Topkapi Palace
14 years ago
Thursday, October 15, 2009
It's a Boy!
So I've been slightly delinquent in my blogging these days - mostly because of the birth of our son! He is amazing!! When I'm able to get to a computer more regularly, I will post all about my new "big thing."
Monday, August 10, 2009
The Latest
Updates from the last couple of weeks (or however long it's been):
Pregnancy: Still pregnant. I'm becoming more miserable though as the temperature rises and my belly grows. I didn't think it possible to get any bigger than I am currently, but what do you know, I keep expanding. At my last visit, the doctor said I was measuring 2 weeks ahead. In case you are not up on pregnancy lingo, that means that the size of my belly from bottom to top is approximately 2 centimeters longer than it should be for how many weeks I am. The centimeters are supposed to be roughly the same as number of weeks pregnant. My doctor was not worried. She said that it's not an exact science, especially when something so big is crammed into something so tiny (me!)- in other words, there's only one way to go and that's out! If my gargantuan child continues to grow at this rate, the doc may order an ultrasound to see if he should come out manually. Yea C-Section! (possibly)
Employment: I have officially been hired back to my old position. I will be full-time, with full-benefits, and a full 3 month maternity leave. Of course Unemployment has its head up its ass and stopped paying me as soon as I reported having a job, completely ignoring start date and what-not. I will, however, continue to fight the good fight and get my money before I go back to work.
Dog: While no longer confined to a leash when visiting my in-laws, must be watched and gated from all carpeted flooring.
Husband: Busily painting and cleaning up the house in ways I never thought possible. If I knew having a baby would put him into a high gear, I'd be pregnant all the time. You know, with the exception of having a baby and all...
I think that's it. At some point, I will get back to blogging regularly. I hear you have a ton of time with a newborn, so I'm sure that's when I'll get around to it. HA!
Pregnancy: Still pregnant. I'm becoming more miserable though as the temperature rises and my belly grows. I didn't think it possible to get any bigger than I am currently, but what do you know, I keep expanding. At my last visit, the doctor said I was measuring 2 weeks ahead. In case you are not up on pregnancy lingo, that means that the size of my belly from bottom to top is approximately 2 centimeters longer than it should be for how many weeks I am. The centimeters are supposed to be roughly the same as number of weeks pregnant. My doctor was not worried. She said that it's not an exact science, especially when something so big is crammed into something so tiny (me!)- in other words, there's only one way to go and that's out! If my gargantuan child continues to grow at this rate, the doc may order an ultrasound to see if he should come out manually. Yea C-Section! (possibly)
Employment: I have officially been hired back to my old position. I will be full-time, with full-benefits, and a full 3 month maternity leave. Of course Unemployment has its head up its ass and stopped paying me as soon as I reported having a job, completely ignoring start date and what-not. I will, however, continue to fight the good fight and get my money before I go back to work.
Dog: While no longer confined to a leash when visiting my in-laws, must be watched and gated from all carpeted flooring.
Husband: Busily painting and cleaning up the house in ways I never thought possible. If I knew having a baby would put him into a high gear, I'd be pregnant all the time. You know, with the exception of having a baby and all...
I think that's it. At some point, I will get back to blogging regularly. I hear you have a ton of time with a newborn, so I'm sure that's when I'll get around to it. HA!
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Sweet, Sweet Employment!
Yes, that's right, I got a job!! I have no idea whether it's part-time or full-time yet, but it's a job. 'Nuff said!
Monday, July 13, 2009
Gee Whiz!
When I was younger, I remember watching some TV show that had a cartoon short at the beginning. (I think it was the Twilight Zone, but not confident). Anyway, the cartoon was of a family and their dog. I remember crudely drawn figures sitting on a couch or at the dinner table, and the storyline always seemed to revolve around the dog being blamed for something. I don't necessarily recall the exact events of the episode, but there was one in particular where the boy in the family exclaims, "The dogs whizzin' on the rug!" Replace that dog with my dog, and the boy with my father-in-law, and that was my evening last night.
At some point yesterday afternoon, my dog sneaked downstairs in my in-laws house to the very back den of the basement and peed on very expensive wool carpet. Obviously, my husband and I had no idea, otherwise we would have dealt with it and hopefully, have been able to keep it from dear ol' Dad-io. Unfortunately, we were made aware of the dog's indiscretion all too late. It was not a good scene. The urine had been there long enough to have gotten cold, thus setting into the carpet. We spot-cleaned it with some vinegar, but will need to call in a professional to pull-up the stain. Fine. Done. Not so much. I have never seen someone so upset about carpet. I get it - it's expensive. But really? Yes, really!
It is over 12 hours later and he is still upset. The dog, unaware of what the hell is going on, is confined to a specific part of the house now, and "must be leashed at all times." Here's the irony: the family dogs have puked, peed, pooped, and bled on all other carpet in the house. It's just because it was that damn den. And it doesn't help that every time last night's incident comes up, I start to chuckle because in the back of my head I'm hearing, "The dog's whizzin' on the rug!"
At some point yesterday afternoon, my dog sneaked downstairs in my in-laws house to the very back den of the basement and peed on very expensive wool carpet. Obviously, my husband and I had no idea, otherwise we would have dealt with it and hopefully, have been able to keep it from dear ol' Dad-io. Unfortunately, we were made aware of the dog's indiscretion all too late. It was not a good scene. The urine had been there long enough to have gotten cold, thus setting into the carpet. We spot-cleaned it with some vinegar, but will need to call in a professional to pull-up the stain. Fine. Done. Not so much. I have never seen someone so upset about carpet. I get it - it's expensive. But really? Yes, really!
It is over 12 hours later and he is still upset. The dog, unaware of what the hell is going on, is confined to a specific part of the house now, and "must be leashed at all times." Here's the irony: the family dogs have puked, peed, pooped, and bled on all other carpet in the house. It's just because it was that damn den. And it doesn't help that every time last night's incident comes up, I start to chuckle because in the back of my head I'm hearing, "The dog's whizzin' on the rug!"
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Persepective
I was laid off in June. I'm 7 months pregnant. The electrical wiring in my house is probably not safe for an infant and will need to be repaired post haste. My sister and husband (two people I would die for) are not talking to each other. Oh, and my mother-in-law is still fighting breast cancer.
Much of this most of you, if not all of you know. But here's the deal: I'll find another job. My baby boy is healthy. My house has not blown up yet, nor will it (most likely). My sister and husband will eventually start talking again. And my mother-in-law will survive. Bottom line - We're all healthy and will get through all of this.
It's amazing how other's concerns suddenly put your own into perspective.
Ali and Teresa - my thoughts are with you.
Much of this most of you, if not all of you know. But here's the deal: I'll find another job. My baby boy is healthy. My house has not blown up yet, nor will it (most likely). My sister and husband will eventually start talking again. And my mother-in-law will survive. Bottom line - We're all healthy and will get through all of this.
It's amazing how other's concerns suddenly put your own into perspective.
Ali and Teresa - my thoughts are with you.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Hope
I have an interview next Wed. This will be my third since I was laid off. (Well, technically fourth, but I skipped one because it was in a really bad part of town). I think that's good, right? If only there was a way to interview just my head...the baby bump keeps getting bigger and I think it's getting in the way.
The first interview I had was almost immediately after I lost my job. They told me there were over 200 candidates. They interviewed 6. I was in the top 3. They hired 2. It hurt.
The second interview was strange. They had all of the candidates for the position come in at the same time, sit in a circle with the interviewers, and then split up into small meeting rooms where we did one-on-one interviews for about 5 minutes. We then rotated to the next interviewer for their 5 minute round of questions. It was sort of a round-robin, group thing - just without the actual group interaction. Odd. I didn't get the job. I should have. One thing about seeing the competition is knowing you can beat everyone there. Again, it hurt.
I have not given up though. I got the call this morning and will be on my way to a brand new opportunity next Wednesday. It's kind of far, and not the ideal position, but a job's a job's a job, right?
Wish me luck!
The first interview I had was almost immediately after I lost my job. They told me there were over 200 candidates. They interviewed 6. I was in the top 3. They hired 2. It hurt.
The second interview was strange. They had all of the candidates for the position come in at the same time, sit in a circle with the interviewers, and then split up into small meeting rooms where we did one-on-one interviews for about 5 minutes. We then rotated to the next interviewer for their 5 minute round of questions. It was sort of a round-robin, group thing - just without the actual group interaction. Odd. I didn't get the job. I should have. One thing about seeing the competition is knowing you can beat everyone there. Again, it hurt.
I have not given up though. I got the call this morning and will be on my way to a brand new opportunity next Wednesday. It's kind of far, and not the ideal position, but a job's a job's a job, right?
Wish me luck!
Monday, June 29, 2009
I'm back
Albeit, temporarily.
It has been a harrowing few weeks, of which I will not go into too much detail. I will say, however, that a desert island with just me, my husband, and my pregnant belly sounds pretty good. And on that island, I will sport the belly in that yes-I'm-super-pregnant-but-don't-care sort of way, hanging out in my fabulous bikini for all to see. I will bask in the sun, gaining a golden brown hue to my skin and a natural reddish highlight to my hair. My husband will take on the form of a Greek god with bronzed skin and sun-drenched, yelllow locks. We will survive on what we forage and spend our days from sunrise to sundown thinking about how wonderful our island is without the stresses of life, family, and reality. It will be glorious.
