I've been the subject of published articles by some of my therapists and college professors. (I won't ever reveal which ones. I never kept copies.) I've been studying psychology formally since sophomore year in high school when the teacher invited me into the class earlier than usually allowed because of my interest and knowledge. I have my BA in Psychology with an emphasis on Developmental Psychology and studies in Abnormal Psychology and was just shy a minor in Early Childhood. I also have a son who's most likely suffering from a mood disorder, most likely early onset bipolar. And, when my kids are old enough, I'm going back to school to continue my education so I can help others with disorders to live a fulfilling life. I don't claim to be a doctor. But I think I have a pretty good handle on life with bipolar disorder.
So, Mike the whiner, now that you know who you're talking to, let me explain something. Catherine is not making this a joke. She didn't check into rehab. That's something the papers say. She checked into a mental health facility that also happens to treat celebrities who need rehab. But a mental health facility nonetheless. It's what people do when they're being responsible and adult enough to admit they're having a serious issue with their mental health. And I applaud her for being open about it and therefore taking away some of the stigma. You're right. One does not get better in five days. But one might only need five days to get their meds adjusted correctly to feel better. Or to get the talk therapy they need to cope and feel ready to go back out into the world. Or feel they've been away from the stressful situations that led them there long enough that they and their doctors feel they are ready to handle being back outside. And don't forget, she checked herself in. If she's showing all signs of being mentally competent she can check herself out. No one said she was all better. She said she's feeling better. You can feel better when you're bipolar. It doesn't mean you're better forever. You never will be. But if you never, ever feel good at all, you're not bipolar. You're clinically depressed. Whole other disorder. Go find a better doctor because yours obviously doesn't know how to diagnose. One does go into inpatient because one is stressed out. Why the hell else would a person go inpatient? For the hospital food? I have episodes all the time, even on meds. Some for days and some for weeks, some worse than others. And I'll tell you there is almost always a trigger, even if it's just a small thing like a stupid argument with my husband while I feel fat. I'd say her husband having cancer and being in court battles while she had to be the strong one the whole time was probably pretty fucking stressful. And, now that he's feeling better, she can break down for five god damned days. Leave her alone. And your issue she's doing it to come out and make movies? Well what the hell dude? If you or I go into the hospital why do we go? So we get better to come back out and go back to work and keep living our lives as normally as possible right? Well, her job is to make movies. She went inpatient to get better to come out and...do her job. So...in conclusion...shut the fuck up. You're just jealous that she has a better life than you. Just because she's bipolar AND managed to have a pretty great life and you're bipolar and want to sit around and use it a crutch for all the bad crap that has ever happened to you and an excuse as to why it'll never get better doesn't make your illness any more valid than hers.
Guess what? My life is better than yours too. Sure I get into my episodes and I blame my messy house and the fact I haven't washed my hair in three days on my "mood swings" at times. And sometimes it feels as if the entire world is going to crash down. And more than once I feel like I should have been sterilized before having children because now I've probably passed this horrible thing on to my son. And then the realization hits that this is FOREVER and I am ALWAYS going to be mentally ill. And it sucks. It sucks more than anyone can possibly understand who is not living with this illness. But I refuse to let that define me. I am a loving mother. I am a devoted wife. I am a loyal friend. And, yes, I am a raging psychotic. Sometimes bipolar disorder has me, but more often I have bipolar disorder. And I have a whole lot else.
Now stop talking shit about Catherine or I'll get all crazy eyes and cut ya. You know how us crazy people can be Mikey. I know where you live. The same place you did when I wouldn't date you in high school. Oh, do you blame that on the bipolar disorder too? Because that wasn't the bipolar disorder. That was because you skeeved me out.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
To Be A Child
Last weekend Nick and I took our kids out to the Queens Farm Museum annual Children's Fair. It's been a tradition since Alex was about a year old. This year was bittersweet for two reasons. The first being that, like all things, the festival has gotten smaller, more expensive, and less entertaining over the years. The second is that it's probably the last time we're going as, by the end of the summer, we'll be moving off to suburbia and far from Queens County. Still, we had some good old fashion family fun, the kind the brochures try to sell you on.
There's always something to be said about the chickens. Most are held in a large pen near the center of the farm. Their beaks are clipped so when the kids inevitably try petting them there isn't too much damage done to tiny fingers. This year Amy got a kick out of them chasing her along the gate while she yelled, "No pidgy! No!" Then looking up at me confusedly, with questions in her eyes, knowing that whatever these were, they were not pigeons. So we taught her the word "chicken". The nest five minutes were spent with her walking up to the fence, squatting down, waiting until the birds got close, and then proclaiming loudly, "Hello chickens!" before reaching out to sneak a pat on their heads and giggling. It was adorable. I suppose you had to be there, or see it on film - which of course no one can, because like all children, she stopped doing this as soon as Nick pulled out the camera to catch it. My favorite chicken story has to be the year Alex found out where meat comes from. I think he was four. He was eating a chicken nugget and chasing chickens that had gotten loose, trying to lure them to him with pieces of the nugget. Then it dawned on him and he asked, "Mommy, is this chicken (holding up the nugget) the same as that chicken (pointing to the terrified bird)?" I answered honestly because, well, I don't lie to my kids, especially when they've figured it out themselves. I expected crying, spitting out the nugget, a vow to be a vegetarian, perhaps being yelled at for my cruelty (all things I had done when I found out where meat came from). What I did not expect was for my son to turn to the chicken and scream. "I'm eating your cousin and he's delicious! Come back here so I can eat you too!" and proceed to chase the chicken while devouring his nuggets. Nope. Not a vegetarian that one. And yet, very kind to animals.
