tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81124473901895738262024-03-05T18:16:10.727-05:00but I *am* being haveLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.comBlogger260125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-84968763904668900482013-03-12T11:03:00.001-04:002013-03-12T11:03:16.362-04:00Reinventing Myself, Once AgainHey, look, it's me! I'm back!<br />
<br />
Well... sort of. I know, I've been MIA for the past six months. I don't know why, but I just lost my blogging mojo. Sure, things happened that I could share, but I would rather not post than slap up a blow-by-blow of my family life. Don't get me wrong - I'm not knocking those who do just that; it's just not me. I prefer to share something I learned the hard way, peppered with a healthy dose of snark.<br />
<br />
So... I'm back, bitches.<br />
<br />
There have been some major changes going on over here. Nothing bad, fortunately, but changes that are drastically affecting our family's day to day life. Changes like getting up earlier, kissing the Hubster goodbye much, <i>much</i> earlier, and managing the care and wrangling of offspring from sun up (<i>actually, from before sun up, thanks to the time change</i>) to sun down with only myself upon which to rely. <br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Well, truth be told, I'm also relying heavily on my insanely helpful parents when it comes to the evening activity shuffle. Can't not give props to the village</i>.<br />
<br />
I will be brutally honest here: I'm very proud of the Hubster, and I'm insanely excited that he is being recognized financially and otherwise for his abilities and is in an incredibly supportive work environment with start-up-like perks, but I hate - with the fire of a thousand suns - that his commute leaves me alone to handle every. blasted. aspect. of the kids' lives, from school to activities to discipline to bedtime. I feel like I've been abandoned. And I feel like a complete and raging bitch when I tell him this.<br />
<br />
<i>So? What am I going to do about it? Keep bitching, knowing that nothing will change just by bitching, or do something about it?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I am going to do absolutely nothing. <br />
<br />
Kidding. <br />
<br />
I'll keep bitching. <br />
<br />
Not kidding. <br />
<br />
Come on now, I've been bitching for so many years that I've practically perfected my technique. <br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Except</b>... this time I am going to really think about what it is that I need to make my life work for me. I know, I've done this before. But face it - as a mother of young kids, I <b>have</b> to keep doing that because the kids' needs keep changing. So <b>I</b> have to make changes accordingly.<br />
<br />
I'll keep you posted on my progress. Let's hope its direction is mostly forward.Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-69086847232099456952012-09-25T21:22:00.000-04:002012-09-25T21:22:30.340-04:00Growing Pains: Third Grade Edition<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The two older boys’ first month of school is almost
complete. J is especially excited
because he got the teacher he wanted for third grade. I’ll admit it; this was the teacher <i>I</i> was hoping he’d get, too, because she has
high expectations for her students – she sets the bar high, and then helps the
kids strive to reach it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first two weeks of school were, well,
anticlimactic. No homework was assigned,
and the boys settled into their new routines rather quickly. Their afterschool activities began gradually,
so we eased into our new routine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then came the homework.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To provide some context, last year, J’s homework consisted
of writing fifteen spelling words five times each and three worksheets. Per week.
That’s it. Seriously. Second grade was a joke as far as homework
was concerned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Third grade is a whole. new. world. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Monday night means a language arts worksheet and some
math. Tuesday and Wednesday mean some
more math. Thursday means still more
math. Every Friday, there is a spelling
test. This Friday there is also a
science test. Last week, J had to bring
in pictures of plants, herbivores, and carnivores to create a food web at
school. There will also be four book
projects throughout the year.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In principle, I have absolutely <b>no</b> issue with the amount of homework that J has. What I <b>do
</b> take issue with is the crying,
whining, and hyperventilating that precedes the completion of said
homework. Specifically, this spectacle
is reserved solely for the language arts homework.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last night, J had to read a story called The Fire on the
Mountain (or something like that). The
story in brief: Haptom is a rich guy who
has a servant named Arha. Haptom asks
Arha if he thinks it’s possible to survive a night on the mountain without
shelter, blankets, or fire, and then suggest a friendly wager to prove it. Arha declines since he has nothing to
offer. Haptom says that’s okay, if Arha
can survive a night on the mountain, he’ll give him land, a house, and
cattle. Arha visits Hairu, the village
wise man, for advice. Hairu tells Arha
that he’ll light a fire in the valley, and Arha can see the fire and imagine
that he’s being warmed by it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>…I just had to
interject here. I get that the United
States is no longer a Eurocentric society, and I support the whole diversity
and multiculturalism thrust in education, but if <b>I</b> had a hard time keeping
track of these characters’ names (I kept calling Haptom Hampton), how on earth
is an eight-year-old supposed to? But I digress…</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Haptom is impressed that Arha has survived the frigid night
and asks how he did it. Arha says that
he saw the fire in the valley and imagined that it kept him warm. Haptom accuses Arha of cheating and refuses
to pay up. Heartbroken, Arha visits
Hairu, who decides to help. Hairu hosts
a banquet and invites Haptom. He
prepares but does not serve the food.
Haptom asks when the food will be served. Hairu asks if Haptom can smell the food; Haptom
can. Hairu says that if he can smell the
food, then he must be full since Arhu was kept warm by seeing the fire. Haptom is ashamed and decides to make good on
his end of the wager.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Reads a little bit like a Biblical parable, don’t you
think? I don’t know about you, but I’m
an adult and <b>I</b> have a hard time
making heads or tails of Biblical parables.
Imagine how an eight-year-old feels. Cue the waterworks...</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
The students then have to answer
some questions about comparison and contrast.
Like: How are Haptom and Arhu
different at the beginning of the story?
How are they alike at the end? (<i>this wasn’t too hard for J to figure out; he’s
a bright kid, fortunately, but I still had to talk him through the process… he
kept getting hung up on the character names</i>) Where did Arhu’s test take place? Where did Haptom’s test take place? (<i>J didn’t
make the connection that the banquet was a test for Haptom… did many other students? If they are unfamiliar with parables, will
most third graders make that connection?