Reality check. My island is my living room, in which I have become all too accustomed to the red walls, dirty, hand-me down furniture, and lack of artwork. My belly is in hiding, remaining safely under my shirt away from scrutiny and the scary likeness to a beached whale as opposed to a beach bunny. My skin has been sun-kissed, but not in the orange soda sort of way. More like a one day in the sun when my naturally olive skin happened to take-on some color sort of way. My hair...we just won't go there. My husband will always look like a statue of a Greek god to me. Unfortunately though, he talks, and I've never seen a likeness of a Greek god with its foot in its mouth. And finally, as much as I would love to dwell off of the land, I live in suburbia. The closest I come to an all-natural diet is the local farmer's market (which, b-t-w was ridiculously meager this past weekend.)
As far as the stresses of life and family go, I'm afraid the only comfort an island would afford me right now is the close proximity to the sea in which I could not so ceremoniously drown myself. Not that I would - this is not some subliminal (or not so) announcement that I plan to kill myself. Just an allusion to the unbelievable dysfunction each of my family members adds to my already, almost comically, messed up life.
It has been a harrowing few weeks, of which I will not go into too much detail. I will say, however, that a desert island with just me, my husband, and my pregnant belly sounds pretty good. And on that island, I will sport the belly in that yes-I'm-super-pregnant-but-don't-care sort of way, hanging out in my fabulous bikini for all to see. I will bask in the sun, gaining a golden brown hue to my skin and a natural reddish highlight to my hair. My husband will take on the form of a Greek god with bronzed skin and sun-drenched, yelllow locks. We will survive on what we forage and spend our days from sunrise to sundown thinking about how wonderful our island is without the stresses of life, family, and reality. It will be glorious.
Reality check. My island is my living room, in which I have become all too accustomed to the red walls, dirty, hand-me down furniture, and lack of artwork. My belly is in hiding, remaining safely under my shirt away from scrutiny and the scary likeness to a beached whale as opposed to a beach bunny. My skin has been sun-kissed, but not in the orange soda sort of way. More like a one day in the sun when my naturally olive skin happened to take-on some color sort of way. My hair...we just won't go there. My husband will always look like a statue of a Greek god to me. Unfortunately though, he talks, and I've never seen a likeness of a Greek god with its foot in its mouth. And finally, as much as I would love to dwell off of the land, I live in suburbia. The closest I come to an all-natural diet is the local farmer's market (which, b-t-w was ridiculously meager this past weekend.)
As far as the stresses of life and family go, I'm afraid the only comfort an island would afford me right now is the close proximity to the sea in which I could not so ceremoniously drown myself. Not that I would - this is not some subliminal (or not so) announcement that I plan to kill myself. Just an allusion to the unbelievable dysfunction each of my family members adds to my already, almost comically, messed up life.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Short Hiatus...
Sorry guys, but I'm going to have to hang up my "blog-hat" for a couple of weeks. See you soon...
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
I'm just pregnant
I used to hear people ask pregnant women how they were feeling and sort of chuckle at the response that they were feeling,"pregnant." However, now I get it. In fact, that has been my reply to the last dozen or so people who have inquired into my well-being. I'm not sick. I'm not tired. I'm not good. I'm not bad. I'm pregnant.
The physical and emotional roller coaster of pregnancy has been relatively new for me. Granted I've had six months to get used to it, it really did start out as a slow, steady kiddie ride. Sure I was nauseous for the first 14 weeks, and my ever-expanding waistline has been a bit much to handle, but if I am going to be honest with myself, I have not experienced the twisty-twirly, upside down, loopty-loop of a coaster that some unfortunately have to go through before the free-fall of giving birth. It's been kind of nice.
Lately however, there is a feeling about me that I cannot shake. I'm not in pain and I don't have irrational thoughts about the baby not having limbs (who thinks like that? :) ) I just feel funny. And the only way to describe it is pregnant.
This feeling is starting to take it's toll, though. Yesterday, I came home, cleaned up the kitchen, and started to make dinner. Just after I began the preparations, I realized I needed milk. My husband was going to be leaving work soon, so I called to see if he could pick some up on his way. At some point during the conversation, I decided that his going to the store would delay his arrival home even more and based on the way I felt, I just couldn't handle that. So I announced that I would go to the store and instructed him to come right home. We hung up, I grabbed my keys, and went to the store.
As I walked out the door, I look down at my feet and realized I was wearing slippers. Not just any slippers - white, plush slip-ons that say "Just" on one foot and "Married" on the other. Classy! I was about 2 feet from my car, stopped, looked back at my house, thought about going back in to change shoes, and then just shrugged and proceeded to my car. (I should also add that I was wearing cut-off capri sweatpants and one of my husband's white Haynes t-shirts. The complete ensemble, wouldn't you say?) I looked completely and utterly disheveled, and let's face it, probably a bit crazy. And I didn't care - I felt pregnant.
I often read blogs about mothers who don't brush their teeth for days on end, or simply can't afford the time to shower before the kids go to bed at night. But I'm not a mom yet. I'm just pregnant! This can't be good.
The physical and emotional roller coaster of pregnancy has been relatively new for me. Granted I've had six months to get used to it, it really did start out as a slow, steady kiddie ride. Sure I was nauseous for the first 14 weeks, and my ever-expanding waistline has been a bit much to handle, but if I am going to be honest with myself, I have not experienced the twisty-twirly, upside down, loopty-loop of a coaster that some unfortunately have to go through before the free-fall of giving birth. It's been kind of nice.
Lately however, there is a feeling about me that I cannot shake. I'm not in pain and I don't have irrational thoughts about the baby not having limbs (who thinks like that? :) ) I just feel funny. And the only way to describe it is pregnant.
This feeling is starting to take it's toll, though. Yesterday, I came home, cleaned up the kitchen, and started to make dinner. Just after I began the preparations, I realized I needed milk. My husband was going to be leaving work soon, so I called to see if he could pick some up on his way. At some point during the conversation, I decided that his going to the store would delay his arrival home even more and based on the way I felt, I just couldn't handle that. So I announced that I would go to the store and instructed him to come right home. We hung up, I grabbed my keys, and went to the store.
As I walked out the door, I look down at my feet and realized I was wearing slippers. Not just any slippers - white, plush slip-ons that say "Just" on one foot and "Married" on the other. Classy! I was about 2 feet from my car, stopped, looked back at my house, thought about going back in to change shoes, and then just shrugged and proceeded to my car. (I should also add that I was wearing cut-off capri sweatpants and one of my husband's white Haynes t-shirts. The complete ensemble, wouldn't you say?) I looked completely and utterly disheveled, and let's face it, probably a bit crazy. And I didn't care - I felt pregnant.
I often read blogs about mothers who don't brush their teeth for days on end, or simply can't afford the time to shower before the kids go to bed at night. But I'm not a mom yet. I'm just pregnant! This can't be good.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Today, I am Sad
Yesterday was a terrible day. I had to deal with obnoxious people on so many levels and all I wanted was to come home and just sit (sans cocktail, obviously) and be with my husband and forget about my day. What actually happened was I came home, walked the dog, talked to my sister who had an equally crappy day, and then found out that my husband wasn't coming home because he was having dinner with his family who just happened to be in town. They only live about an hour and a half away, so it's not that big of a deal, but a free meal is a free meal and it was rush hour so there would have been no point in me trying to get to where they were to try to join them.
So I accomplished the coming home part. I did sit. But I did not forget. I watched Marley and Me, which in hindsight was not the best choice, but it was our latest Netflix and had to either be seen or be sent, so I watched. It made me cry. That made me sad.
My husband came home just as the movie was ending. I was crying. He hugged me. I didn't want to talk about my day or explain the tears. He didn't need me to do either. He just held me. He told me everything would work out. He said that we'd get through all of this. I cried some more. Only now I was crying for me. I was crying for the turn my life has taken. I was crying for the baby inside of me who doesn't care about the people I deal with or the job I do or don't have. I was crying because I am bringing a life into my awful reality and sometimes, I wonder if I am doing the right thing.
I woke up this morning hoping to have expelled my thoughts from the day before, but alas, they remained. And then the baby kicked. And again, I wondered - am I doing the right thing? I know this will pass. I know I will love him with all of my being. I know that his sheer existance will make this all go away. I know. But knowing is not feeling. And feeling, at least for today, is reality - my reality. So today, I am sad.
So I accomplished the coming home part. I did sit. But I did not forget. I watched Marley and Me, which in hindsight was not the best choice, but it was our latest Netflix and had to either be seen or be sent, so I watched. It made me cry. That made me sad.
My husband came home just as the movie was ending. I was crying. He hugged me. I didn't want to talk about my day or explain the tears. He didn't need me to do either. He just held me. He told me everything would work out. He said that we'd get through all of this. I cried some more. Only now I was crying for me. I was crying for the turn my life has taken. I was crying for the baby inside of me who doesn't care about the people I deal with or the job I do or don't have. I was crying because I am bringing a life into my awful reality and sometimes, I wonder if I am doing the right thing.
I woke up this morning hoping to have expelled my thoughts from the day before, but alas, they remained. And then the baby kicked. And again, I wondered - am I doing the right thing? I know this will pass. I know I will love him with all of my being. I know that his sheer existance will make this all go away. I know. But knowing is not feeling. And feeling, at least for today, is reality - my reality. So today, I am sad.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Move over Pele!
In the midst of all of the job crap, I forgot about some amazing milestones in my pregnancy. (I hope this isn't indicative of how I'll parent!) Anyway, last weekend my husband felt the baby kick for the first time. I had felt him move around some, but I wasn't sure if it was feel-able from the outside. Of course, I wanted to share this with my husband though, so I every time I felt something, I'd have him put his hand on my belly. As luck would have it, as soon as he touched me, the baby stopped moving. DH was starting to get frustrated.