We did the petting zoo where the kids got to touch bunnies and pigs and mice and giant tortoises and the obligatory sheep. It really gives me hope that they're going to enjoy living upstate where I would assume this type of county fair with animals and pony rides and such is more commonplace. These two are made for spending days outdoors on farms with the animals, climbing trees, swimming, running through fields. Every time we get out of the city and they light up it convinces me they're just not city kids.
There were the rides as well. I'm happy to say Alex was all over the rides this year. He went from being a daredevil, pissed off he was too short to do most thing at age four, to being the wussy kid at age five who cried on line to the ride. This year, at nearly seven, he dragged me on everything that rolled and spun and turned and basically made my brain want to leak from my ears and my funnel cake want to heave back out of my stomach. And he wanted the rides to go faster and last longer and was unhappy with their lack of upside down capability. That's my boy! I was terrified of roller coasters until I was about twelve. (But you can blame my mother for that. No one should ever ride the Cyclone at Coney Island as their first roller coaster. I suppose no one ever will again.) It's nice to see he's going to be braver than me much younger. Now I'll go on just about anything. And I need a partner in crime.
Unfortunately, in the midst of all the fun, Nick got a call from my mother-in-law. His godmother had been taken into the hospital and had her leg amputated due to complications from diabetes. So we left the fair early to see her. The children weren't allowed to enter her room, so I stayed in the lobby with them while Nick went in to visit with his godmother.
I'm not insensitive. I felt terrible for the woman and I felt terrible for Nick as well. But I was sad for my children that their day had been cut short. Sad and also frantically worried about what to do with two hyped up, overly sugared, overtired kids in a hospital waiting area that had just come from a fairground and were still entirely in that mindset. But if you're going to have a relative endure a tragic medical experience and need to drag children along who can't enter the room, may I suggest LIJ as the go to hospital. Their children's ward waiting area is set up like a mini children's museum. There were books. There was a chalkboard. There were silly mirrors and a bead maze. There were even those computers that make a kaleidoscope art drawing. And a big saltwater fish tank that Amy wandered around yelling, "Hello fish" at. And my kids continued playing. In fact, when we left, Alex asked me, "Can we come back here again?"
Sometimes I wish I had the filter of childhood. That ability to just play, even as the world falls down.
There's always something to be said about the chickens. Most are held in a large pen near the center of the farm. Their beaks are clipped so when the kids inevitably try petting them there isn't too much damage done to tiny fingers. This year Amy got a kick out of them chasing her along the gate while she yelled, "No pidgy! No!" Then looking up at me confusedly, with questions in her eyes, knowing that whatever these were, they were not pigeons. So we taught her the word "chicken". The nest five minutes were spent with her walking up to the fence, squatting down, waiting until the birds got close, and then proclaiming loudly, "Hello chickens!" before reaching out to sneak a pat on their heads and giggling. It was adorable. I suppose you had to be there, or see it on film - which of course no one can, because like all children, she stopped doing this as soon as Nick pulled out the camera to catch it. My favorite chicken story has to be the year Alex found out where meat comes from. I think he was four. He was eating a chicken nugget and chasing chickens that had gotten loose, trying to lure them to him with pieces of the nugget. Then it dawned on him and he asked, "Mommy, is this chicken (holding up the nugget) the same as that chicken (pointing to the terrified bird)?" I answered honestly because, well, I don't lie to my kids, especially when they've figured it out themselves. I expected crying, spitting out the nugget, a vow to be a vegetarian, perhaps being yelled at for my cruelty (all things I had done when I found out where meat came from). What I did not expect was for my son to turn to the chicken and scream. "I'm eating your cousin and he's delicious! Come back here so I can eat you too!" and proceed to chase the chicken while devouring his nuggets. Nope. Not a vegetarian that one. And yet, very kind to animals.
We did the petting zoo where the kids got to touch bunnies and pigs and mice and giant tortoises and the obligatory sheep. It really gives me hope that they're going to enjoy living upstate where I would assume this type of county fair with animals and pony rides and such is more commonplace. These two are made for spending days outdoors on farms with the animals, climbing trees, swimming, running through fields. Every time we get out of the city and they light up it convinces me they're just not city kids.
There were the rides as well. I'm happy to say Alex was all over the rides this year. He went from being a daredevil, pissed off he was too short to do most thing at age four, to being the wussy kid at age five who cried on line to the ride. This year, at nearly seven, he dragged me on everything that rolled and spun and turned and basically made my brain want to leak from my ears and my funnel cake want to heave back out of my stomach. And he wanted the rides to go faster and last longer and was unhappy with their lack of upside down capability. That's my boy! I was terrified of roller coasters until I was about twelve. (But you can blame my mother for that. No one should ever ride the Cyclone at Coney Island as their first roller coaster. I suppose no one ever will again.) It's nice to see he's going to be braver than me much younger. Now I'll go on just about anything. And I need a partner in crime.
Unfortunately, in the midst of all the fun, Nick got a call from my mother-in-law. His godmother had been taken into the hospital and had her leg amputated due to complications from diabetes. So we left the fair early to see her. The children weren't allowed to enter her room, so I stayed in the lobby with them while Nick went in to visit with his godmother.