Did they discuss this, or similar stories, in class?</i>) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
I think my frustration is
this: yes, let’s challenge our
kids. No, we don’t expect enough of them
academically. But if we’re going to
present students with challenging material, which this language arts homework
clearly is (for a third grader), <b>teachers
must</b> <b>teach children the critical
thinking skills necessary to move towards mastery of that material. Simple repeat exposure is not sufficient.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-74079170255316239382012-09-11T14:47:00.000-04:002012-09-11T14:47:36.123-04:00In Memoriam<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I guess today is as appropriate a day as any to start blogging again. But in honor of the horrific events that happened eleven years ago today, I just can’t do snark right now. It doesn’t feel right. In fact, it feels sacrilegious.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In 2001, I worked for a small software developer in New York City. I was a project manager, where I was responsible for determining what features our clients wanted, writing the engineering specifications for them, designing the graphic interface for the new features, testing those features to ensure that they work properly, writing the user documentation, and then training our clients to use the new features. Initially, I loved my job. I loved the combination of techno-geekery and creativity. I got to design software features and the elements of the graphic interface, contribute to the user guide, and play with software. But by the fall of that year, the software application I was originally working on and had redesigned was abandoned, my boss and I weren’t getting along very well, and the company was slashing employees left and right. Oh, and I was also rather preoccupied with my impending wedding. It was a recipe for near complete job dissatisfaction.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The morning of September 11, 2001 started out pretty much like any other. I took the train into work, to a job that I no longer enjoyed. I remember wanting to call in sick, to work from home, but I didn’t because I was supposed to accompany one of our sales reps on a sales call. Needless to say, that call never happened. Life as we all knew it changed forever.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Eleven days later, the Hubster officially became the Hubster. We were married, and were grateful to be surrounded by our friends and family. Those who couldn’t fly in to join us were missed terribly, but no absence was felt as much as that of Hubster’s friend, the Firefighter. While everyone who could make it to the ground floor of the towers ran to safety, the Firefighter ran in to help. He never made it out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While the Hubster and I started a new life together, others struggled with their horrific losses. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I think about September 11, 2001, and watch the television shows honoring the fallen, and read the articles about those who perished, I am immediately ripped back to that gorgeous fall morning. My stomach clenches, my eyes fill with tears, and then I remember the amazing things that happened in the aftereffect of unfathomable tragedy: the sense of community, the willingness to reach out to one another and make sure we were safe, and gratitude that I came home safely.</div>Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-21800468209185714102012-06-26T21:48:00.000-04:002012-06-26T21:48:06.703-04:00Words. At This Moment, They Fail Me.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Oh, FFS already:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2CkMthWwt8dKHmImXhCO5gBzs5u32VvkSNvbqw5h8iWnbc0AP-YrQQmJD16ouxJsD6XTHT41HRzPno2kGSusvvVzmCK8TNh2CJr-RsdPLCbmW1frffFkWH8LB6ow9z6cfEaMS-H2nOkZj/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2CkMthWwt8dKHmImXhCO5gBzs5u32VvkSNvbqw5h8iWnbc0AP-YrQQmJD16ouxJsD6XTHT41HRzPno2kGSusvvVzmCK8TNh2CJr-RsdPLCbmW1frffFkWH8LB6ow9z6cfEaMS-H2nOkZj/s320/photo.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Right now I'm still speechless. I'll find some words and post them later.</div>Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-53879382820749323472012-05-25T22:25:00.000-04:002012-05-25T22:25:58.284-04:00More Baby Steps<div class="MsoNormal">I’m a first-born. And an over-achiever. Not to mention a people pleaser. I’m also Catholic. Mix all that together and what do you get? Someone who has a hard time standing up for herself and when she does, she feels guilty about it. Someone who just does. not. like. letting people down, or having people disapprove of a decision she’s made, or be displeased with her. Ever.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yeah, I’ve been working on that. For almost forty years. Step by step, I’m making headway.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For example:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">About three weeks ago I got talked into participating in the From Couch to 5K program at my YMCA. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For those who don’t know, From Couch to 5K is a ten-week long program designed to prepare non-runners (<i>here I am, waving my arms, non-runner over here!</i>) to run a 5K race. Starting with a five minute walk followed by a two minute jog followed by another five minute walk, the program gradually builds the time spend jogging until the final week, when you jog for thirty minutes straight.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ugh, I’m getting palpitations just re-reading that phrase: “jog for thirty minutes straight.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Actually, the first three weeks really weren’t all that bad. I enjoy my solo Saturday morning runs and quickly found that I can run for a minute or two longer than the scheduled times, and then run again for another three or four minutes. Doesn’t sound like a big deal, but keep in mind that I am That Girl who, in high school, begged the gym teacher to <b><i>pleeeeeeeeeease </i></b>let me stop and retie my shoes during the timed mile run because my lungs were on fire.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All of that progress was very exciting for me. This week, however, my body started to rebel. For the past year and change, I’ve been working out three days a week – yoga, Pilates, and a half an hour on the elliptical. Now I’ve added three days of running to that regimen, and my back is not happy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tuesday was rainy, so instead of jogging on the trail, we worked out on treadmills. Our trainer did what she’s supposed to do and encouraged us, and pushed me to jog faster to better mimic running outside. My normal response would be to suck it up, begrudgingly increase my speed, and jog faster while whining inside my head. On Tuesday, I decided that that wasn’t going to work for me. And I said just that – “No, that doesn’t work for me.” The trainer looked at me and tried to lay a guilt trip on me, but I just shrugged and kept jogging at my slow pace. Then she suggested that I increase the incline to (again) better simulate jogging outside. To humor her, I raised the incline to 1.5. My lower back quickly voiced its displeasure. I lowered the treadmill's incline back down to zero and said that magic phrase once again – “That’s just not working for me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It felt so good.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know, I know, sticking up for myself to a trainer when participating in a running program is hardly revolutionary.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But for what might be the first time since I can remember, I listened to my body and instead of pushing myself further, I drew a boundary. And stuck to it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That felt good.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I might not stick with this From Couch to 5K program, but I will <i>definitely </i>stick with listening to my body (physically and emotionally), drawing appropriate boundaries, and sticking to them.</div>Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-13162614735860428312012-04-26T20:05:00.000-04:002012-04-26T20:05:29.474-04:00Defining Me<div class="MsoNormal">It happened again. One of my boys did something that compelled a teacher to tell me about it. After T’s gymnastics class, a boy was sitting down and putting on his shoes when T came up from behind and pushed him over. The teacher made it a point to let me know that she didn’t see if anything happened before hand (which I took to mean that she didn’t know if the boy had done something to encourage or provoke T), but that she saw T push the boy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My first thought was something like: <i>Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck. This woman probably thinks my kid is an ass and I suck as a mom.</i> You know, because every other mom has such puppet-master-like control over their kids that the mere thought of misbehaving causes such psychic pain that they immediately think otherwise. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, intellectually I know T made a bad choice. And intellectually I also know he’s not a bad kid, but your typical five-year-old boy. He’s at an age where he’s very tactile, very touchy – he is constantly touching me, his brothers, his friends. It’s not malicious; often it’s the exact opposite, but he doesn’t quite get that others might not appreciate his invasion of their personal space despite his desire to hug them. But there’s still that voice in my head that says it’s <i>my</i> fault.