After a few days, I began to see a pattern in baby's movement. He moved mostly in the early morning, when I'd just woken up, or in the evening just before bed. Then, last weekend, I awoke to a lot of movement. I quickly woke up my husband and had him put his hand on my belly. It took a few minutes, but then it happened. The baby moved and my husband felt it. You would have thought he won the lottery! His eyes got big, his hand flinched in disbelief, and he gasped. I couldn't help but giggle. Needless to say, my hubby was in a grand ol' mood for the rest of the day. He was telling everyone that he "met" his son that morning.
Since then, I'm pretty sure baby has kicked it up a notch (no pun intended). I feel him moving all the time. And just think, a few short weeks ago I questioned whether he had arms and legs! His movement is still particularly pronounced in the early mornings and late evenings. Which leads me to this morning's big event! I woke up at dawn (stupid chirping birds) and felt him moving right away. I had read in the baby book that he was supposed to be sensitve to light at this point, so I pulled the covers down, lifted my shirt, and let the sun shine on my belly. And then it happened: he kicked and my belly moved! I mean really moved! It was so crazy!! I couldn't help but smile. Of course, my husband is out of town and didn't see it, but I'm sure he will soon enough.
I certainly don't take this as the first sign that my son is the smartest, most talented (and let's face it, best looking) fetus to ever exist, but it was pretty cool!
After a few days, I began to see a pattern in baby's movement. He moved mostly in the early morning, when I'd just woken up, or in the evening just before bed. Then, last weekend, I awoke to a lot of movement. I quickly woke up my husband and had him put his hand on my belly. It took a few minutes, but then it happened. The baby moved and my husband felt it. You would have thought he won the lottery! His eyes got big, his hand flinched in disbelief, and he gasped. I couldn't help but giggle. Needless to say, my hubby was in a grand ol' mood for the rest of the day. He was telling everyone that he "met" his son that morning.
Since then, I'm pretty sure baby has kicked it up a notch (no pun intended). I feel him moving all the time. And just think, a few short weeks ago I questioned whether he had arms and legs! His movement is still particularly pronounced in the early mornings and late evenings. Which leads me to this morning's big event! I woke up at dawn (stupid chirping birds) and felt him moving right away. I had read in the baby book that he was supposed to be sensitve to light at this point, so I pulled the covers down, lifted my shirt, and let the sun shine on my belly. And then it happened: he kicked and my belly moved! I mean really moved! It was so crazy!! I couldn't help but smile. Of course, my husband is out of town and didn't see it, but I'm sure he will soon enough.
I certainly don't take this as the first sign that my son is the smartest, most talented (and let's face it, best looking) fetus to ever exist, but it was pretty cool!
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Priceless
It's been a week since I was laid off. How am I handling it? It's day by day. So far I have cried countless tears, applied to three jobs, and come up with about 30 bagillion (yes, that's an actual number!) reasons as to why I shouldn't have to be going through this at all.
Priceless.
My husband told me he was proud of me the other day. He said that I was handling things really well - that three years ago, I would have crawled into a hole and stayed indefinitely. Three years ago, he would have been right. There were days last week when I did not want to get out of bed. I laid there, waiting for some divine intervention that would prevent me from physically moving, thus having to call out. But in the end, my limbs moved and I went to work. Those moments are so scary. So reminiscent of a worse time in my life. This is what a recovering alcoholic must feel like when presented with a drink. Except, I was never an alcoholic. I was depressed. I thought about going back to therapy - my one saving grace, only second to the support of my husband. I thought about the possibility of going back on medication. I've thought about...going back. But like many who hit rock bottom, I refuse to go back. I refuse to wake up with tears already in my eyes. I refuse to make chores out of daily tasks. I refuse to let them beat me. My enemy last time was me. This time, I have to be on my side.
I have no idea what this week will be like. I have no idea what next week will be like. Or the week after. But I do know that it has to work out. It has to get better. It just...has to.
Priceless.
My husband told me he was proud of me the other day. He said that I was handling things really well - that three years ago, I would have crawled into a hole and stayed indefinitely. Three years ago, he would have been right. There were days last week when I did not want to get out of bed. I laid there, waiting for some divine intervention that would prevent me from physically moving, thus having to call out. But in the end, my limbs moved and I went to work. Those moments are so scary. So reminiscent of a worse time in my life. This is what a recovering alcoholic must feel like when presented with a drink. Except, I was never an alcoholic. I was depressed. I thought about going back to therapy - my one saving grace, only second to the support of my husband. I thought about the possibility of going back on medication. I've thought about...going back. But like many who hit rock bottom, I refuse to go back. I refuse to wake up with tears already in my eyes. I refuse to make chores out of daily tasks. I refuse to let them beat me. My enemy last time was me. This time, I have to be on my side.
I have no idea what this week will be like. I have no idea what next week will be like. Or the week after. But I do know that it has to work out. It has to get better. It just...has to.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Not So Pretty In Pink
I used to like the color pink. Until, I got word that a little slip of pink paper would find its way to my inbox in the coming weeks. Yep, I got laid off today. It's not official until I get the paperwork, but it may as well be. The "powers that be" have known for about 2 weeks, and I guess nothing has changed, so the "powers that be pink-slipped" have now been notified.
Life sucks. When I started this blog, it was to be a reflection of all of the crappy things that have happened. Past tense. It was not intended to be a forum for me to complain about how unfair life is currently. But I suppose blogs don't control that.
So there it is. For the past three years, I have worked my butt off. I have put in countless hours on and off the clock for the good of the people I work with and for. I have done this thankless job with the general motivation and satisfaction that I was making a difference and the reality of it is, it's what I was meant to do. (Do you think it's Freudian that I said it's what I "was" meant to do, instead of "am" meant to do?) It just plain sucks.
So today I cried. And cried some more. Tomorrow, who knows. But I'm sure there are more tears in water-soaked, blurry sight.
Life sucks. When I started this blog, it was to be a reflection of all of the crappy things that have happened. Past tense. It was not intended to be a forum for me to complain about how unfair life is currently. But I suppose blogs don't control that.
So there it is. For the past three years, I have worked my butt off. I have put in countless hours on and off the clock for the good of the people I work with and for. I have done this thankless job with the general motivation and satisfaction that I was making a difference and the reality of it is, it's what I was meant to do. (Do you think it's Freudian that I said it's what I "was" meant to do, instead of "am" meant to do?) It just plain sucks.
So today I cried. And cried some more. Tomorrow, who knows. But I'm sure there are more tears in water-soaked, blurry sight.
Monday, May 4, 2009
It's a Boy!
And he moves!
Huh?
Back story - Since my 12th week or so, people have been asking me if I've felt "the flutter" yet. At first, I responded with a very enthusiastic, Not yet! But as the weeks moved on and people kept asking, I started to worry. Of course 12 weeks was rather early to be asking, but according to "the book" (which by the way, I have all but used as toilet paper at this point) movement, and feeling the movement, starts anywhere between 16 and 22 weeks. Well, around week 18, I began to worry. I mean sure the we had heard the heartbeat and everything sounded good, but there was no visual proof that there was actually a healthy baby inside. So I worried more. What if I didn't feel it because it didn't have arms and legs? Wouldn't it head-butt me then? What if it can't head-butt me because it doesn't have a working spine? What if it doesn't have a head? (Ok, I never really thought that, but it was getting close!) The only rational thing to do was wait for my 20 week ultrasound. Not only were we going to find out the sex, but I could finally find out if it had arms and legs. And it does! Excuse me, he does!
Not only does he have arms and legs, but: fingers, toes, a spine, a brain, a four-chamber heart, a bladder, kidneys - left and right!, a diaphragm, a face, and much to my husbands joy - a penis. I know there are other things that he should have, but these are what they look for and thankfully, what they found!
Oh, and the movement mystery: my placenta is anterior, which means that it's in the very front of my belly. So when Baby Boy kicks, he is kicking his placenta, not me. Oddly enough, I have felt some movement since the ultrasound. Maybe it's psychological, maybe it's not. Either way, I have a fully armed and legged baby boy growing inside of me!
Saturday, April 25, 2009
This Ain't No Chips Ahoy!
When I look back on the official diagnosis of my depression, I can't help but wonder why no one ever saw the signs. Maybe they did and just didn't say anything. Maybe they too thought it was just a "phase" and I would "snap out of it." Maybe I was so good at hiding it that the thought didn't even cross their minds. Or maybe, it's just who I have always been.
When I was a baby/toddler, my mom had a nickname for me that was quite peculiar. Apparently, she called me cookie for a while because I was small, cute, and sweet(not so peculiar - wait for it!). But I was also a very serious baby, which lended itself to some cognitive dissonance. And then, as if by fate, a brand of sweets came out with a cookie called "Peekfreens" and their tag line was Peekfreens are a very serious cookie. Could there be a more perfect match? My mom couldn't think of one! And so began my long list of lifetime nicknames: Peekfreen.
I don't remember when my mom stopped calling me Peekfreen, but the mere fact that the first term of endearment to really stick was related to my austere nature as a child is, to me, quite telling. I recognize that some children are serious and can often grow into serious adults. I also recognize that seriousness is not always equal to depression. But I can't help but wonder: what if this was the first sign? What if my mom, in thinking she had found the perfect moniker, had actually stumbled upon the very definition of who I was to be?
Fast forward twenty-something years, and I am still (or so I am told) small, cute, sweet, and, well, serious. Nowadays, I'd probably slug someone if they tried to call me cookie, but the analogy is still quite apt. After all, what can you expect from a cookie that has been around that long? I would expect it to...crumble.
When I was a baby/toddler, my mom had a nickname for me that was quite peculiar. Apparently, she called me cookie for a while because I was small, cute, and sweet(not so peculiar - wait for it!). But I was also a very serious baby, which lended itself to some cognitive dissonance. And then, as if by fate, a brand of sweets came out with a cookie called "Peekfreens" and their tag line was Peekfreens are a very serious cookie. Could there be a more perfect match? My mom couldn't think of one! And so began my long list of lifetime nicknames: Peekfreen.