I'm not insensitive. I felt terrible for the woman and I felt terrible for Nick as well. But I was sad for my children that their day had been cut short. Sad and also frantically worried about what to do with two hyped up, overly sugared, overtired kids in a hospital waiting area that had just come from a fairground and were still entirely in that mindset. But if you're going to have a relative endure a tragic medical experience and need to drag children along who can't enter the room, may I suggest LIJ as the go to hospital. Their children's ward waiting area is set up like a mini children's museum. There were books. There was a chalkboard. There were silly mirrors and a bead maze. There were even those computers that make a kaleidoscope art drawing. And a big saltwater fish tank that Amy wandered around yelling, "Hello fish" at. And my kids continued playing. In fact, when we left, Alex asked me, "Can we come back here again?"
Sometimes I wish I had the filter of childhood. That ability to just play, even as the world falls down.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
The Past Has Passed And I'm Passed It
My dearest children. As you well know, your father and I abandoned you this past Saturday night to the care of my sister, your Aunt Leandra. We fed you, made sure you were reasonably clean, and dressed in proper sleep attire. Then we kissed you goodbye and made our escape. What happened to you after that, I'm not sure. Nor did I bother to ask outside of making sure you didn't drive my poor sister insane. For all I know she immediately duct taped you into your beds and threatened to cut off your ears should you ever tell. Whatever. You're still alive and the house hasn't burned down so I assume she's capable of caring for you, my demon spawn precious children, while dad and I have a much needed night out.
You may be wondering where we went and what we did and who with. In fact, Alex, I know you were because you kept nagging me to tell you. Over. And over. And over. I'm sure whatever the screeching sounds coming from your sister as I pried her off of me while applying my make-up (Yes, I wore make-up, like a girl!) amounted to the same line of questioning. The truth is, we're adults and it's none of you're god-damned business what we're up to when you're not present so long as it's not getting us killed or arrested. But, since you want to know so badly, it was a quasi high school reunion of a few of Mommy's female friends in a bar and involved bullshitting and copious amounts of alcohol. Daddy came to be the designated driver, have a night away from you guys and out with other adults, and to laugh at me.
So did I have a good time? Oh you bet your cute little butts I did. We sat and talked about our old classrooms and teachers and how each of us met the others. There were even a couple of women there I didn't really know, but we got to talking like old friends anyway through the shared experiences of high school dramas that had unfolded some 13-17 years ago. (Yes, babies, Mommy is old.) Daddy even got in on some of the fun, having gone to the same school but being a year younger and knowing most of the teachers. (Yes, babies, Mommy is a cradle robber too.)
The alcohol flowed and the conversation flowed. We discussed who we still talked to and where they were now. We asked after long lost friends no one had heard from since graduation. We laughed about the rumors of which teachers were up to what while we were attending school. We talked about all the trouble our graduating class got into. And the parties. And the failed attempts at keeping order on the part of the school staff. And the various ways we drove teachers insane. Ah, good times. But none of that is really what's important here. Nor something I wish to discuss with my children. After all, I'm a mother now and I have to somehow convince you to behave in school. Or at least not get caught. I was very good at not getting caught. But that's a discussion for when you're older.
What's important, and the reason I'm writing this entry, is what happened next. The night went on and the happy childhood reminiscing began turning more towards the grown-up "What are you doing now?" conversations, as these types of things always do. The mood began to somber. I waited, reluctantly, for my turn. I'll admit it. I've been frowned upon, especially by women, for stopping in my tracks to stay home with you kids. I often feel incomplete somehow. Like I'm failing at womanhood for not doing it all. So I waited. While one of my friends talked about her Masters, her career in social work, two children, and divorce with split custody, and being broke. And another talked about being a single mother just finishing her BS while her child lived out of state with her grandmother. And a third talked about her career being fine but lamented having no time to meet anyone special because she was so busy with work. Still another hadn't even finished college because she'd spent her 20's "fucked up" but wouldn't elaborate. Another friend who's boyfriend had come was happy in her career and education and seemed relatively strong in her relationship, but still pulled me aside to ask how I was able to make it work with your dad. And a couple of the women just sort of seemed the be flying by the seat of their pants. No one seemed unhappy. But no one seemed to have it all together and perfect either. It seems there was no perfect.
And then I breathed out a deep breath and I told everyone all about my life. I told them all about how I had gotten my BA and had taken a couple of much needed years off of school to work and to decide what I really wanted to do before committing. I told them about how your dad and I got together completely by accident. And about how you, Alex, totally surprised us with your impending arrival and threw my life plan off course. I told them how going for my Masters had to wait because Dad and I had a baby to support and about the job I took to do that and how I hated that job but how it was worth it. I told them how Dad got a great job and we got married finally and how I was finally ready to go back to school when-oops-Amy decided it was her turn. I told them how I got so sick I had to quit working and how Dad took a promotion that made going back to work impossible for me, but it made enough money that we're going to be able to buy a house in a few months. So I told them I'm a SAHM now but I won't always be. And I'll go back to school and I'll get a Masters and I'll have a career. One day. And no one had anything awful to say to me.
Near the end of the night I heard some of the women talking. They were saying how, if they could, they would go back to high school. How those were the best days of their lives. How being an adult sucked and they wished they knew then what they know now and they wished they enjoyed it more. They were saying if someone gave them a choice to give up everything they have right now and go back to relive their high school days they'd do it again in a heartbeat. And here's the REALLY important part, my precious children. I WOULDN'T. Don't get me wrong. Sure, I had some great times back then. Some of my best memories are from those days. But I didn't have you. I didn't have your dad. I didn't have this family and our memories and our future together. I was a child having childish fun. The problems then were small and stupid and life was easier. The ones now are so much harder. But the rewards are so much greater. The love I feel for you and your father is so much stronger than anything I was ever capable of even knowing existed back then. And, with you in my life, I'm ok with letting the past be the past, and continuing to build for your future.