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then the Thursday before school vacation, I got a call from J’s teacher. On the playground during recess, he was wrestling (!!!) with some classmates – boys <i>and</i> girls. One of the girls fell and hit her head, and J accidentally kicked her. The teacher said that J acknowledged that he was doing something he shouldn’t, and that he was remorseful that the girl was hurt, but she called me because the girl left school early due to her injury. (They have recess at the end of their day, just before dismissal.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Again, my first thought? <i>Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. I thought we were past this. Will J <b>ever</b> get over this attraction to mischief, or am I going to spend the rest of his academic career as That Mom? I don’t want to be That Mom. I want to be That Mom of Those Really Great Boys.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In both cases, I know the boys made bad choices, and made them independent of me. And yet I feel like those choices are a direct reflection on my performance as a mother, and on me as a human being. And that these reflections are, for the most part, ugly and negative. Like there’s this huge, gilt-framed portrait of me (<i>and it’s totally unflattering because the angle makes my already large nose look absolutely humongous</i>) with “Epic Fail” stamped on it in big red letters somewhere in the Halls of Personhood. In the Motherhood wing. In the Room of Failure.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t doubt that this obsession with my parental effectiveness is exacerbated by the fact that I am a stay-at-home mom. I know, I know, just being a mom is a Full Time Job (<i>seriously, working moms, I tip my hat to you; I don’t know how you work a full day <b>and then</b> come home and do what I do</i>), but when you don’t leave the house to go and interact with other adults on a regular basis, you spend a tremendous amount of time thinking about things. Like the layout of your house (<i>where should we put the piano?</i>), its state of general cleanliness (<i>don’t ask</i>), and how to create a perpetually organized homework station in your kitchen (<i>if you know how to do that, please let me know because I’m desperate</i>). But mostly you think about your kids. And whether you’re doing a good enough job raising them. And what your kid’s teacher thinks, and what your kid’s friends’ moms think, and what your mom friends think, about you as a mother. You think about how you’re being judged. Always about how you’re being judged. I don’t know, maybe it’s just me. (<i>Please tell me it’s not just me.</i>)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And maybe this is just me, but I feel like there’s a connection between the perceived negative judgments and the fact that I’m raising three boys. That people tend to think that boy moms whose boys are active (<i>you know, just like typical boys who – gulp – run in the library and touch everything within reach and constantly use their outside voices inside</i>) are somehow not doing as good a job raising their kids as other moms. Sure, the boys are reflections of me; and since they spend the vast majority of their time with me, it stands to reason that more of my influence rubs off on them than that of Hubster’s. But I feel that people tend to ascribe the boys’ negative behaviors directly to me and my influence, and that every failure on their part is completely <b>my</b> fault. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s a challenge not to let my boys define who I am as a person. Right now, I don’t have a career other than Mother. Sure, I have skills and experiences that were gained prior to, but I put those aside to dedicate my time and my self to raising my children. They have been gathering dust for ten years, and I’m not sure exactly how or when they will be taken out and put back in use.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the meantime, I need to keep reminding myself that I <i>am</i> doing my best to teach the boys right from wrong, to treat others with respect, and to make good choices. And as hard as it is to let my boys go and let them learn from their choices, it’s equally difficult to remember that while they came from me and reflect different facets of my personality (<i>and some of those facets might not be among my finest</i>), my boys do not define who I am.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>You know, except when they do awesome stuff like behave impeccably in public (how I cherish those oh so rare occasions), use good manners around adults, and win Nobel Prizes. Then, they can define me. But pretty much only then.<o:p></o:p></i></div>Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-74517445758021828392012-03-28T15:52:00.001-04:002012-03-28T15:52:18.225-04:00This Space Intentionally Left BlankLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-24832498721005847662012-03-21T22:14:00.000-04:002012-03-21T22:14:38.992-04:00Oh, Please<div class="MsoNormal">Take a look at this photo:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://m.static.newsvine.com/servista/imagesizer?file=RinaR34ECD15B-B447-5838-AA05-FF59B501B161.jpg&width=500" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://m.static.newsvine.com/servista/imagesizer?file=RinaR34ECD15B-B447-5838-AA05-FF59B501B161.jpg&width=500" width="229" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s Jennifer Lopez, aka JLo. This picture appeared on msnbc.com on Friday, along with the following quote:</div><blockquote class="tr_bq">“I’m not a size 0 or 2. I’m not 6-feet-tall like a lot of the models that come around, and I’m like, ‘Wow, I’m <em><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">really</span></em> short compared to models!’,” the "American Idol" host, 42, said in <a href="http://www.vogue.com/magazine/article/jennifer-lopez-venus-rising/#1">an interview in the new digital edition of Vogue magazine</a>. “I’m just a regular woman. I wear a size 6. You know, when I eat a little too much over the holidays, maybe a size 8. When I’m in shape, maybe a size 4.”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal">I was all ready to call bullshit on this until I went to <a href="http://www.howmuchdotheyweigh.com/jennifer-lopez/" target="_blank">this website</a>. She’s one inch shorter than I am, and weighs almost ten pounds less. No, I’m not bitter. I mean, depending on <strike>the brand of</strike><s> jeans I buy</s> the designer, I’m either a size 6 or 8, too. No harm, no foul there. But then the website also gave JLo’s pre- and post-baby measurements: 34C-26-40 (pre-babies) and 34C-26-38 (post-babies). Seriously? She loses two inches in her hips while I lose TWO CUP SIZES IN MY BREASTS? There is <b>no</b> justice.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Oh, come on now. This woman probably has her own personal trainer, nutritionist, chef, hair and makeup team, personal assistants, and a nanny or thirteen at her disposal. You’ve got a family membership to the Y and your parents to occasionally babysit the boys. Of <b>course</b> she’s going to be in amazing shape after having twins. And you <b>know</b> that the camera really does add ten pounds.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So now I’m supposed to feel better about myself because JLo isn’t a size zero? A woman who has, from the dawn of her career, been known for – and celebrated for – her curves isn’t a size zero and this is <b>news</b>? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then the article shares with us that JLo wears a diamond ring that reads “I Love Me.” You know, to remind her that if you don’t love and take care of yourself, nobody else will, either. That is actually an incredibly important message that every female of any age should internalize and never forget. However, I don’t think too many of us can afford to wear it on our hands as bling, as JLo does.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Uh, no. But... your point?</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Oh yeah. Right. My point.<br />
<br />
Look, I <i>do</i> appreciate that there are celebrities like JLo who do look <i>slightly</i> more like "regular" women than those skeletal size 0 models. But... and this is a big but (not to be confused with a big butt... ha ha) can these celebrities <b>please</b> be just a teeny bit more realistic about how different their lives are from just about everyone else's? You know, admit that you have a cadre of assistants who help you, and you are aware that pretty much every other mother in the world can't afford that. And that maybe, <i>just maybe</i>, you realize that your life is pretty damn good, and you are grateful for it.<br />
<br />