I don't remember when my mom stopped calling me Peekfreen, but the mere fact that the first term of endearment to really stick was related to my austere nature as a child is, to me, quite telling. I recognize that some children are serious and can often grow into serious adults. I also recognize that seriousness is not always equal to depression. But I can't help but wonder: what if this was the first sign? What if my mom, in thinking she had found the perfect moniker, had actually stumbled upon the very definition of who I was to be?
Fast forward twenty-something years, and I am still (or so I am told) small, cute, sweet, and, well, serious. Nowadays, I'd probably slug someone if they tried to call me cookie, but the analogy is still quite apt. After all, what can you expect from a cookie that has been around that long? I would expect it to...crumble.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Happiness...or lack thereof.
I don't remember the first time I was depressed. I'm assuming I was very young and didn't really know what I was feeling. I do, however, remember the first time I could verbalize it. Not to anyone other than myself of course, but express it nonetheless.
I was a sophomore in college. I had been hanging out with some friends in their dorm room, and realizing the time, decided to walk back to my room. I had a general rule in college that I would not walk across campus alone once it was dark out, but for some reason I refused to let anyone walk with me that night. I stuck to the sidewalks and streetlamps, but still had a feeling of uneasiness. It wasn't the solitude, though. In fact, if anything, I'm glad I was alone.
I don't remember what was on my mind, or if I was thinking about anything at all, but for some reason, I introspectively asked myself if I was happy. And then it happened. For the first time in my life, I burst into spontaneous, uncontrollable tears. I didn't have to answer my own question, for my body language said it all.
As if being watched, I quickly stopped walking and tried to pull myself together. I wasn't anywhere near the point of asking myself why I wasn't happy or even trying to figure out how to change my state of unhappiness, but I did for the first time realize that something was wrong. Something made me ask the question, and something made me answer - well, cry.
While it wasn't the first time I had dried my own tears, it was the first time in my life I had an idea of why I was crying. I wasn't happy. In fact, I was definitively unhappy.
I walked back to my dorm and to be honest, have no recollection of the events that immediately or subsequently followed. I just remember that particular event: the first time I asked myself if I was happy and the first time I honestly answered myself. Unfortunetly, I would ask myself that question many times in the years following, and until only recently, have I been able to answer with anything other than "no."
I was a sophomore in college. I had been hanging out with some friends in their dorm room, and realizing the time, decided to walk back to my room. I had a general rule in college that I would not walk across campus alone once it was dark out, but for some reason I refused to let anyone walk with me that night. I stuck to the sidewalks and streetlamps, but still had a feeling of uneasiness. It wasn't the solitude, though. In fact, if anything, I'm glad I was alone.
I don't remember what was on my mind, or if I was thinking about anything at all, but for some reason, I introspectively asked myself if I was happy. And then it happened. For the first time in my life, I burst into spontaneous, uncontrollable tears. I didn't have to answer my own question, for my body language said it all.
As if being watched, I quickly stopped walking and tried to pull myself together. I wasn't anywhere near the point of asking myself why I wasn't happy or even trying to figure out how to change my state of unhappiness, but I did for the first time realize that something was wrong. Something made me ask the question, and something made me answer - well, cry.
While it wasn't the first time I had dried my own tears, it was the first time in my life I had an idea of why I was crying. I wasn't happy. In fact, I was definitively unhappy.
I walked back to my dorm and to be honest, have no recollection of the events that immediately or subsequently followed. I just remember that particular event: the first time I asked myself if I was happy and the first time I honestly answered myself. Unfortunetly, I would ask myself that question many times in the years following, and until only recently, have I been able to answer with anything other than "no."
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Easter
Tomorrow is Easter. But you probably know that. I have a picture of my husband and me on my desk from the Easter before we got married. It looks like it came with the frame. He, being a foot taller, is holding me close and arching forward to kiss me. I, being a foot shorter, am craning upward to return the kiss, all-the-while smiling and making it a not-so-perfect smooch, but an almost perfect image of two people in love.
I often wonder if I could ever love anyone as much as as I love my husband. There are times when other people will discuss their relationships, married or not, and I will quietly think to myself that there's no way they feel the same love that he and I share. Other times, we will be out and about shopping or dining together, and overhear another couple. The content of the conversation if often irrelavent, but inevitably I will look into my husband's eyes and sincerely ask with all my heart if he thinks they have what we have. He often says he doesn't know - the more diplomatic of the common responses. But every once in a while, he will look back at me, equally searching the depths of my irises and say, "I doubt it."
I'm sure I'm selfish and arrogant to think that what we share is bigger and better than any other couple's love for one another, but that, in itself, is comforting. I hope others feel this way about their mate. I hope there are lovers who can not see beyond the cartoon stars and twitting birds that emerge when they touch or open their eyes to each other every morning. But I'm happy knowing that this is my life. I'm happy knowing that I am so overwhelmed by our love for one another that I can't adequately put it into words. And most of all, I'm happy that I have someone who feels the same way.
I often wonder if I could ever love anyone as much as as I love my husband. There are times when other people will discuss their relationships, married or not, and I will quietly think to myself that there's no way they feel the same love that he and I share. Other times, we will be out and about shopping or dining together, and overhear another couple. The content of the conversation if often irrelavent, but inevitably I will look into my husband's eyes and sincerely ask with all my heart if he thinks they have what we have. He often says he doesn't know - the more diplomatic of the common responses. But every once in a while, he will look back at me, equally searching the depths of my irises and say, "I doubt it."
I'm sure I'm selfish and arrogant to think that what we share is bigger and better than any other couple's love for one another, but that, in itself, is comforting. I hope others feel this way about their mate. I hope there are lovers who can not see beyond the cartoon stars and twitting birds that emerge when they touch or open their eyes to each other every morning. But I'm happy knowing that this is my life. I'm happy knowing that I am so overwhelmed by our love for one another that I can't adequately put it into words. And most of all, I'm happy that I have someone who feels the same way.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Seriously?
My father is in town. So far, we have eaten, eaten, and then eaten some more. Here is my favorite event/story thus far.
Background: My dad really likes a particular kind of french toast. Last summer, I baked homemade bread (sans machine) and sold it at a local farmer's market on the weekends. One of the types of bread I made was challah, pronounced Holla - like you're giving a shout-out. Anyway, challah is a traditional Jewish sweet bread, with a little saffron (or turmeric) so that it is a tad yellow in color. Very tasty. Traditionally, it is eaten on the Sabbath, so the leftovers are then prepared for breakfast as either toast or, in this case, french toast.
My dad loves challah, so I made an extra loaf one weekend while he was here last summer. We didn't do the whole sabbath meal, but I did make the accompanying breakfast. Apparently, my dad loved it so much, he went back home and has now gotten into the habit of buying challah and having my sister make french toast for him (he's not much of a cook).
Foreground: So my dad and I are having a casual discussion on Thursday night- catch-up if you will, and he mentions the challah french toast. I tell him, I'd be happy to make him some bread and we can have that on Sunday for breakfast. He quickly replies that he doesn't need it, he was just mentioning it.
On my way home from work on Friday, I call my husband to see what he and my dad are up to. He promptly tells me that they are on their way to the grocery story to pick up some challah. Are you kidding me? I comment to my hubby that I offered to make the bread for my dad, so I'm not really sure why he decided to go out and buy it. Hubby's response: my dad didn't want me to work, so he just figured he'd buy it and then all I have to do is make the french toast. My reply: Let me get this straight. He doesn't want me to work, so I don't need to bake the bread, just make the breakfast? Hubby: Yep.
Is there a definition of work out there with which I'm not familiar?
Background: My dad really likes a particular kind of french toast. Last summer, I baked homemade bread (sans machine) and sold it at a local farmer's market on the weekends. One of the types of bread I made was challah, pronounced Holla - like you're giving a shout-out. Anyway, challah is a traditional Jewish sweet bread, with a little saffron (or turmeric) so that it is a tad yellow in color. Very tasty. Traditionally, it is eaten on the Sabbath, so the leftovers are then prepared for breakfast as either toast or, in this case, french toast.
My dad loves challah, so I made an extra loaf one weekend while he was here last summer. We didn't do the whole sabbath meal, but I did make the accompanying breakfast. Apparently, my dad loved it so much, he went back home and has now gotten into the habit of buying challah and having my sister make french toast for him (he's not much of a cook).
Foreground: So my dad and I are having a casual discussion on Thursday night- catch-up if you will, and he mentions the challah french toast. I tell him, I'd be happy to make him some bread and we can have that on Sunday for breakfast. He quickly replies that he doesn't need it, he was just mentioning it.
On my way home from work on Friday, I call my husband to see what he and my dad are up to. He promptly tells me that they are on their way to the grocery story to pick up some challah. Are you kidding me? I comment to my hubby that I offered to make the bread for my dad, so I'm not really sure why he decided to go out and buy it. Hubby's response: my dad didn't want me to work, so he just figured he'd buy it and then all I have to do is make the french toast. My reply: Let me get this straight. He doesn't want me to work, so I don't need to bake the bread, just make the breakfast? Hubby: Yep.
Is there a definition of work out there with which I'm not familiar?
Monday, March 30, 2009
Aah, Family!
I have a dysfunctional family. We are not the type to put the "fun" in dysfunctional either. In fact, we are more of the "dis" kind. Everything is negative, insults fly, badmouthing pervades conversation. I thought maybe, just maybe, I had escaped that when I stopped talking to my mother, but as it turns out, my sister has the crazy too. Why have I chosen to procreate?