I love you both with all my heart. You know I can't let you read this though. It would make the threat of selling you to gypsies because we can just have more kids completely ineffectual. Maybe when you turn 18.
You may be wondering where we went and what we did and who with. In fact, Alex, I know you were because you kept nagging me to tell you. Over. And over. And over. I'm sure whatever the screeching sounds coming from your sister as I pried her off of me while applying my make-up (Yes, I wore make-up, like a girl!) amounted to the same line of questioning. The truth is, we're adults and it's none of you're god-damned business what we're up to when you're not present so long as it's not getting us killed or arrested. But, since you want to know so badly, it was a quasi high school reunion of a few of Mommy's female friends in a bar and involved bullshitting and copious amounts of alcohol. Daddy came to be the designated driver, have a night away from you guys and out with other adults, and to laugh at me.
So did I have a good time? Oh you bet your cute little butts I did. We sat and talked about our old classrooms and teachers and how each of us met the others. There were even a couple of women there I didn't really know, but we got to talking like old friends anyway through the shared experiences of high school dramas that had unfolded some 13-17 years ago. (Yes, babies, Mommy is old.) Daddy even got in on some of the fun, having gone to the same school but being a year younger and knowing most of the teachers. (Yes, babies, Mommy is a cradle robber too.)
The alcohol flowed and the conversation flowed. We discussed who we still talked to and where they were now. We asked after long lost friends no one had heard from since graduation. We laughed about the rumors of which teachers were up to what while we were attending school. We talked about all the trouble our graduating class got into. And the parties. And the failed attempts at keeping order on the part of the school staff. And the various ways we drove teachers insane. Ah, good times. But none of that is really what's important here. Nor something I wish to discuss with my children. After all, I'm a mother now and I have to somehow convince you to behave in school. Or at least not get caught. I was very good at not getting caught. But that's a discussion for when you're older.
What's important, and the reason I'm writing this entry, is what happened next. The night went on and the happy childhood reminiscing began turning more towards the grown-up "What are you doing now?" conversations, as these types of things always do. The mood began to somber. I waited, reluctantly, for my turn. I'll admit it. I've been frowned upon, especially by women, for stopping in my tracks to stay home with you kids. I often feel incomplete somehow. Like I'm failing at womanhood for not doing it all. So I waited. While one of my friends talked about her Masters, her career in social work, two children, and divorce with split custody, and being broke. And another talked about being a single mother just finishing her BS while her child lived out of state with her grandmother. And a third talked about her career being fine but lamented having no time to meet anyone special because she was so busy with work. Still another hadn't even finished college because she'd spent her 20's "fucked up" but wouldn't elaborate. Another friend who's boyfriend had come was happy in her career and education and seemed relatively strong in her relationship, but still pulled me aside to ask how I was able to make it work with your dad. And a couple of the women just sort of seemed the be flying by the seat of their pants. No one seemed unhappy. But no one seemed to have it all together and perfect either. It seems there was no perfect.
And then I breathed out a deep breath and I told everyone all about my life. I told them all about how I had gotten my BA and had taken a couple of much needed years off of school to work and to decide what I really wanted to do before committing. I told them about how your dad and I got together completely by accident. And about how you, Alex, totally surprised us with your impending arrival and threw my life plan off course. I told them how going for my Masters had to wait because Dad and I had a baby to support and about the job I took to do that and how I hated that job but how it was worth it. I told them how Dad got a great job and we got married finally and how I was finally ready to go back to school when-oops-Amy decided it was her turn. I told them how I got so sick I had to quit working and how Dad took a promotion that made going back to work impossible for me, but it made enough money that we're going to be able to buy a house in a few months. So I told them I'm a SAHM now but I won't always be. And I'll go back to school and I'll get a Masters and I'll have a career. One day. And no one had anything awful to say to me.
Near the end of the night I heard some of the women talking. They were saying how, if they could, they would go back to high school. How those were the best days of their lives. How being an adult sucked and they wished they knew then what they know now and they wished they enjoyed it more. They were saying if someone gave them a choice to give up everything they have right now and go back to relive their high school days they'd do it again in a heartbeat. And here's the REALLY important part, my precious children. I WOULDN'T. Don't get me wrong. Sure, I had some great times back then. Some of my best memories are from those days. But I didn't have you. I didn't have your dad. I didn't have this family and our memories and our future together. I was a child having childish fun. The problems then were small and stupid and life was easier. The ones now are so much harder. But the rewards are so much greater. The love I feel for you and your father is so much stronger than anything I was ever capable of even knowing existed back then. And, with you in my life, I'm ok with letting the past be the past, and continuing to build for your future.
I love you both with all my heart. You know I can't let you read this though. It would make the threat of selling you to gypsies because we can just have more kids completely ineffectual. Maybe when you turn 18.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Suzy Q
There I was, standing in the schoolyard, waiting for Alex to be dismissed, like any normal day. I struck up a conversation with this woman, Anna, I had spoken to a few times before. She's the mom of a good school buddy of Alex's and, now that the weather's getting warmer, he'd been bugging me to set up a play date with the boy. Anna seemed nice enough from my dealings with her, if a bit standoffish, so I figured I'd go over and see if she maybe wanted to meet in the park or something in the upcoming weeks.
I was just getting around to suggesting a playdate (Is it just me who hates this term?) when our childrens' class came out the school door. There was Alex. And next to him in line, as usual, was Anna's son, Luke. The boys waved to us. She and I smiled at each other and I said, "You know they're going to ask when we're going to the park together." They always did. That had been the ritual for the last couple of months. And, of course, they did.