Because otherwise, I'm just not going to have any sympathy that JLo is "really short compared to models" at her curvy size 6.</div>Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-81667703726835311442012-03-09T22:07:00.000-05:002012-03-09T22:07:33.122-05:00OMG I'm Not Twenty Any More!<div class="MsoNormal">Last night at yoga I realized that I am getting old. Well, yeah, we’re all getting older all the time, but I have lived in this little fantasy bubble of mine where I think – despite being married for ten years and having carried and borne three kids – that I’m still in my twenties and have this cute, tight little body (please ignore the slightly stretched out, flabby belly and shrunken boobs), and can totally hang with the likes of Kristen Stewart, Emma Stone, and Mila Kunis.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yeah, right.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Last night it hit home that I am so beyond all that.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Over the past couple of weeks I started to notice that I was getting a little bit of a spare tire. I know! I do yoga and Pilates as well as cardio every week. Okay, maybe I’m sneaking one too many chocolate covered almonds, or scarfing pretzels and chips (and Trader Joe’s dark chocolate pistachio toffee) too often, too late at night. But still, isn’t that why I’m working out? So I <i>can</i> eat those things whenever I want?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then, last night while doing a pose during yoga, I held my arm out and looked at my hand. <i>Really</i> looked at my hand. And I noticed that my hand no longer looks like the hand of a twenty something. No, it looks like the hand of a <b>middle-aged woman</b>. I guess it’s a good thing that I was in a yoga-induced calm when I realized this, because just typing “middle-aged woman” gave me palpitations. Me. Middle aged? No. That’s just preposterous! It’s impossible! It just. cannot. be.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Except it is.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Let’s face it. I’m forty. I am going to be forty-one in a month. Those little starlets who I like to pretend I could hang with? I could be their <b>mothers</b>, for God’s sake! (I also could have starred on Teen Mom when they were babies, but that’s another topic altogether)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No, given the chance, I will <b>never</b> turn Rob Pattinson’s head. *<i>le sigh</i>* And to be honest, even if the impossible actually became possible and I found myself, erm, in a position to get intimate with the twenty-five year old Hollywood hottie, I would be <b>so</b> freaking neurotic that he would be horrified by the changes that motherhood have bestowed upon my body. <i>TMI alert, kinda – while I am proud to say that I can still fit into size 6/8 jeans, carrying three babies to term has not only left my belly soft and mushy despite the weekly Pilates classes, it has also, um, affected my other less visible lady parts.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can’t stop the forward march of time. I can’t magically make myself forever twenty-five. At times (like at yoga this week), it totally sucks. But I remind myself that everyone else is getting older, too, so while that’s not ideal, it certainly lessens the sting. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As does $10 and a box of permanent hair color.</div>Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-69772876588596758632012-02-28T22:20:00.000-05:002012-02-28T22:20:06.309-05:00Reality Check<div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know what’s gotten into me since I unloaded my bullying experience. It feels like 95% of my motivation for writing evaporated as soon as I hit “Publish.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My kids will do or say something and I’ll think <i>oh, that’s a great topic to write about</i>, but instead of germinating and poking its head up through the ground, the seed remains dormant. <b>My mind has been rendered infertile, dammit, and I do not like it!</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I apologize to you, dear reader (<i>all one of you</i>), for two things: first, for my recent lack of posts, and second, that it might take me some more time for the brain to return to its fertile, writing-piece-sustainable state.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While all of this is frustrating, though, it’s really not all <i>that</i> bad.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I talked to a mom yesterday who, almost two months ago, had a bilateral mastectomy and about thirty lymph nodes removed. Tomorrow she starts chemotherapy, and will later also undergo radiation, to ensure that the stage three breast cancer she was diagnosed with is eradicated. She has a six year old and a four year old.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thankfully, her doctor says that after her treatment, there is a less than one percent chance that the cancer will return. But in the meantime, she has a hellish road ahead of her.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can’t imagine what she is going through not just physically and financially, but emotionally as well. Just thinking about it makes my stomach tighten and my eyes well up. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the meantime, I am organizing helpers among my moms’ club – we’re going to do what we can to help this mom in need by running errands, hosting her kids for playdates, bring them to and from school, and providing gift certificates to Target and the grocery store.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So yeah, I have been rather frustrated that I can’t seem to break through this writer’s block, but my frustration is far preferable to the medical, financial, and emotional turmoil that my friend is dealing with. I pray for her, and I thank God for the blessings that I have.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know I’ll get my writing groove back. I've <i>got</i> to. I’m a full time mother to three little boys. Just dealing with them, how can my mind <i>not</i> return to its normal, sarcastic state?</div>Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-84997687987207439662012-02-19T22:06:00.000-05:002012-02-19T22:06:05.838-05:00His First Sleepover<div class="MsoNormal"><i>From his perspective, it's a big deal. A rite of passage, you could say.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">J was invited to, and is going on, his first sleepover tomorrow night. I should qualify that statement somewhat – he <i>has </i>slept over Grandma and Grandpa’s house a couple of times, but this will be his first sleepover at a friend’s house.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He’s so excited.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m excited for him, too. I remember sleeping over my best friend’s house when I was his age. It was the coolest. thing. ever. Come on, admit it - when you're seven, a sleepover at your friend's house is really <i>that</i> cool.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m also a little nervous.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Gee, now <b>there's</b> a shocker... you, nervous about something?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know, I know, that’s just a little bit helicopter-ish, but what can I say? I <i>am</i> a little bit helicopter-ish. Let’s also not forget that lovely little tendency I have to worry and be ever-so-slightly dramatic. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Trust us, we don't forget that easily.</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But cut me a break, k? This is my oldest, my first child, going to spend the night at the house of a person to whom we have no blood relation. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>All right, all right. We're snarky, but we're not heartless. It <b>is</b> hard to sit back and watch the little birdies fly from the nest, even if it's only overnight.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, what exactly is making me nervous?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That I don’t know the parents very well; that although they were in class and played basketball together last year, J doesn’t mention this boy in conversation; that his friend is the youngest of three; that I’ve never been to their house; that the father has offered to pick J up instead of me bringing him there (<i>so I can "feel out" their home</i>); that in addition to J there will be another classmate of theirs <i>plus</i> the middle child is also having a friend sleep over; that something might happen that will make J uncomfortable and he will be unsure how to act; and OMG do these people have an unlocked liquor cabinet or guns in the house?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, I was pretty okay before, but now I’ve just worked myself up into a small-sized (<i>for me</i>) tizzy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Way to go, mom. </i><i>So what are you gonna do about your concerns?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, I have to call the father back tomorrow to confirm, so I suppose I have some questions for him. I did explain earlier today that J has only slept over his grandparents’ house, so understandably Hubster and I are a little, um, helicopter-ish about him. Hopefully that will explain some of my possibly bizarre questions.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Is that it?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nope. To help ease my mind and ease my hesitation about letting go of my baby, I hereby send positive thoughts for a fun, safe, and exciting experience for J tomorrow night. And peace of mind for Mommy.</div>Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-69208137028638465932012-02-01T21:54:00.000-05:002012-02-01T21:54:34.386-05:00Status: Charging<div class="MsoNormal">In case you hadn’t noticed, my last two blog entries were, well, kinda heavy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So heavy, in fact, that I am now either regrouping after unloading a heavy burden that I had been carrying around for years, or I am suffering from a massive case of writer’s block.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not sure which it is. Maybe a little of both.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But in the meantime, I do have something rather amusing to share.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Remember how I said I wanted more balance? That seeing pictures of friends’ Gals Night Out gave me the sadz because I’m a Gal, but wasn’t Out?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yeah. And you know that old saying <b style="font-style: italic;">when it rains, it pours</b>, right?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>The more astute reader will probably see where this is going, but for those who prefer that the dots are placed <b>really</b> close together, I shall explain in detail:<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It's pouring.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On my calendar? Let's take a look, shall we?</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><ul><li>Tomorrow night I am going to meet with some moms from T’s preschool, who have started an informal book club.</li>