I'm not even going to to into the details of where this is all coming from. Just know that any rational conversation that ever existed in this world began and ended in someone else's family. Here are just a few examples (some of these are going back quite a ways, but the impact is oh-so-everlasting!)
Mom (in an attempt to compliment me on weight loss): What's that swishing noise, because I don't see your knees rubbing together anymore?!
Mom (upon hearing of my decision to change professional goals): You're ruining your potential.
Sister (on New Year's Day): I think you are pulling away from our side of the family. It's always been a tradition to call at midnight and instead you went to bed. That really sucks! Not only had I lost my phone, but I was in bed by 10:30 on New Year's Eve because I was exhausted from my egg implanting in my uterus
Mom (about my relationship with my sister): I resent the fact that you and your sister are so close.
Sister (on Target stores, specifically Super Target): So if a regular Target has one door, and a Greatland Target has two doors, a Super Target must have three.
Me: Nope, just two.
Sister: But that doesn't make any sense. It should have three.
Me: But it doesn't
Sister: But it should.
Mom (after sending me a resume of a guy she wanted to set me up with even after I had announced that I was not only seeing someone,but in love - who I coincidentally married!): I just thought you'd like to see how much you had in common. I didn't know you were so serious about this other guy.
Need I go on?
I'm not even going to to into the details of where this is all coming from. Just know that any rational conversation that ever existed in this world began and ended in someone else's family. Here are just a few examples (some of these are going back quite a ways, but the impact is oh-so-everlasting!)
Mom (in an attempt to compliment me on weight loss): What's that swishing noise, because I don't see your knees rubbing together anymore?!
Mom (upon hearing of my decision to change professional goals): You're ruining your potential.
Sister (on New Year's Day): I think you are pulling away from our side of the family. It's always been a tradition to call at midnight and instead you went to bed. That really sucks! Not only had I lost my phone, but I was in bed by 10:30 on New Year's Eve because I was exhausted from my egg implanting in my uterus
Mom (about my relationship with my sister): I resent the fact that you and your sister are so close.
Sister (on Target stores, specifically Super Target): So if a regular Target has one door, and a Greatland Target has two doors, a Super Target must have three.
Me: Nope, just two.
Sister: But that doesn't make any sense. It should have three.
Me: But it doesn't
Sister: But it should.
Mom (after sending me a resume of a guy she wanted to set me up with even after I had announced that I was not only seeing someone,but in love - who I coincidentally married!): I just thought you'd like to see how much you had in common. I didn't know you were so serious about this other guy.
Need I go on?
Friday, March 27, 2009
The Buck Starts Here
I have been trying to think of something worthwhile to write about and to be honest, I have been so tired lately that even the thought of thinking about it was taxing. I decided I could no longer allow boobs to define my blog though, therefore I will offer my mundane, daily incites to entertain the one, possibly two people who read this.
I should note at this time that I fully intend to further discuss some of the traumas that have made me who I am today, as intended when I started this thing. But, please understand that I am pooped and adding mental pooped to physical pooped is an all together new level of pooped!
I've decided that part of the reason I am so tired is because I do a hell of a lot more than a lot of people where I work. We, like every other industry in the country, are experiencing some financial "set-backs." I've been rather easy-going about most of it, knowing that I am relatively young with little say, in addition to the fact that I really can't do anything about it. If there is one thing I've learned, it's to only worry about the things I can control (wisdom that did NOT come easily, and unfortunately was acquired through many tough lessons). However, today, I became slightly embittered. I sat down and reflected on all of the things I have not complained about versus all of the things I have a right to complain about. I then began to think about all of the people who do complain and really don't deserve to. I mean, I am not going to point fingers and say that I am in a worse situation than anyone else. The economy has effected us all, and it is not my business to ask each person about their level of impact. However, today I really began to wonder what I am worth - in the literal and abstract sense.
There are studies out there that talk about how much a stay-at-home parent would make if they earned a wage equivalent to the sum of all of the jobs they do. I don't think I am necessarily looking for that kind of price tag, but I think it would be interesting to figure out my hourly wage, how much I am "supposed" to work (does 9-5 exist in anything other than a song?), and how much I actually work. I don't think my level of satisfaction would be any different - I love my job - but I do wonder if the people who are in charge of my salary, and everyone else's for that matter, really comprehend what a deal they are getting? Do they see worth beyond dollar signs or am I the one with the wrong definition?
I don't intend to harp on this for too long. Bitter is not becoming. But I do wish people would recognize that there are some of us out there who don't necessarily care what we are getting paid. We do what we do because we want to and whatever we make is enough as long as we can make ends meet. I just want someone to say "good job" every once in a while so that when salary cuts or freezes occur, we feel less like a number and more like an asset. I want to know that I'm valued, because hell, I am a lot of bang for the buck!
I should note at this time that I fully intend to further discuss some of the traumas that have made me who I am today, as intended when I started this thing. But, please understand that I am pooped and adding mental pooped to physical pooped is an all together new level of pooped!
I've decided that part of the reason I am so tired is because I do a hell of a lot more than a lot of people where I work. We, like every other industry in the country, are experiencing some financial "set-backs." I've been rather easy-going about most of it, knowing that I am relatively young with little say, in addition to the fact that I really can't do anything about it. If there is one thing I've learned, it's to only worry about the things I can control (wisdom that did NOT come easily, and unfortunately was acquired through many tough lessons). However, today, I became slightly embittered. I sat down and reflected on all of the things I have not complained about versus all of the things I have a right to complain about. I then began to think about all of the people who do complain and really don't deserve to. I mean, I am not going to point fingers and say that I am in a worse situation than anyone else. The economy has effected us all, and it is not my business to ask each person about their level of impact. However, today I really began to wonder what I am worth - in the literal and abstract sense.
There are studies out there that talk about how much a stay-at-home parent would make if they earned a wage equivalent to the sum of all of the jobs they do. I don't think I am necessarily looking for that kind of price tag, but I think it would be interesting to figure out my hourly wage, how much I am "supposed" to work (does 9-5 exist in anything other than a song?), and how much I actually work. I don't think my level of satisfaction would be any different - I love my job - but I do wonder if the people who are in charge of my salary, and everyone else's for that matter, really comprehend what a deal they are getting? Do they see worth beyond dollar signs or am I the one with the wrong definition?
I don't intend to harp on this for too long. Bitter is not becoming. But I do wish people would recognize that there are some of us out there who don't necessarily care what we are getting paid. We do what we do because we want to and whatever we make is enough as long as we can make ends meet. I just want someone to say "good job" every once in a while so that when salary cuts or freezes occur, we feel less like a number and more like an asset. I want to know that I'm valued, because hell, I am a lot of bang for the buck!
Sunday, March 22, 2009
T & A
A friend's sister wrote a very funny blog post on the size and shape of her butt. Specifically, how said butt looked in yoga pants. I cannot quite say that I have ever noticed the quadri-butt on myself or even really cared about what my butt looks like (other than in my younger days when I would search for the perfect "butt jeans" for those rare occasions when I actually went out in search of a mate). I can, however, comment on the ridiculous size and nature of my boobs as of late.
I have never really been into my boobs all that much. Some women love their own, I actually was ready to wage war against them at a young age considering they began to define me in fourth grade. Yes, I was the girl who developed early. I really had no choice in the matter - my mother was quite buxom and that was after reduction surgery at 17. We all know that I am short in adulthood, so there I was at the ripe old age of 9, standing about 4'3" tall, and sporting a "training" bra that began with the letter C, yet continued to climb the alphabet ladder as if I was sponsoring that season of Sesame Street.
I was never a fat child or person, but a few years ago, I really took control of my weight and health and shed some pounds. Much to my fancy, I actually went down a cup size! Oh, you can't even imagine! I went from a DD to a D, but now I could buy bras with "skinny" straps (in D-cup language, that means about 1/2 inch in width). It was short-lived, but it was amazing!
Let's go back a moment, shall we? After I graduated from college, I worked retail for a year or two. Not my favorite gig, but it paid the bills. Through a strange series of events, I wound up working at a plus-size women's clothing store. Being petite, I was hated by most of the women who shopped there. I do recall, though, a few times when women would comment on how little, yet, eh em, disproportionate I was. Maybe it was something we could bond over. Regardless, I remember one woman in particular commented on the possibility of my chest size going down after I had children. What! That could really happen? She assured me that it had happened to her with each of her two children, essentially dropping a cup size with each one. Thank God!
LIAR!
I don't know who she was or where she is now, but I am 14 weeks pregnant and I'm pretty sure both of my breasts independently have their own gravitational pull and will soon begin to orbit. I mean, this is ridiculous! In the short time I have been pregnant, I have gone up 2 cup sizes. One would think that would put me at an F, but no! Oddly enough, I have stayed at the same letter, only it has exponentially multiplied. DDD! Did you know that existed? I certainly did not. Skinny straps can kiss my skinny ass, because I could easily use the shoulder straps on this thing as a travel pillow.
To add insult to injury, one of them was particularly itchy yesterday. I could not figure out why, so I had my husband take a look in case there was a rash or something forming in the undercarriage . He asked me what he was looking for and I told him whatever it was that was making me itch so. This may be TMI, but he took one look at my nipple, and said "I'm not sure if I see anything, but that one looks angry." Thanks.
And so my plague continues. I have no idea if these things will get any bigger, but if they do, I'm pretty sure I will begin to resemble a cartoon.