Anna and I stood there discussing what day the next week would be nice enough and work best for both of us to hit the park with the kids after school. The boys jumped around excited talking over each other about bringing their bikes and already asking if we could have pizza after the park. And I though, Cool, another decent, nice mom to talk to. And then it happened. I spotted HER. Worse, she spotted Alex, and started craning her neck, eyes hungrily searching the crowded schoolyard for me. DAMN.
Suzy Q. You all know Suzy Q. She's a perfect size 4. She looks like she stepped out of an Anne Klein catalogue. She owns an impeccably kept two story home you’d hardly know housed a child if not for all the FAO Schwartz toys and tiny designer outfits kept in the one small room in the corner, along with the small bed, padded floor, and the fishbowl. She's on the PTA, emails the teacher every Friday to keep abreast of her son’s progress, and holds a chair on the community board. She's got alittle demon special snowflake your son's age. He had an exotic nanny from birth until he started school full time, at which point the kindly woman magically vanished. Now he goes to an afterschool program, karate, swim class, two soccer leagues, music class, the YMCA, junior yoga, computer class, and dance. He has a Spanish speaking babysitter on the weekends to give him a head start on his linguistic skills as well. She’s there to pick up her son and walk him to his latest activity, chess club. And she probably spent more time applying her lipstick today than she has with her child all week.
For awhile your boys were playmates. While the nanny was around anyway. But since starting school, the woman has used you to the point you’ve started to feel like a roll of toilet paper. First it was little things. Could you pick up her son from school and watch him for an hour? Could you watch him because afterschool was cancelled? Could you get him because he was sick at school? Could you walk him to an activity? But, before long, you’d notice an extra child at your dinner table. Suddenly he’d be there on their day off. Once you ended up bringing him to his father’s office with your son and infant daughter in tow because she was stuck at work and had promised him he’d see his dad. A promise YOU ended up fulfilling because you felt for the kid. And you also noticed his behavior started to change. Without the nanny who’d always cared for him he began to whine and scream and demand things. He’d hit your son. He’d hit your infant daughter. And when you told Suzy Q.? “Boys will be boys.” The final straw came when she asked if you’d like to arrange a playdate (that word again) with the kids at 10AM. And ended up dropping her son off at your house at 9AM–and leaving. And going off the grid. All day. Until 6PM. Then showing up, smile on her face, saying she was “busy with important stuff at work and figured it would be ok because you’re a SAHM and would be home with the kids all day anyway so it wouldn’t be a big deal for you”. And you stood there, sputtering, explaining that it was not, in fact, “ok”, and that it was totally unacceptable and asking how she could do this to someone. And she cocked her head like a bird looking at a worm, frowned a deep frown, and asked what the big deal was. This after a day of her child beating on yours, crying for her, eating three meals at your house, and you sincerely wondering (and occasionally hoping) she was dead. She just wasn’t going to get it. So you shoved her child at her, told her to leave, and swore off contact with her since.
Almost a year has passed since you had actual contact with Suzy Q. outside of her occasionally tracking you down on the schoolyard. And you try to avoid that at all costs. Despite that, she continues to email you every other week, has requested you friend her on Facebook, asks other people what you’re doing, and keeps calling you and leaving messages. Straight to voicemail. The latest few have been inquiring as to whether you’d like Alex to join chess club after school with her son. “It’s right after school”, she says. “So they can walk there together right after getting out.” This is Suzy Q. for, “YOU can pick them up and walk them.” (And probably pick them up after chess as well.) And here she is noticing Alex and looking for you. If this was high school you’d take off your hoop earrings, tie your hair in a ponytail, and it would be ON. But it’s not. It’s the schoolyard of your son’s first grade class. So what’s the only logical thing to do?
I grab Anna’s arm. “Anna, I’m sorry. You’re going to think I’m crazy. And I probably am. But PLEASE hide me. Just until we get out of the schoolyard.”
Anna looks at me funny, like I might be in trouble with the cops, or be seeing pink elephants. She looks around, making sure she is not, in fact, about to aid a felon. “Okay...can I ask why?”
“Well,” I begin, “there is this woman over there (nudging with my chin, she looks). DON’T LOOK! Anyway, I HATE this woman. Her kid and Alex used to be friends, but the kid’s a brat and the woman uses people. It’s a big mess. Anyway, I tried to confront her, but she doesn’t take a hint. And now she totally stalks me. She acts fake nice to get what she wants and I can’t stand her. I really tried but I feel like I’m just going to punch her or something one day. She’s a complete nutcase.”
At this point we’ve moved to the gate of the schoolyard. I’ve avoided Suzy Q., thanks to Anna. I detach myself from her arm. She sort of smirks and looks me up and down, cocks an eyebrow and hits me with this: “A complete nutcase, huh?”
I feel my face redden. “Yeah…well…I never said I wasn’t. But I’m a nutcase in a different way. And I’m honest about it.”
We both laughed. She said she completely understood and had dealt with fake, user type people herself. She said she didn’t hold it against me. But it’s been about three weeks since that incident. Alex still asks me when he and Luke are going to play in the park together. It hasn’t happened yet. I notice that I never spot Anna in the schoolyard anymore, except occasionally the back of her head as she’s hurrying off with Luke through the gate without a backward glance. I don’t crane my neck to look for her though. I don’t track Luke’s movements through the schoolyard. I have a funny feeling some things are better left alone. Poor Alex. How does one explain to your child there will be no playdate because sometimes Mommy is too much a freak for other people to handle?
Damn you Suzy Q.