<li>Next Friday I am going to play BUNCO with some moms I have known for several years and some moms I have yet to meet.</li>
<li>And just today I was asked if I would be interested in joining a group of moms from J’s elementary school to get together to play cards and drink wine.</li>
</ul><div>You just realized that you need your sunglasses to shade your eyes from the sparkle in my super-wide smile, don'tcha?</div>Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-11686660689884892552012-01-22T21:40:00.000-05:002012-01-22T21:40:47.793-05:00You Got All That From Playing Words With Friends? Ooooooooookay…<div class="MsoNormal"><i>In my last post, I mentioned that I tend to overreact and veer into drama queen territory. So in case you didn’t read it, or forgot that I said that, consider yourself warned.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I downloaded Words With Friends to my iphone last Friday night. And then I made the mistake of mentioning the game in a Facebook status.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Dummy – you <b>know</b> that Facebook is the Debil</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Immediately, several friends mentioned that they play too and that I need to play with them. Like an idiot, I believed them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, I invited one of my friends to a game. My opening word ran horizontally, across the board. Her first word also ran horizontally. Horizontally <b>and </b>directly on top of my word, so she got points not just for the word she played but also for all of the other two-letter words that ran vertically. Some of these were words that most people wouldn’t believe are real words – words like “ef.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Be honest – can you use the word “ef” in a sentence – without first looking it up in a dictionary? Yeah, didn’t think so</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Really? I thought this was a Hey-Let’s-Just-Have-Some-Laid-Back-Fun kind of game, and here I had stepped into Are-You-Fucking-Serious-This-Is-<b>That</b>-Competitive? territory.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Immediately my stomach started tightening, my blood pressure started ratcheting skyward, and my fuse was growing rapidly shorter. I started snapping at the kids. I had zero patience. All of this within the span of ten minutes following my friend’s move. Yeah, that is <i>not</i> an appropriate reaction to a game. This is supposed to be <b>fun</b> and <b>relaxing</b> and <b>mentally stimulating</b>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Not an appropriate reaction? Understatement of the year. More like a psychotic, insane, childish drama queen tantrum.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tell me about it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>But seriously, get over it. Get over yourself. It’s a <b>freaking game</b>.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know that. My reaction <b>really</b> bothered me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I started wondering why. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then I started remembering some rather painful childhood memories.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Humor me, please.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">From the time I was in about fifth grade until the end of my freshman year (when I moved from NJ to OH), I was bullied.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In fifth and sixth grade, my tormentor was a petite, dark-haired girl (let’s refer to her as H). I’m not entirely sure why she singled me out as a target, but let me share some personal information: </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><ul><li>I skipped kindergarten, so I was a full year younger (not just chronologically, but emotionally) than my classmates</li>
<li>Despite my young age, I excelled in school and was selected to participate in a program for gifted and talented students</li>
<li>Because of my young age, I was very insecure and <i>really</i> wanted to fit in (a deadly combination that bullies can sniff out in a heartbeat)</li>
<li>I was (and still am) naïve, and give people the benefit of the doubt, and often trust those I shouldn’t</li>
</ul><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">When H would pay attention to me, I was <b>so</b> flattered. I didn’t realize that playing right into her game - luring me into trusting her only to be humiliated in front of my classmates. It happened again and again, and each time I was crushed. (What can I say? When it comes to that sort of situation, I'm a little slow.) I think I stopped being a target for her sometime during seventh or eighth grade. I don’t remember what happened; maybe she got bored of me, maybe she outgrew it. Apparently I never did.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another significant incident happened in seventh grade. This is the year we all leave our respective elementary schools and attend the Jr-Sr High School in town. During lunch, I sat with a large group of girls, mostly friends from elementary school with a few others mixed in. As the year progressed and we met more kids from the other schools, our table grew more crowded. Little by little, I noticed that there was less and less room for me. And then one day one of the girls (who I had been friends with since third grade) told me that there wasn’t room for me anymore. Once again, I was crushed. I was betrayed by girls who I thought were my friends.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What do these incidents from my past have to do with Words With Friends? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, I had the same physical and emotional reaction to the WWF game that I did to those events.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have a <b>really</b> hard time competing head-to-head against my friends. I <b>am</b> competitive by nature, but honestly, I’d rather have my ass handed to me by a complete stranger. When it comes from a friend, it feels like a threat to our friendship rather than part of the game.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I saw my friend’s master-level move (word stacked on word), I felt like I was nine years old again, and H was bullying me. Intellectually, I know that my friend is just playing a game and that she is not being nice to me just so she can lure me into a game and then soundly kick my ass, ha ha ha, joke’s on you, sucker. But emotionally, I can’t separate her moves from K’s bullying. My reaction was the same.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><i>Note: I started this piece last week and was too deep in processing mode to finish. If it's okay with you, I'm ready to finish.</i></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Well, it's been a mentally taxing week. Between Hubster working nonstop and me processing all of the above, I'm pretty drained. But some good things happened:</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><ul><li>I did some more thinking, and some more writing. And with help from my dear friend and kick-ass editor, I am pretty certain that I have found a compelling direction for my writing.</li>
<li>I talked to my Jedi Master-level WWF friend. I explained how I felt, and she was incredibly supportive (she's like that in general; she's awesome, just like my other dear friend). She said she wouldn't be offended if I wanted to stop playing.</li>
<li>I kept playing WWF. I'm still getting beated, quite soundly, but it doesn't hurt quite so much. Because I am learning more about how to play the game. Who better to learn from than a Jedi Master, right?</li>
</ul><br />
<div><i>Anything else you'd like to share with the class?</i> </div><div><br />
</div><div>Why yes. Thanks for asking.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I learned that even though it happened over thirty years ago, I'm still not over how H bullied me when we were girls. And for whatever reason, how my mind processed that experience has affected me to this day. Now that I know that, I must learn how to disconnect my reactions to my past from those of my present. <i>That</i> will be some journey.</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>Not bad for a free app.</i></div>Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-81752586595669119412012-01-12T22:46:00.000-05:002012-01-12T22:46:04.291-05:00Taming the Beast<span style="font-size: x-small;">(<i>I was inspired to write after reading <a href="http://thebloggess.com/2012/01/the-fight-goes-on/" target="_blank">this post</a> by the Bloggess and <a href="http://www.chicagonow.com/moms-who-drink-and-swear/2012/01/crazy-pills-bloggers-and-first-world-problems/" target="_blank">this post</a> from Moms Who Drink and Swear. My battle is far from epic, but depression and the use of anti-depressants are such dirty little secrets that I wanted to give them some fresh air and sunlight.)</i></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">About four or five months after my second child (T) was born, I went on antidepressants for post-partum depression.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I’m pretty darn sure that I suffered from PPD around the same time after my first (J) was born although, at the time, I thought that what I was experiencing was just, well… me being me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To be honest, that I might have PPD didn’t even occur to me until after T’s birth. When my hair started falling out (another pleasant post-partum surprise), I noticed that I had absolutely <i>no</i> patience with J’s completely age-appropriate behavior. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thinking back, I realized that I had similar feelings when my hair started falling out about four or five months after J was born. It wasn’t as obvious the first time around: J was my firstborn and therefore my sole focus, so I just chalked up my moodiness (<i>aka frequent periods of extreme bitchiness</i>) to lack of sleep.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