I have never really been into my boobs all that much. Some women love their own, I actually was ready to wage war against them at a young age considering they began to define me in fourth grade. Yes, I was the girl who developed early. I really had no choice in the matter - my mother was quite buxom and that was after reduction surgery at 17. We all know that I am short in adulthood, so there I was at the ripe old age of 9, standing about 4'3" tall, and sporting a "training" bra that began with the letter C, yet continued to climb the alphabet ladder as if I was sponsoring that season of Sesame Street.
I was never a fat child or person, but a few years ago, I really took control of my weight and health and shed some pounds. Much to my fancy, I actually went down a cup size! Oh, you can't even imagine! I went from a DD to a D, but now I could buy bras with "skinny" straps (in D-cup language, that means about 1/2 inch in width). It was short-lived, but it was amazing!
Let's go back a moment, shall we? After I graduated from college, I worked retail for a year or two. Not my favorite gig, but it paid the bills. Through a strange series of events, I wound up working at a plus-size women's clothing store. Being petite, I was hated by most of the women who shopped there. I do recall, though, a few times when women would comment on how little, yet, eh em, disproportionate I was. Maybe it was something we could bond over. Regardless, I remember one woman in particular commented on the possibility of my chest size going down after I had children. What! That could really happen? She assured me that it had happened to her with each of her two children, essentially dropping a cup size with each one. Thank God!
LIAR!
I don't know who she was or where she is now, but I am 14 weeks pregnant and I'm pretty sure both of my breasts independently have their own gravitational pull and will soon begin to orbit. I mean, this is ridiculous! In the short time I have been pregnant, I have gone up 2 cup sizes. One would think that would put me at an F, but no! Oddly enough, I have stayed at the same letter, only it has exponentially multiplied. DDD! Did you know that existed? I certainly did not. Skinny straps can kiss my skinny ass, because I could easily use the shoulder straps on this thing as a travel pillow.
To add insult to injury, one of them was particularly itchy yesterday. I could not figure out why, so I had my husband take a look in case there was a rash or something forming in the undercarriage . He asked me what he was looking for and I told him whatever it was that was making me itch so. This may be TMI, but he took one look at my nipple, and said "I'm not sure if I see anything, but that one looks angry." Thanks.
And so my plague continues. I have no idea if these things will get any bigger, but if they do, I'm pretty sure I will begin to resemble a cartoon.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Anyone?
Can someone please tell me who this beast inside of me is? It's not the kid. I mean it could be, but I have a feeling that at all of 3 inches long, with a melon half the size of its body, it's more than likely not the monster that rears its ugly head at random times throughout the day.
All of a sudden, BAM! There it is! I'm grumpy and bossy, and if I don't get my way, I get louder and more demanding.
I know what I want, you are not helping, leave me alone!
Who is this? Why does this horrific manifestation of my hormones or pheromones or whatever, moan at such inappropriate times? I can't even say that the beast is justified all the time, but there it is. It's like a lion, tiger, and bear all rolled into one 4'10" package.
What's even worse is that I recognize when it's happening. You would think that means I could contain it or control it, or at least try to change it, but no. I'd rather unleash it on whoever or whatever happens to be it's chosen target.
Does anyone know how to deal with this or, at least how to stop it without rallying the pitchfork-wielding, torch-lighting townsfolk?
All of a sudden, BAM! There it is! I'm grumpy and bossy, and if I don't get my way, I get louder and more demanding.
I know what I want, you are not helping, leave me alone!
Who is this? Why does this horrific manifestation of my hormones or pheromones or whatever, moan at such inappropriate times? I can't even say that the beast is justified all the time, but there it is. It's like a lion, tiger, and bear all rolled into one 4'10" package.
What's even worse is that I recognize when it's happening. You would think that means I could contain it or control it, or at least try to change it, but no. I'd rather unleash it on whoever or whatever happens to be it's chosen target.
Does anyone know how to deal with this or, at least how to stop it without rallying the pitchfork-wielding, torch-lighting townsfolk?
Friday, March 13, 2009
He's no Mr. Clean
I've always prescribed to the school of "why make your bed if you're just going to get it all messy later." I'm not a slob, I just tend to make more of a fuss over rooms that are more likely to be frequented by guests. Being married, my bedroom is not one of those rooms. I do, however, love the feeling of a freshly made bed, with clean sheets right out of the dryer, and a comforter you could bounce quarters off of. I get that same level of satisfaction from newly mopped floors, a sparkling bathtub, a range that does not remind me of my past week's menu, and newly reorganized closets. My husband, I've decided, does not.
For the last week or so he has been sick with what I've deemed a nasty cold. Add to that my 7 week bout with morning - eh em, all day - sickness, and cleaning hasn't exactly been a priority. Until now. For this weekend, we are having company. Tomorrow is my former roommate from college. Needless to say, she knows how I live. No need to fuss. Sunday, though, is my husband's entire immediate family. All 5 of 6 of them. Oddly enough, with all of my neuroses, feeling as though I have to impress my in-laws with a spotless house is not one of them. However, if you recall, my mother-in-law is currently undergoing chemotherapy and really shouldn't be exposed to sick people or germs - like my hubby. Needless to say, the disinfecting began today.
In my current state of being, I'm not supposed to use any harsh chemicals. So, I delegated all surface cleaning to my husband, and I took on the task of putting things away, dusting, and vacuuming. Normally, these chores are switched, but everything is ass-backwards now anyway.
For most of the morning, I slaved away in the living room and bathroom. I Swiffered, folded blankets, reorganized my medicine cabinet (I even threw away expired vitamins!), and tortured my dog with the root of all evil, a.k.a. the vaccum. In the end, my portion of the house was spic-and-span! That oh-so-clean feeling was just oozing out of my pores.
And then my husband came in from walking the dog and tromped all over my newly mopped floors with his dirty shoes. Not only did he leave footprints, but he left half-footprints once he realized he was messing up the floors and began walking on his tip-toes. His "ah-ha" face was quite precious actually, but come on!
I know that the moral of the story is not that I shoulnd't clean. I am, however, back to not making my bed.
For the last week or so he has been sick with what I've deemed a nasty cold. Add to that my 7 week bout with morning - eh em, all day - sickness, and cleaning hasn't exactly been a priority. Until now. For this weekend, we are having company. Tomorrow is my former roommate from college. Needless to say, she knows how I live. No need to fuss. Sunday, though, is my husband's entire immediate family. All 5 of 6 of them. Oddly enough, with all of my neuroses, feeling as though I have to impress my in-laws with a spotless house is not one of them. However, if you recall, my mother-in-law is currently undergoing chemotherapy and really shouldn't be exposed to sick people or germs - like my hubby. Needless to say, the disinfecting began today.
In my current state of being, I'm not supposed to use any harsh chemicals. So, I delegated all surface cleaning to my husband, and I took on the task of putting things away, dusting, and vacuuming. Normally, these chores are switched, but everything is ass-backwards now anyway.
For most of the morning, I slaved away in the living room and bathroom. I Swiffered, folded blankets, reorganized my medicine cabinet (I even threw away expired vitamins!), and tortured my dog with the root of all evil, a.k.a. the vaccum. In the end, my portion of the house was spic-and-span! That oh-so-clean feeling was just oozing out of my pores.
And then my husband came in from walking the dog and tromped all over my newly mopped floors with his dirty shoes. Not only did he leave footprints, but he left half-footprints once he realized he was messing up the floors and began walking on his tip-toes. His "ah-ha" face was quite precious actually, but come on!
I know that the moral of the story is not that I shoulnd't clean. I am, however, back to not making my bed.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
And, I'm spent.
I'm tired and cranky. I'm not fit to be around anyone, except maybe my dog. Though, I'm pretty sure my sour mood has even turned her off.
The source of my foul disposition? Any number of things I suppose:
- My husband actually acquiescing and going to the doctor but duly deciding NOT to take the prescribed medication needed to get better.
- Said husband changing his mind and asking me to pick up said medication 2 days after going to the doctor only to deal with the pharmacy check-out girl from Planet Molasses.
- Having to reach down into my pants in public to yank up my underwear because as comfortable as the "hidden" belly portion of my maternity jeans is, it somehow repels my Haynes.
- Washing dishes only to consume enough food for a small country so that the number of clean plates and utensils in the drying rack is now rivaled by the ever-growing pile in the "dirty side."
- Walking the dog in ridiculously cold weather every 2 hours because she is seemingly making "poop-butt," yet alas no poop.
- Attempting to take a nap to remedy my foul mood only to lay in bed staring at the insides of my eyelids for 40 minutes before realizing sleep was not an option and then getting out of bed to wallow in my now sleep-deprived, misery.
Any number of things.
Today needs to be over.
The source of my foul disposition? Any number of things I suppose:
- My husband actually acquiescing and going to the doctor but duly deciding NOT to take the prescribed medication needed to get better.
- Said husband changing his mind and asking me to pick up said medication 2 days after going to the doctor only to deal with the pharmacy check-out girl from Planet Molasses.
- Having to reach down into my pants in public to yank up my underwear because as comfortable as the "hidden" belly portion of my maternity jeans is, it somehow repels my Haynes.
- Washing dishes only to consume enough food for a small country so that the number of clean plates and utensils in the drying rack is now rivaled by the ever-growing pile in the "dirty side."
- Walking the dog in ridiculously cold weather every 2 hours because she is seemingly making "poop-butt," yet alas no poop.
- Attempting to take a nap to remedy my foul mood only to lay in bed staring at the insides of my eyelids for 40 minutes before realizing sleep was not an option and then getting out of bed to wallow in my now sleep-deprived, misery.
Any number of things.
Today needs to be over.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Another year...
I don't like my mother. There are several reasons why, topping the list with emotionally abusive most of my life. Like a true abuser, she will never see this or admit to it. In the end, all her manipulation and narcissism has gotten her is a semi-estranged daughter with the psychological antidote to a toxic relationship.