I was just getting around to suggesting a playdate (Is it just me who hates this term?) when our childrens' class came out the school door. There was Alex. And next to him in line, as usual, was Anna's son, Luke. The boys waved to us. She and I smiled at each other and I said, "You know they're going to ask when we're going to the park together." They always did. That had been the ritual for the last couple of months. And, of course, they did.
Anna and I stood there discussing what day the next week would be nice enough and work best for both of us to hit the park with the kids after school. The boys jumped around excited talking over each other about bringing their bikes and already asking if we could have pizza after the park. And I though, Cool, another decent, nice mom to talk to. And then it happened. I spotted HER. Worse, she spotted Alex, and started craning her neck, eyes hungrily searching the crowded schoolyard for me. DAMN.
Suzy Q. You all know Suzy Q. She's a perfect size 4. She looks like she stepped out of an Anne Klein catalogue. She owns an impeccably kept two story home you’d hardly know housed a child if not for all the FAO Schwartz toys and tiny designer outfits kept in the one small room in the corner, along with the small bed, padded floor, and the fishbowl. She's on the PTA, emails the teacher every Friday to keep abreast of her son’s progress, and holds a chair on the community board. She's got a
For awhile your boys were playmates. While the nanny was around anyway. But since starting school, the woman has used you to the point you’ve started to feel like a roll of toilet paper. First it was little things. Could you pick up her son from school and watch him for an hour? Could you watch him because afterschool was cancelled? Could you get him because he was sick at school? Could you walk him to an activity? But, before long, you’d notice an extra child at your dinner table. Suddenly he’d be there on their day off. Once you ended up bringing him to his father’s office with your son and infant daughter in tow because she was stuck at work and had promised him he’d see his dad. A promise YOU ended up fulfilling because you felt for the kid. And you also noticed his behavior started to change. Without the nanny who’d always cared for him he began to whine and scream and demand things. He’d hit your son. He’d hit your infant daughter. And when you told Suzy Q.? “Boys will be boys.” The final straw came when she asked if you’d like to arrange a playdate (that word again) with the kids at 10AM. And ended up dropping her son off at your house at 9AM–and leaving. And going off the grid. All day. Until 6PM. Then showing up, smile on her face, saying she was “busy with important stuff at work and figured it would be ok because you’re a SAHM and would be home with the kids all day anyway so it wouldn’t be a big deal for you”. And you stood there, sputtering, explaining that it was not, in fact, “ok”, and that it was totally unacceptable and asking how she could do this to someone. And she cocked her head like a bird looking at a worm, frowned a deep frown, and asked what the big deal was. This after a day of her child beating on yours, crying for her, eating three meals at your house, and you sincerely wondering (and occasionally hoping) she was dead. She just wasn’t going to get it. So you shoved her child at her, told her to leave, and swore off contact with her since.
Almost a year has passed since you had actual contact with Suzy Q. outside of her occasionally tracking you down on the schoolyard. And you try to avoid that at all costs. Despite that, she continues to email you every other week, has requested you friend her on Facebook, asks other people what you’re doing, and keeps calling you and leaving messages. Straight to voicemail. The latest few have been inquiring as to whether you’d like Alex to join chess club after school with her son. “It’s right after school”, she says. “So they can walk there together right after getting out.” This is Suzy Q. for, “YOU can pick them up and walk them.” (And probably pick them up after chess as well.) And here she is noticing Alex and looking for you. If this was high school you’d take off your hoop earrings, tie your hair in a ponytail, and it would be ON. But it’s not. It’s the schoolyard of your son’s first grade class. So what’s the only logical thing to do?
I grab Anna’s arm. “Anna, I’m sorry. You’re going to think I’m crazy. And I probably am. But PLEASE hide me. Just until we get out of the schoolyard.”
Anna looks at me funny, like I might be in trouble with the cops, or be seeing pink elephants. She looks around, making sure she is not, in fact, about to aid a felon. “Okay...can I ask why?”
“Well,” I begin, “there is this woman over there (nudging with my chin, she looks). DON’T LOOK! Anyway, I HATE this woman. Her kid and Alex used to be friends, but the kid’s a brat and the woman uses people. It’s a big mess. Anyway, I tried to confront her, but she doesn’t take a hint. And now she totally stalks me. She acts fake nice to get what she wants and I can’t stand her. I really tried but I feel like I’m just going to punch her or something one day. She’s a complete nutcase.”
At this point we’ve moved to the gate of the schoolyard. I’ve avoided Suzy Q., thanks to Anna. I detach myself from her arm. She sort of smirks and looks me up and down, cocks an eyebrow and hits me with this: “A complete nutcase, huh?”
I feel my face redden. “Yeah…well…I never said I wasn’t. But I’m a nutcase in a different way. And I’m honest about it.”
We both laughed. She said she completely understood and had dealt with fake, user type people herself. She said she didn’t hold it against me. But it’s been about three weeks since that incident. Alex still asks me when he and Luke are going to play in the park together. It hasn’t happened yet. I notice that I never spot Anna in the schoolyard anymore, except occasionally the back of her head as she’s hurrying off with Luke through the gate without a backward glance. I don’t crane my neck to look for her though. I don’t track Luke’s movements through the schoolyard. I have a funny feeling some things are better left alone. Poor Alex. How does one explain to your child there will be no playdate because sometimes Mommy is too much a freak for other people to handle?