It shouldn't be a surprise that I had PPD. I saw several therapists during my twenties and thirties for generalized anxiety disorder, and (<i>brace yourself, because this is a <b>really shocking</b> revelation</i>) I have a tendency to overreact and be somewhat of a drama queen. Plus, my grandfather was treated for agoraphobia and depression during the final years of his life, so I had genetics going for me, too.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once I figured out that blowing up at a two-and-a-half year old for acting his age isn’t exactly (a) appropriate or (b) healthy for either parent or child, I called my OB. She referred me to a psychiatry practice that accepts pretty much any insurance plan out there. (<i>Since they’ll take money from anyone whose check clears, I’m sure you can imagine how attentive they are to their patients.</i>) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I met with a psychiatrist who (<i>I <b>swear</b> this is true</i>) perused other patients’ charts during my appointments. He prescribed me sertraline, the generic equivalent of Zoloft. (<i>Zoloft and its generic equivalent are the only anti-depressants compatible with breastfeeding, so it was the only choice available to me.</i>) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I held onto that prescription for about a month before filling it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Why? Oh, I had my reasons. Reasons like:<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"></div><ul><li>I was embarrassed that I wasn’t “strong enough” to handle this on my own.</li>
<li>I was embarrassed by the stigma of taking an anti-depressant.</li>
<li>I didn’t know of any mom friends who admitted to having PPD, much less taking anti-depressants.</li>
<li>I felt like a failure as a mother because I couldn’t “snap out of” my moodiness.</li>
<li>I worried what my friends would think if they knew I was taking medication to treat depression.</li>
<li>I worried that my husband would think that my taking anti-depressants was an excuse not to “handle my problems” on my own.</li>
</ul><br />
</div><ul></ul>In other words, I felt a whole lot of <b>fear</b> and <b>shame</b>.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
And then (<i>with help from a beloved and trusted neighbor</i>) I realized something:<br />
<br />
<ul><li>If I had insulin-dependent diabetes, I would take the medication.</li>
<li>If I had high blood pressure, I would take the medication.</li>
<li>If I had asthma, I would take the medication.</li>
</ul></div><div class="MsoNormal"> <br />
I think you see where I’m going here. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I finally filled the scrip and went on sertraline. And do you know what the ultimate, twisted irony of it was? Only 25mg of the stuff - the smallest dose you can take - made me so horrifically nauseous that I went out and bought a pregnancy test to make sure that the nausea was caused by the meds and not a pregnancy. On the upside, it did its intended job and took the “edge” off my moods – I didn’t have such a hair-trigger temper anymore. But feeling queasy 24/7 while nursing a newborn and minding a toddler was simply unacceptable. I ended up quitting it cold turkey.<br />
<i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">So… Did I kick my depression as easily as ditching the meds? Unfortunately, no. A few major things happened, including the birth my third son (S), which caused that monstrous beast to rear its ugly head once again. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
But once I weaned S, I discovered something that kinda rocked my world: after six years of trying to get pregnant, being pregnant, or breastfeeding, my hormones (and therefore, my moods) began to stabilize. Oh sure, I still get bitchy the day after I ovulate and then again the week before my period, but this is <b>nothing</b> like before. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I also discovered that regular exercise keeps my mood elevated, especially when said exercise occurs while my kids are in the safe, loving environment of Child Watch at the local YMCA. (<b><i>Why</i></b><i> did I not join the Y sooner?</i>)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Like everything in life, learning to deal with my moods – with my depression and my generalized anxiety disorder – is a journey, a process. Those were six long and frustrating years, it was a real struggle, and I questioned <b>everything</b> about my abilities as a wife and mother. I still struggle, and I still question my abilities, but nowhere near as often or as harshly as I did during that time. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Life will not stop throwing me curveballs. I will likely still get down on myself. I still need to change how I handle certain situations. However, I am no longer ashamed that I have a tendency towards depression, or that I needed anti-depressants to help me through a tough stretch. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<b>need</b> to help and support each another, especially during the difficult times. God knows there are a lot of them. <b><o:p></o:p></b></div>Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-14818005939719239672012-01-07T21:37:00.001-05:002012-01-07T21:38:04.534-05:00Unsolicited Advice<div class="MsoNormal">Over the holidays, I had to go to the drugstore to have flavor added to an antibiotic. My oldest had an ear infection, and the medicine tasted absolutely awful without it. I brought my youngest with me (he’s three) and, like all toddlers, he was more interested in attempting to explore his environment without Mom than standing in line with her. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To minimize the potential damage, I picked him up for a while. My arms and back started complaining, so I put him back down and held his hand. This act was interpreted as an invitation for him to act “boneless” and hang limply from my arm. Exasperated, I mention that maybe I should have left him at home.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here’s where the fun begins.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A woman waiting behind me says, “Let him go, Mom.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Is she talking to me? I think she’s talking to me, but who is this lady?<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Let him go. He’s controlling you. He needs to know that you’re in charge.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Yeah, I know that, lady, but I’m freaking tired right now. I was up late reading, I have a massive headache, I look like a pink panda bear because the toxic black mold growing in our attic that was stirred up by our construction caused an eczema flare-up on my face that still hasn’t cleared up after five weeks, my husband has been blasting Motley Crue while painting the kitchen and master bath over the past three days, and I am standing here waiting for the pharmacist because getting my seven-year-old to take the nasty antibiotic that I brought here to be flavored has been about as easy as stuffing a greased pig into a skintight wetsuit. I am *really* not in the mood for you to tell me exactly what is wrong with my parenting technique at this precise moment.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know what possessed me, but instead of ignoring this Parenting Guru, I turn around and give a weary smile. Rather than let it drop, Madame PG took my gesture as an invitation to <s>offer sympathy</s> publicly critique my parenting method.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I raised five boys and they all salute me. You have to let them know that <b>you’re</b> in charge. If they come shopping with you, they need to know that they <b>have to</b> behave. My boys knew that if they misbehaved while they were out with me, they wouldn’t be allowed to come with me the next time.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Blah blah blah, I’m the best mother ever, you suck, blah blah.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She continues in a stage whisper: “He’s what, three, right? They’re smart. They know what’s going on. He needs to hear you and me talking about this so he’ll know what’s acceptable.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Blah blah, listen to <b>my</b> advice because unlike you, I am an <b>awesome mother</b>, blah blah, me Me ME.</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">OMFG this woman would not. shut. up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Did I mention that this woman would not shut up? She kept yammering on and on about how you can’t let your kids know that they’re pushing your buttons or that you’re annoyed or exasperated or, I don’t know, human, and that you always have to keep one step ahead of them. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her daughters-in-law. Can you imagine having to hear this diatribe <b>every single time</b> you visit your in-laws? Holy crap, I don't even <b>know</b> this lady and she just started spouting parenting advice. Imagine having to hear this from your children’s grandmother <b>every freaking time</b> you see her.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So what did *I* do? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, I totally suck at situations when I’m put on the spot. I did nothing but mumble stupid shit like “Yeah, you’re right,” and “Oh, I know, I’m the mean mom.” Just reading them is making me cringe at what a complete, spineless, jellyfish wimp I was.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I would love to go back in time and relive that little exchange and instead say something like:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Look, you raised five boys, right? You’ve got two on me; I have three. And yours are grown, so you’ve been there, done that. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and <b>assume</b> that your comments are well-intentioned, but I really do not appreciate that you, a complete stranger, are critiquing my parenting not only in front of my child, but also in front of all these people.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nah. Scratch that. Let’s go all crazy-ass-bitch on her with something like this (keep in mind that my three-year-old is still at my side; expletives have been removed):</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ma’am, how I raise my boys is none of your business. And if I were your daughter-in-law and you did this to me in public, I would be pissed off enough not to see you for a long while.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then I would whip out my iphone and take a picture of her CBF*. Me for the win!</div><blockquote class="tr_bq"><i><span style="font-size: 9pt;">*Cat-Butt Face – you know, that look someone makes upon hearing something unpleasant; it looks like s/he just sucked on a lemon</span></i></blockquote>Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-31981299975112016832011-12-22T22:27:00.000-05:002011-12-22T22:27:24.128-05:00What am I afraid of?Failing.<br />