Tomorrow is her birthday.
The process of not talking to her has been a multi-step endeavor. At first it was easy. Sure, she would call all the time and beg me to tell her what she did wrong. That was surprisingly a no-brainer because of how annoying her 35/day message habit got. Then came the guilt. Maybe she wasn't that bad. Maybe she deserved an answer. Maybe she could be a normal person. I would then break my vow of silence and call her, only to hang-up the phone in tears - the cycle continued.
Prior to finding out I was pregnant, I hadn't talked to her for 4 months. Pretty good, huh? She, of course, knows nothing about my depression or any of the plethora of epiphanies I've had over the last 3 years- well except for the one about feeling better when I don't talk to her. Although, I'm not even sure she completely understands that either. Anyway, when I found out I was pregnant, I called. I kept the conversation short and decided that maybe, just maybe, I would call her with occasional updates. As long as we didn't have to talk about anything related to us or any one of her past lives (I'm pretty sure she has multiple personalities), we would be fine.
I again called her on the day of my 8 week doctor's appointment. In typical mom-fashion, she took this as her invitation back into my life. I can see how she would have interpreted it that way, but I certainly did not leave an RSVP date or number. So, she called. And then she called again. And again. I did not answer the phone any of these times. Her messages were always something about "just checking in" or "saw something baby and thought of you". My personal favorite though was a message about a life-long family friend who has a son 6 days older than I am and just happens to also be expecting a baby. She just could not believe all of the parallels in our lives. He lives in a totally different state, completed a military tour of duty in Afghanistan, and is not married. Tons of parallels. (Note the sarcasm)
A few days before I went to visit my sister and niece for my niece's fifth birthday, the phone rang. Of course, I have caller ID, but I figured I'd have to see her that weekend anyway, so I may as well see what she had to say. According to her, she was calling to find out if I was coming. As if! She sees my sister pretty much every other day. I know it came up. I played along though, and told her my plans for the weekend. Good. Done. Next.
The weekend of my niece's birthday was ______________ (madlib adjective). If you've been following the blog, you know that there was very little sleep involved. Pregnant ladies need sleep. I was also still dealing with the tail-end of morning sickness (renamed all day sickness if you're like me). Interacting with mom was not a high priority on my list. Not to mention the fact that I was not there to see her.
Thirty-six hours after we arrived, we were getting ready to leave. As I'm saying my goodbyes, it happened. The women in my family have this amazing ability to make their top lip disappear when they are angry or annoyed, and there was no lip to be found on my mother at that moment. You would think it difficult to talk without a top lip, but she managed to squeeze out the words, May I speak to you in the other room please?
Yeah, 'cause that wasn't a trap! My reply was simple: No, we are leaving now. She didn't like that.
She managed to yell out something to the effect of me being "abominable" toward her all weekend. Again, not there to see her. I didn't take the bait. I said goodbye, walked out of the house, and got in my car and drove away. If you think I'm an animal for acting this way, please understand and trust that any other action would have resulted in a horrible screaming match that would not only have taken place in front of my 5 year old niece, but also lasted somewhere in the one to two hour range. Leaving was the right decision. That was a week and a half ago. I've since had a doctor's appointment and not called. The cycle continues.
But her birthday is tomorrow.
I'm sure I'll call. I'm sure she'll cry. And secretly, when the call is over and no one is around, I'm sure I'll cry too. While it's often easier for me to talk about this relationship with humor, as with most jeering there is a painful element of truth behind all of the jokes. Never in a million years did I think this would be my life. But it is. I won't be celebrating my mother's birthday with her and I'm not even sure how sincere I'll be when I say "happy birthday." However, I do know that I find more and more meaning in the phrase "another year older, another year wiser."
I wonder if whoever said it knew they were talking about two people.
Tomorrow is her birthday.
The process of not talking to her has been a multi-step endeavor. At first it was easy. Sure, she would call all the time and beg me to tell her what she did wrong. That was surprisingly a no-brainer because of how annoying her 35/day message habit got. Then came the guilt. Maybe she wasn't that bad. Maybe she deserved an answer. Maybe she could be a normal person. I would then break my vow of silence and call her, only to hang-up the phone in tears - the cycle continued.
Prior to finding out I was pregnant, I hadn't talked to her for 4 months. Pretty good, huh? She, of course, knows nothing about my depression or any of the plethora of epiphanies I've had over the last 3 years- well except for the one about feeling better when I don't talk to her. Although, I'm not even sure she completely understands that either. Anyway, when I found out I was pregnant, I called. I kept the conversation short and decided that maybe, just maybe, I would call her with occasional updates. As long as we didn't have to talk about anything related to us or any one of her past lives (I'm pretty sure she has multiple personalities), we would be fine.
I again called her on the day of my 8 week doctor's appointment. In typical mom-fashion, she took this as her invitation back into my life. I can see how she would have interpreted it that way, but I certainly did not leave an RSVP date or number. So, she called. And then she called again. And again. I did not answer the phone any of these times. Her messages were always something about "just checking in" or "saw something baby and thought of you". My personal favorite though was a message about a life-long family friend who has a son 6 days older than I am and just happens to also be expecting a baby. She just could not believe all of the parallels in our lives. He lives in a totally different state, completed a military tour of duty in Afghanistan, and is not married. Tons of parallels. (Note the sarcasm)
A few days before I went to visit my sister and niece for my niece's fifth birthday, the phone rang. Of course, I have caller ID, but I figured I'd have to see her that weekend anyway, so I may as well see what she had to say. According to her, she was calling to find out if I was coming. As if! She sees my sister pretty much every other day. I know it came up. I played along though, and told her my plans for the weekend. Good. Done. Next.
The weekend of my niece's birthday was ______________ (madlib adjective). If you've been following the blog, you know that there was very little sleep involved. Pregnant ladies need sleep. I was also still dealing with the tail-end of morning sickness (renamed all day sickness if you're like me). Interacting with mom was not a high priority on my list. Not to mention the fact that I was not there to see her.
Thirty-six hours after we arrived, we were getting ready to leave. As I'm saying my goodbyes, it happened. The women in my family have this amazing ability to make their top lip disappear when they are angry or annoyed, and there was no lip to be found on my mother at that moment. You would think it difficult to talk without a top lip, but she managed to squeeze out the words, May I speak to you in the other room please?
Yeah, 'cause that wasn't a trap! My reply was simple: No, we are leaving now. She didn't like that.
She managed to yell out something to the effect of me being "abominable" toward her all weekend. Again, not there to see her. I didn't take the bait. I said goodbye, walked out of the house, and got in my car and drove away. If you think I'm an animal for acting this way, please understand and trust that any other action would have resulted in a horrible screaming match that would not only have taken place in front of my 5 year old niece, but also lasted somewhere in the one to two hour range. Leaving was the right decision. That was a week and a half ago. I've since had a doctor's appointment and not called. The cycle continues.
But her birthday is tomorrow.
I'm sure I'll call. I'm sure she'll cry. And secretly, when the call is over and no one is around, I'm sure I'll cry too. While it's often easier for me to talk about this relationship with humor, as with most jeering there is a painful element of truth behind all of the jokes. Never in a million years did I think this would be my life. But it is. I won't be celebrating my mother's birthday with her and I'm not even sure how sincere I'll be when I say "happy birthday." However, I do know that I find more and more meaning in the phrase "another year older, another year wiser."
I wonder if whoever said it knew they were talking about two people.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Loss of Innocence
My best friend is currently involved in a long-term relationship. Not just long-term like we'll see where this goes, but long-term as in this is it. As with every relationship, there are ups and downs. And as many of us know, when you are preparing to spend the rest of your life with someone, the downs can sometimes overpower the ups. In my personal experience, there were many times when it would have been easier to just give up. Fortunately, I never did, but I can recall one too many phone calls where my end of the conversation was apathetic at best, waiting for him to say just the right thing (or wrong thing depending on how you look at it) to make me end it. Don't get me wrong. I love my husband and never doubted my feelings - I simply doubted my stamina.
Whether or not this was your experience as well, this is what my best friend is going through.
Relationships are hard. Learning to communicate with someone from another planet is harder. Put the two together - oh! and add a few hundred miles in between - and seeds of doubt will inevitably plant themselves. What always kept me going, even during those phone calls, was that there was never another option. Sure I could think about it and, as I said, wait for him to say that one thing that would push me over the edge, but the truth is it never came because there wasn't anything he could say. We loved each other. Distance was an issue, but not a dealbreaker. Fights were bound to happen, but they always taught us how better to talk to one another. And doubt? As far as I'm concerned, you don't care enough about something or someone if you never once question if it's worth it. How else will you be able to answer yes?
So back to my bff and the real point to this post. He, too, is doing the long-distance thing with his girlfriend, but that is no where near their most difficult challenge. He is of mixed race and she is not. In this day and age, it shouldn't matter. They have common values, goals, and above all, see beyond the skin color to the person inside. Isn't that what our parents always taught us? (Maybe not and I'm sorry if that's how you grew up) Turns out, even if this is what your parents always taught you, their opinion may change once you bring home a person of a different color. Sure, that's what you should believe, just not what you practice.
For many of us, disappointment in our parents begins at an early age. For whatever reason, we learn in our youth that the dynamic duo is not so dynamic. However, some don't find this out until well into adulthood. And then it happens. Your world is turned upside down. You don't know what is right and what is wrong anymore. You begin to question everything they've ever taught you. And even worse, you begin to question what you've learned. Lucky for me, my parents obligingly took care of this growing pain sometime prior to or during adolescence. But for my best friend's girlfriend, the hurt is just beginning.