Damn you Suzy Q.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
I'm Not Ready For Potty Training
Amy’s 17 months old. She’s at that stage where she follows me into the bathroom whenever I leave the door open a crack or wreaks havoc in the house whenever I don’t. Sometimes it’s a choice of the lesser of two evils. This means if we’re alone in the house I’m usually stuck with a peep show to my peeing. I only poop during her nap or if Nick or Alex are there to keep an eye on her. No one needs an audience for that except gross kinky fetishists. (And even they don’t involve toddlers.) Of course I still can’t poop in peace and halfway through she’s banging on the door demanding, “Momma out!”
Amy also makes the poopy face and has started bringing me clean diapers whenever she drops a load in her Huggies. I’d been thinking about starting potty training with her at some point soon, even though I know she’s still a bit young. Why not? She’s showing signs of interest, is aware of being dirty, and doesn’t enjoy being in her own filth. And, quite frankly, I’m sick of shitty diapers.
So today after nap we did the usual cuddle and chat and change the wet diaper and began to play. Then I saw it. She looked at me and made the Amy patented poopy face. I asked, “Amy, are you pooping?” And, lo and behold, she giggled and responded with an enthusiastic “Yeah!” And I thought to myselves, selves, this is an excellent learning opportunity we shouldn’t pass up! Commence potty training!
Excitedly, I scooped up my little girl and dashed her to the bathroom before the half smile/half poopy face could leave her visage. I threw open the toilet seat. I yanked off her little pants and one sock. The sock promptly fell into the toilet. I fished it out before it sank. That’s ok, I thought, she has more socks. My daughter stood confused while I wrestled with the diaper I’d apparently fastened too efficiently. Why on earth was Mommy doing this standing up? She kept trying to lay down and I held her up by the arm with one hand as she loudly protested. "No! No! No! Nooooo!" As I finally managed to open the tape and peel it away with my other hand, her eyes locked with mine, she gave a mighty poopy face push, and finished crapping on my fingers. Ah, we had corn last night.
Undeterred, I dropped the soiled diaper, washed my hands while holding her wriggling body between my knees, and then calmly dumped the poop that had made it into the diaper in the toilet. She watched, disinterested. She wanted to play in the bathtub. Instead I placed her on the toilet and praised her for sitting there so nicely. Bad idea. The crap that had been in the diaper? It was smeared all over that adorable little toddler butt of hers. And now it was all over the toilet seat. And she was just about to put her hands in it.
No big deal. I will just take her off, sit on the tub, stick her over my knee, and clean her with some toilet paper. Then I’ll wipe up the seat. Into the other room for a fresh diaper and we’re done. No big deal. And it wouldn’t have been. Except for two things. The first being the alarm went off letting me know I had to pick Alex up from school in 10 minutes. The second being…no toilet paper. SHIT! Literally. So I grabbed my angel around the waist trying to avoid her filthy ass, and rushed from the bathroom. By now she was already frustrated and crying. This was made worse by the fact that in my panic I banged her head into the door frame. I am a terrible mother. I ran to the changing area (aka my bed) and threw down some wipes under her gross butt and proceeded to coo apologies to her while wiping the filth from her behind. Dammit I forgot to get a clean diaper!
So once she was clean I cuddled my naked-from-the-waist-down child to me and fetched a diaper. I called my sister downstairs and asked her if she could watch the “little beast” while I ran to get Alex. There was no way I was going to get her dressed and out the door. Luckily, my sister took pity and said yes. After I managed to get the diaper and pants on I had just enough time to remember to wipe the toilet seat and wash my hands before running out to pick up Alex. And, for once this week, I wasn’t late. I am Super Mom.
*I am writing this for your benefit Jr. Highschool teacher. To explain the traumatic experience that lead to my daughter still not being properly potty trained at 16. I suck at life.
Zombie Housing Discrimination
Sherry is my best friend. She works, yet finds the time to communicate with my crazy ass through texts throughout the day. If my psychologist ever read through some of our conversations I might be back in a padded room. Here's an example of one conversation following her stomach virus:
Me: How you feeling?
Me: (an hour later with no response) Has the zombie virus taken hold?
Sherry: I finally ate after a 24 hour fast.
Me: Was it human flesh? Tell me it wasn't human flesh. I'd hate to have to shoot you.
Sherry: ... ... ... No ... ... ...
So I did what any normal person would do to test her zombie status. I took a picture of my butt (it's a large and meaty butt and also where I store the remnants of my brain) and sent it to her.
Me: Does this look tasty to you?
Sherry: That's not fair!
Me: You're thinking of biting it!
Me: Are you a zombie!? Are you?
Sherry: *Stops nibbling ass* Huh? No! You had a little...something...here and I was getting it off...I was helping!
Me: Now I'm infected dammit. I thought I had at least til 2012.
Me: You couldn't let me get my house with a pool? Enjoy it just for a year?
Sherry: Just infect your neighbors. Zombie Pool Party!
Me: They're not gonna let a zombie buy a house!
Me: My credit sucks. And you think I won't have eaten the kids and at least infected Nick by then?
Me: Hell I'm half ready to chomp Amy right now. (Amy is my 17 month old daughter.)
Sherry: The housing market sucks. Some places are trying to bring back variable loans again. They'll sell to a zombie.
Me: We're talking suburbia. They'd barely sell to you. They're not gonna sell to a zombie. (At this point I'll clarify Sherry is a black, bisexual, single mother.)
Sherry: ...Hmmm, has your skin changed color yet? Get the house before it changes. Don't want any burning... What do they burn for zombies?