<br />
Being laughed at.<br />
<br />
Looking stupid.<br />
<br />
Not being "good enough," whatever the hell <i>that</i> means.<br />
<br />
<i>So, what do you do when you're faced with any or all of the above possibilities?</i><br />
<br />
I procrastinate.<br />
<br />
I dawdle.<br />
<br />
I make excuses.<br />
<br />
I freeze up and <b>do nothing</b>. Yeah, like <i>that's</i> going to help.<br />
<br />
<i>Where the hell did this come from? Why are you talking about this crap?</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Well, a very dear friend of mine gave me some really excellent and spot on feedback on my blog. And I will be brutally honest: it stung. I did that blinking-really-fast thing and then my stomach got all twisty, like I ate too many burritos and then did a Pilates class followed up with a roller coaster ride.<br />
<br />
And then I thought about what she wrote. I realized that she was not only <b>totally right</b>, but also a <b>totally awesome friend</b> who wasn't trying to break my spirit but rather <b>make me a better writer</b>. <br />
<br />
Okay. I can deal with that.<br />
<br />
And then I thought some more. I realized that if I really want to write, I need to start (gulp) working harder. I need to stop crapping out blog posts and start crafting entries. And that kinda scared me.<br />
<br />
Why? Why does working hard at something that I actually enjoy strike fear in my heart?<br />
<br />
Because I'm afraid:<br />
<br />
That I will fail.<br />
<br />
That people I know will laugh at me.<br />
<br />
That they will think I will look stupid.<br />
<br />
That they will think I am not a good writer.<br />
<br />
<i>So what are you going to do about it?</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
I am going to spend more than thirty minutes writing blog posts. <br />
<br />
I am going to write out my mission statement for the blog, and make sure that each post reflects that. <br />
<br />
I am still going to (<i>sorry, can't quite think of a more... fitting... word</i>) crap out my thoughts (just not online), but I also will spend time crafting them, making sure that I'm not just rehashing what I did that day, but what I <i>think</i> about it. You know, make it a little more interesting and, dare I say it, <b>compelling</b> for the reader. (<i>I know, what a concept!</i>)<br />
<br />
So, once again I owe a <b>BIG </b>thanks to my friend for kicking me in the ass. <br />
<br />
Sure, friends are supposed to be nice to you and tell you things that make you feel good about yourself. But a <b>real</b> friend tells you the truth, knowing that it will sting at first, but that it will also make you a better person.<br />
<br />
Guess which category I place my friend?<br />
<br />
Working to become a better writer scares the crap out of me. Having a friend who will be brutally honest to make me better at it makes it a little less scary.Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-47570734081829728482011-12-16T22:11:00.000-05:002011-12-16T22:11:54.636-05:00How to write a YA dystopian novelI've been reading A LOT of Young Adult, dystopian fiction lately. <div><br />
</div><div>Along with watching <i>Twilight</i> movies and looking at pictures of Robert Pattinson on the Internet, reading YA dystopian fiction is my number one guilty pleasure. I love <i>love </i><b style="font-style: italic;">love</b> it. However, the Novels of Dystopia have been both amusing and frustrating me lately: I've read so many of them that they are starting to blend together. </div><div><br />
</div><div>And I've noticed many, <b>many</b> recurring themes. So much so that I would like to write a quick cheat sheet for those of you who might like to dip your pen into the dystopian ink well:</div><div><br />
</div><div><b>Things to remember when writing a YA dystopian novel:</b><br />
<div><ul><li>Your story will take place at some unnamed time in the future</li>
<li>Some (possibly unnamed) catastrophic event - disease, world war, excessive materialism - has forced The Powers That Be to severely restrict personal freedoms</li>
<li>Society is a small, self-contained unit that does not communicate with others outside its borders</li>
<li>Technology is even more pervasive than it is now, and it is used to track every aspect of its citizens from personal preferences, nutritional needs, and physical location</li>
<li>All inhabitants of Society must follow the rules and regulations in their entirety. Failure to do so will result in punishment which may include public humiliation and/or banishment from Society.</li>
<li>The protagonist, usually a female, has willingly lived within the constraints of her society for all of her life, until she meets HIM</li>
<li>For some reason, HE lives on the fringes of society - by choice or due to some circumstance - and is attracted to protagonist. As they get to know each other, HE explains that society's restrictions are just that, restrictions, and that life wasn't Always Like This</li>
<li>Protagonist is dating a "nice" boy, preferably an upstanding, model citizen who personifies the ideals valued by Society</li>
<li>Protagonist finds herself attracted to HIM and, as she spends time with HIM, begins to question her blind loyalty to Society</li>
<li>Love triangle somehow raises the suspicion of The Powers That Be, who must take some sort of punitive action against protagonist and/or HIM</li>
<li>Protagonist must make a choice between Society and True Love, which will result in Permanent Banishment from Society</li>
<li>Resolve some of the major plot points, but leave the readers (somewhat) hanging at the end. Remember, you've signed a deal for a trilogy!</li>
</ul></div></div>Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-62513230885713603442011-12-14T22:16:00.000-05:002011-12-14T22:16:48.299-05:00Gluten-Free Wonderland?Don't know if I've mentioned this here or not, but I've been wheat-free for almost two years.<br />
<br />
It is simultaneously great and sucky.<br />
<br />
Great because I don't have that brain fog and pervasive nausea that I would get when eating wheat.<br />
<br />
Sucky because I really miss a nice loaf of crusty bread, the texture of real semolina pasta, and - more than anything else - cookies and other baked goodies.<br />
<br />
I know, I know, there are a kajillion websites with recipes for gluten-free treats, and gluten-free cookies and other snacks can be found at any Target or grocery store. But have you actually tried any of those store-bought gluten-free foods? And not just foods that aren't normally wheat-free. I mean things like cookies, pasta, or bread. Seriously - have you <i>tried</i> any of them?<br />
<br />
Yes, they <i>are</i> much better than they were even a year ago, but let's be brutally honest: most store bought gluten-free foods are pale substitutes for the original.<br />
<br />
Sure, I could make my own bread, cakes, and cookies (I happen to have an excellent recipe for gluten-free chocolate chip cookies that is pretty easy to make), but I am a full-time mom to three young and <i>very</i> active boys. I don't have the time to sort through the bazillion recipes, make test batches, and figure out which ones taste the best <i>and</i> are easiest to make (<i>not to mention which recipes will pass the non-GF taste test</i>).<br />
<br />
But, I may have found a solution. I just found out that there is a magazine called Gluten-Free Living. I haven't had the opportunity to get my grubby little paws on a copy (<i>yet</i>), but I would imagine that it includes things like recipes, tips on finding hidden sources of gluten in restaurant menus and food labels, and that sort of thing. I would <i style="font-weight: bold;">really</i> like to have a subscription to GFL. I can, and if I am lucky, it won't cost me a cent. See, this blog called <a href="http://www.glutenfreefrenzy.com/2011/12/25-days-of-christmas-giveawaysgluten_07.html" target="_blank">Gluten Free Frenzy</a> is giving away <b>25</b> free subscriptions to Gluten-Free Living. I want one! Please, please pick me!!!<br />
<br />
Any gluten-free success stories (<i>meaning they passed the Hubster/boys taste test</i>) will be posted.Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-66131100545949493972011-12-13T21:50:00.000-05:002011-12-13T21:50:29.313-05:00Gone Too SoonFeeling emotionally exhausted today.<br />
<br />
Mom called me this morning; my aunt called her last night. Her boyfriend had an aneurysm, and brain scans showed no function. He had called and asked her to come down (they live in the same apartment building) because he was having awful headaches, and shortly after she got there he collapsed in her arms. Mom and Dad drove down to be with her today, and shortly after they arrived he was removed from life support.<br />
<br />
Later this morning I learned that a classmate from one of the high schools I attended (<i>my family moved a lot; I went to three high schools</i>) also passed away today. He was 41 and had a young daughter.<br />
<br />
As much as I enjoy the festivities that this time of year brings, this part of it really sucks.Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-67808857135496390002011-12-12T22:12:00.000-05:002011-12-12T22:12:51.041-05:00Nothing says "Christmas" like a port-a-potty on your lawnThat's right. And it bears repeating:<br />
<br />
<i>Nothing</i> says "Christmas" like a port-a-potty on your front lawn.<br />
<br />
You're probably all like, <i>"What the <b>what</b>?"</i> I <b>know</b>. I was too, when I first saw it. Let me explain...<br />
<br />
As I am <i>sure</i> you remember (<i>because I that you care about every detail of my life</i>), we have been doing some home improvement. Carpenters, electricians, plumbers, and tile guys have been traipsing in and out of our home for <strike>the past twenty-one weeks</strike> what feels like forever. And since paving a driveway is part of the project, these guys have been tromping through dirt to get into our house. Yeah, my vacuum cleaner and I have been quite hot and heavy lately. And the dust. Oh, the dust! It is going to take me <b>years </b>to get rid of all of the freaking dust in my house. <br />
<br />
The bright side of this is that the workers are not using my bathrooms. (<i>Workers using my bathroom... Mind bleach. Somebody<b> please</b> pass the mind bleach</i>) Instead, these lucky guys have their own personal portable john. Initially, it was located on our side lawn, where it was visible but not in your face.<br />
<br />
Now that our driveway is ready to be paved, the port-a-pot had to be moved, since its original location will be paved. Where did they move it?<br />
<br />
Front and center. <br />
<br />
Oh yes, pull up to my house and you can't miss it: the port-a-potty on our lawn. Fan-freaking-tastic.<br />
<br />
I think I'm gonna put a wreath and some lights on it, make it look festive.Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-73756004514359916522011-12-11T21:53:00.000-05:002011-12-11T21:53:48.853-05:00Really? That was it?Karate mom is back with an update.<br />
<br />
Turns out that she was all worked up over nothing (<i>No! All of that angst and worry turned out to be for <b>nothing</b>? Say it isn't so!</i>).<br />
<br />
See, I thought that, during a belt test, the student was required to perform the form(s) individually, under the watch of a black belt, and said black belt would determine whether or not the student has demonstrated a certain (<i>unbeknownst to me, Karate mom</i>) level of mastery.<br />
<br />
Boy, was I wrong.<br />
<br />
I had no idea that a belt test was basically another class, including the black belts walking around the room except instead of offering instruction, they are observing and grading the students.<br />
<br />
And I was all worked up, wondering if I needed to whip out the old "As Long As You Tried Your Best" speech or not. <br />
<br />
It turns out that I was all worried for nothing. On one hand, I was relieved that I didn't have a disappointed child who didn't achieve a much desired goal; but on the other hand, I was annoyed that I was all worked up over what was basically a given. However, I can deal with my annoyance. Especially after seeing J's face when he got his orange belt. <b>That</b> was worth all of the worry, the angst, the wondering.<br />
<br />
Yes, my son is a level 9 orange belt in Tang Soo Do. I am <b>so proud</b> of that boy.Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-60532503367038654182011-12-08T21:30:00.000-05:002011-12-08T21:30:17.575-05:00Title Goes HereYeah, it was one of those days.<br />
<br />
Nothing out of the ordinary happened. <br />
<br />
The oldest went to school. I took the two little ones to the Y. We had lunch. Somehow, the afternoon passed with nothing major accomplished. J returned from school. I made dinner. We ate. We all went to the Y (<i>yes, again</i>) for J's karate class. Hubster showed up five minutes before class ended. I took the little ones home. Got them ready for bed. <br />
<br />
And here I am.<br />
<br />
Yay for predictability!Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-45983622384263197372011-12-07T20:39:00.000-05:002011-12-07T20:39:24.826-05:00Counting DownThere are eighteen days left until Christmas.<br />
<br />
I have this personal policy that I won't wish away my life, but lately I have been <i>really</i> looking forward to Christmas.<br />
<br />
You might think that it's because I love the joy that Christmas brings. That I look forward to eating, drinking, and being merry with friends. Because even though I can't enjoy them myself, I still love baking batch after batch of Christmas cookies. That I can't wait to bring home the things T makes on Ornament Day and hang them on the Christmas tree. Because I get to spend time with my brother, who lives across the country and hasn't been back East since last Christmas. Or that I look forward to showing off the new kitchen and family room while enjoying the company of my extended family. That, more than anything else, I <i>so</i> look forward to seeing the excitement on the boys' faces when they see what Santa brought them.<br />
<br />
Well, I do. But that's not why I'm looking forward to Christmas this year. Oh, no. No, no no no no no.<br />
<br />
I'm looking forward to Christmas because after all of the hype, the class parties, chocolates from their Advent calendars, the never ending Christmas lists, and the cookies and milk left out for Santa, <b>IT WILL FINALLY BE CHRISTMAS</b>. <br />
<br />
Look, I love my kids. And I love Christmas (<i>but not as much as I love my kids</i>). But my kids awaiting Christmas will try the patience of the most sainted of adults. <b>That</b> is why I look forward to the Big Day. Because all of the antsy-ness of waiting will be <b>OVER</b>. And then when they drive me crazy, I can blame it on something else, like the weather.Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-78838749256405851272011-12-04T21:44:00.000-05:002011-12-04T21:44:01.588-05:00More Fodder for TherapyYeah. Poor T had a rough weekend. <br />
<br />
Well, not exactly, but there was an incident that will probably leave a mark on his psyche.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, I took all three boys to J's first basketball game. I was sitting in the (<i>three-row-high</i>) bleachers with T and S and J was on the court practicing with his team when the fire alarm began to sound. I thought T was going to have a nervous breakdown. As soon as the alarm started going, T stood up and booked down the bleachers and towards the door, turning only to scream at me that we had to GET OUT NOW BECAUSE THERE IS A FIRE! That nobody else felt any sense of urgency to evacuate only made T even more apoplectic. The poor kid was nearly hyperventilating, tears streaming down his cheeks. It broke my heart to see him so sincerely upset. Some parents must have felt the same way, because a few went out of their way to explain to T that somebody must have bumped into the alarm, accidentally setting it off.<br />
<br />
Once we got outside, T noticed that we were right next to the playground. That perked him up, despite the continuing alarm. And a new noise, sirens from the fire chief, arriving to evaluate the scene. Still, T's moods were giving me whiplash, alternating between happily climbing up the playground structure and fretting and worrying that the school was on fire.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, happy T won out, since once we were given the all clear to resume basketball, it took some wrangling to get T off of the playground structure and back into the gym. <br />
<br />
Something tells me that T is going to be like I was when I was a kid -- panic-stricken every time there was a fire drill at school. <br />
<br />
As I said, it'll be one more thing to discuss in therapy.Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8112447390189573826.post-20796013173876667242011-12-02T21:43:00.000-05:002011-12-02T21:43:55.433-05:00That Mom, at karateYeah, I was That Mom tonight.<br />
<br />
J has been taking karate (<i>Teng Soo, actually, not that I would know the difference between that and any other type of martial arts</i>) since September and is <b>loving</b> it. Next week is his first belt test.<br />
<br />
Tonight, they were going over form one (<i>don't ask me to explain beyond "it's a series of moves" because I that's all I've got</i>). J was doing really well for the most part, but there were a couple of times when he would turn in the opposite direction from the rest of the kids. And the black belts were either watching other kids or not concerned about it.<br />
<br />
So... oh look, here comes That Mom. Going to talk to one of the Masters. Yup, I went there. I asked him how strict the judging was for the best tests and if, say, turning in the wrong direction was something that might prevent J from advancing. Have I ever mentioned that I am somewhat of a perfectionist? And an overachiever? And slightly anal-retentive? Not to mention a teensy tinesy bit protective of my kids?<br />
<br />
Well, I got the distinct impression that as a seven-year-old just starting out, turning in the wrong direction will likely <b>not</b> be a problem, provided that the focus and effort is there.<br />
<br />
If I'm feeling like I might need a drink next Friday, I can't begin to imagine how J will feel. Mom's going to have to do some Oscar-caliber acting next week lest my nervousness rub off on him.Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05972309190240018480noreply@blogger.com0