By this time hours have gone by. I've already picked up Alex (my 6 year old son) from school and we're over my friend Joan's house so our kids can play. I decide to get her into the conversation. Joan, like most people who I consider true friends, is well aware I'm pretty crazy. But without any context I start asking her what she thinks people would burn on the front lawn of a family of zombies. She doesn't get it. So I explain that racists burn crosses on the lawns when black families move in. What would zombie haters burn on the lawn if my zombie family were to move into suburbia? She starts laughing at me and reminds me again that I'm nuts. But she plays along and begins naming random items. So...who's really crazy here? Me? Or the people who humor my madness? Once Joan settles on an answer I'm back to the texting.
Me: My friend Joan says pigs for some reason.
Me: I don't think she gets it.
Me: I say...tombstones?
Me: Winding sheets?
Me: But if I infect Nick it's all over. He's ALREADY PR. (Puerto Rican in case anyone doesn't get that.) PR AND a zombie is a little much. Then what if they start asking where the kids went?
Sherry: They don't want your half breed kids anyway. PR/White/Zombie (if they survived). All the bullying! Cooked meat thrown at them in the playground. That might be what Joan was thinking. Zombies don't like cooked food (don't know her, so going out on a limb).
Me: Nah. She just thinks we're freaks. She doesn't understand it's all gonna end in zombies.
Me: But I see where you're going with the meat angle.
Sherry: Ah! Then cooked meat for her! We get the fresh stuff! *does raw meat dance* I like the tombstone angle too. Can you see people lugging those onto your property? Or making a bunch of fake ones? "Get in the ground where ya belong!"
Me: Fuck them! If I'm not a zombie I'm doing the Viking funeral! That'll teach em!
Sherry: Burning them or you? lol
Me: Both. Vikings liked to take people with them!
Sherry: Cool! I wanna loot and pillage!
Me: As long as it's not my house.
Reading over this, it's actually a pretty normal type of conversation for the two of us. Including getting a random person in on it without context and having sent her a picture of my ass. Once we started discussing the weather and I ended up with a picture of her boobs because she took responsibility for making it snow. And it evolved into a conversation promising to take care of the others children should we meet untimely deaths.
Like I said, best friend.
Me: How you feeling?
Me: (an hour later with no response) Has the zombie virus taken hold?
Sherry: I finally ate after a 24 hour fast.
Me: Was it human flesh? Tell me it wasn't human flesh. I'd hate to have to shoot you.
Sherry: ... ... ... No ... ... ...
So I did what any normal person would do to test her zombie status. I took a picture of my butt (it's a large and meaty butt and also where I store the remnants of my brain) and sent it to her.
Me: Does this look tasty to you?
Sherry: That's not fair!
Me: You're thinking of biting it!
Me: Are you a zombie!? Are you?
Sherry: *Stops nibbling ass* Huh? No! You had a little...something...here and I was getting it off...I was helping!
Me: Now I'm infected dammit. I thought I had at least til 2012.
Me: You couldn't let me get my house with a pool? Enjoy it just for a year?
Sherry: Just infect your neighbors. Zombie Pool Party!
Me: They're not gonna let a zombie buy a house!
Me: My credit sucks. And you think I won't have eaten the kids and at least infected Nick by then?
Me: Hell I'm half ready to chomp Amy right now. (Amy is my 17 month old daughter.)
Sherry: The housing market sucks. Some places are trying to bring back variable loans again. They'll sell to a zombie.
Me: We're talking suburbia. They'd barely sell to you. They're not gonna sell to a zombie. (At this point I'll clarify Sherry is a black, bisexual, single mother.)
Sherry: ...Hmmm, has your skin changed color yet? Get the house before it changes. Don't want any burning... What do they burn for zombies?
By this time hours have gone by. I've already picked up Alex (my 6 year old son) from school and we're over my friend Joan's house so our kids can play. I decide to get her into the conversation. Joan, like most people who I consider true friends, is well aware I'm pretty crazy. But without any context I start asking her what she thinks people would burn on the front lawn of a family of zombies. She doesn't get it. So I explain that racists burn crosses on the lawns when black families move in. What would zombie haters burn on the lawn if my zombie family were to move into suburbia? She starts laughing at me and reminds me again that I'm nuts. But she plays along and begins naming random items. So...who's really crazy here? Me? Or the people who humor my madness? Once Joan settles on an answer I'm back to the texting.
Me: My friend Joan says pigs for some reason.
Me: I don't think she gets it.
Me: I say...tombstones?
Me: Winding sheets?
Me: But if I infect Nick it's all over. He's ALREADY PR. (Puerto Rican in case anyone doesn't get that.) PR AND a zombie is a little much. Then what if they start asking where the kids went?
Sherry: They don't want your half breed kids anyway. PR/White/Zombie (if they survived). All the bullying! Cooked meat thrown at them in the playground. That might be what Joan was thinking. Zombies don't like cooked food (don't know her, so going out on a limb).
Me: Nah. She just thinks we're freaks. She doesn't understand it's all gonna end in zombies.
Me: But I see where you're going with the meat angle.
Sherry: Ah! Then cooked meat for her! We get the fresh stuff! *does raw meat dance* I like the tombstone angle too. Can you see people lugging those onto your property? Or making a bunch of fake ones? "Get in the ground where ya belong!"
Me: Fuck them! If I'm not a zombie I'm doing the Viking funeral! That'll teach em!
Sherry: Burning them or you? lol
Me: Both. Vikings liked to take people with them!
Sherry: Cool! I wanna loot and pillage!
Me: As long as it's not my house.
Reading over this, it's actually a pretty normal type of conversation for the two of us. Including getting a random person in on it without context and having sent her a picture of my ass. Once we started discussing the weather and I ended up with a picture of her boobs because she took responsibility for making it snow. And it evolved into a conversation promising to take care of the others children should we meet untimely deaths.
Like I said, best friend.
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