I only know the trials associated with a mixed-race relationship second-hand. My best friend, in his infinite confidence, sweares he will win over his future in-laws. But the world has changed now. From this point on, his girlfriend will have doubt. She will question. She will wonder if it's worth it.
And hopefully, she will always answer, yes!
Whether or not this was your experience as well, this is what my best friend is going through.
Relationships are hard. Learning to communicate with someone from another planet is harder. Put the two together - oh! and add a few hundred miles in between - and seeds of doubt will inevitably plant themselves. What always kept me going, even during those phone calls, was that there was never another option. Sure I could think about it and, as I said, wait for him to say that one thing that would push me over the edge, but the truth is it never came because there wasn't anything he could say. We loved each other. Distance was an issue, but not a dealbreaker. Fights were bound to happen, but they always taught us how better to talk to one another. And doubt? As far as I'm concerned, you don't care enough about something or someone if you never once question if it's worth it. How else will you be able to answer yes?
So back to my bff and the real point to this post. He, too, is doing the long-distance thing with his girlfriend, but that is no where near their most difficult challenge. He is of mixed race and she is not. In this day and age, it shouldn't matter. They have common values, goals, and above all, see beyond the skin color to the person inside. Isn't that what our parents always taught us? (Maybe not and I'm sorry if that's how you grew up) Turns out, even if this is what your parents always taught you, their opinion may change once you bring home a person of a different color. Sure, that's what you should believe, just not what you practice.
For many of us, disappointment in our parents begins at an early age. For whatever reason, we learn in our youth that the dynamic duo is not so dynamic. However, some don't find this out until well into adulthood. And then it happens. Your world is turned upside down. You don't know what is right and what is wrong anymore. You begin to question everything they've ever taught you. And even worse, you begin to question what you've learned. Lucky for me, my parents obligingly took care of this growing pain sometime prior to or during adolescence. But for my best friend's girlfriend, the hurt is just beginning.
I only know the trials associated with a mixed-race relationship second-hand. My best friend, in his infinite confidence, sweares he will win over his future in-laws. But the world has changed now. From this point on, his girlfriend will have doubt. She will question. She will wonder if it's worth it.
And hopefully, she will always answer, yes!
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Daylight Savings
Every year, twice a year, when daylight savings occurs, my husband reminds me of a radio broadcast he heard. I don't know the particular station, but it was one of those talk radio shows where the DJs incessantly babble about politics and sports and think their opinions are worth gold. The topic on this particular day was the issue of the government changing the week of daylight savings. Apparently (remember-this is a second-hand story) a crotchety old woman called in and very boldly stated:
Daylight savings is burning my grass!
The implication was that the longer the government "allowed" the sun to be out, the more susceptible her precious grass was to the adverse effects of photosynthesis. What!?
My husband laughs hysterically every time he tells this story.
It's now a little after 9 am. My husband has a cold and is not yet out of bed. I've already changed all the clocks in the house so I don't think he will realize what day it is for a few hours yet. Somehow, though, I just know that we will be in the car today heading somewhere, listening to the radio, and he will erupt into spontaneous laughter at the thought of that poor woman's preposterous announcement.
I guess you could say I look forward to daylight savings every year.
Daylight savings is burning my grass!
The implication was that the longer the government "allowed" the sun to be out, the more susceptible her precious grass was to the adverse effects of photosynthesis. What!?
My husband laughs hysterically every time he tells this story.
It's now a little after 9 am. My husband has a cold and is not yet out of bed. I've already changed all the clocks in the house so I don't think he will realize what day it is for a few hours yet. Somehow, though, I just know that we will be in the car today heading somewhere, listening to the radio, and he will erupt into spontaneous laughter at the thought of that poor woman's preposterous announcement.
I guess you could say I look forward to daylight savings every year.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Psych!
After being diagnosed with depression, I started the humiliating search for a psychiatrist and psychologist. I now know that there is nothing to be ashamed of, but at the time, it was mortifying. There was something wrong with me that no one could see. I had no physical scars, I had no physical symptoms. Yet, somehow I hurt all the time - enough to warrant the expertise of two health care professionals.
I should also clarify at this time that a psychologist is a psychotherapist - someone who uses non-chemical, discussion based methods to treat various psychological issues. A psychiatrist is a medical doctor who specializes in psychological illnesses. S/he can prescribe and regulate medication. In other words, the former treats by talking it out, the latter works to balance the chemicals in your body. My depression was so severe that it was necessary to work with both.
Normally, I would be skeptical of using insurance recommended providers. But, remember, I was highly embarrassed by the whole situation and the thought of having to justify why a different, non-network mental health specialist should be approved was no where near my list of things to do. I don't remember the exact order in which I called, but I do recall filling out a lot of paper work.
The papers I got from the psychiatrist were brutal. Why did I feel this way? How long had it been? Did I want to kill myself? (Not in the literal sense, but I might consider it now that ALL of my skeletons are permanently recorded in ink). I took my time and spent a few days with it, especially because there was a post-it at the top that said to bring the papers with me on the day of my appointment. Phew!! I didn't have to worry about the mailman steam-opening the document to look at all of my problems. Clearly, not a rational thought. Considering the circumstances, though, you would have had a hard time convincing me that that wasn't part of his master plan.
The appointment was set, the papers were filled out, and then the phone call came.
Hi, this is Doctor X's office. Normally, this would be a confirmation for your appointment tomorrow. However, we have not received your paperwork and will have to reschedule until we have those papers at least 24 hours in advance of your appointment.
The rest of the message contained contact information (which I will get to!), but all I heard was a loud explosion in my brain. But what about the post-it? How was this possible?
I listened to the message again to get the phone number and office hours. As it turned out, this particular office had the ridiculous policy of only answering their phones between 9:00am and noon, unless it was a medical emergency, and in that case call 911 or the nearest hospital. This was going well. Luckily, they also listed their hours. If I left at that precise moment and defied all traffic regulations, I could get there in time. And that is what I did.
I honestly don't remember if I had the papers with me or not, but I do remember ripping the receptionist a new one as tears streamed down my face. Why would someone write that post-it if it was office policy? What kind of doctor's office doesn't answer their phones? I don't remember the lady being nice. She claimed that the person who sent the papers out was new and that must have been the reason for the "mishap." I had another word for it.
In the end, I was able to keep my appointment. I have no recollection of that what-so-ever. I don't know if it was just that horrible, or I was so focused on other things that I didn't take the time to breathe it in. All I know is that I walked out of there with a prescription for an anti-depressant. I didn't ask what it was or what the side effects were. I just couldn't imagine how this drug was going to change the way I felt, when really, I felt - numb.
I should also clarify at this time that a psychologist is a psychotherapist - someone who uses non-chemical, discussion based methods to treat various psychological issues. A psychiatrist is a medical doctor who specializes in psychological illnesses. S/he can prescribe and regulate medication. In other words, the former treats by talking it out, the latter works to balance the chemicals in your body. My depression was so severe that it was necessary to work with both.
Normally, I would be skeptical of using insurance recommended providers. But, remember, I was highly embarrassed by the whole situation and the thought of having to justify why a different, non-network mental health specialist should be approved was no where near my list of things to do. I don't remember the exact order in which I called, but I do recall filling out a lot of paper work.
The papers I got from the psychiatrist were brutal. Why did I feel this way? How long had it been? Did I want to kill myself? (Not in the literal sense, but I might consider it now that ALL of my skeletons are permanently recorded in ink). I took my time and spent a few days with it, especially because there was a post-it at the top that said to bring the papers with me on the day of my appointment. Phew!! I didn't have to worry about the mailman steam-opening the document to look at all of my problems. Clearly, not a rational thought. Considering the circumstances, though, you would have had a hard time convincing me that that wasn't part of his master plan.
The appointment was set, the papers were filled out, and then the phone call came.
Hi, this is Doctor X's office. Normally, this would be a confirmation for your appointment tomorrow. However, we have not received your paperwork and will have to reschedule until we have those papers at least 24 hours in advance of your appointment.
The rest of the message contained contact information (which I will get to!), but all I heard was a loud explosion in my brain. But what about the post-it? How was this possible?
I listened to the message again to get the phone number and office hours. As it turned out, this particular office had the ridiculous policy of only answering their phones between 9:00am and noon, unless it was a medical emergency, and in that case call 911 or the nearest hospital. This was going well. Luckily, they also listed their hours. If I left at that precise moment and defied all traffic regulations, I could get there in time. And that is what I did.
I honestly don't remember if I had the papers with me or not, but I do remember ripping the receptionist a new one as tears streamed down my face. Why would someone write that post-it if it was office policy? What kind of doctor's office doesn't answer their phones? I don't remember the lady being nice. She claimed that the person who sent the papers out was new and that must have been the reason for the "mishap." I had another word for it.
In the end, I was able to keep my appointment. I have no recollection of that what-so-ever. I don't know if it was just that horrible, or I was so focused on other things that I didn't take the time to breathe it in. All I know is that I walked out of there with a prescription for an anti-depressant. I didn't ask what it was or what the side effects were. I just couldn't imagine how this drug was going to change the way I felt, when really, I felt - numb.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
If only...
If only life were as simple as my dog makes it look.
She has this toy. It's a chipmunk. I bought it for her because she loves chasing chipmunks outside and I figured it'd be harmless fun to watch her get hours of enjoyment out of tossing this small plush animal and then pouncing on it, only to chew on its face until the tennis ball in the corner looks like it will provide more entertainment.
I want that.
I suppose if I wanted to, I could make my husband feed me. I don't need to be taken on walks. I can manage to make it to the bathroom on my own, but maybe a little encouragement when I go would be nice. I deserve treats every now and then, and toys (age appropriate) are always a nice surprise. So what is it that she has that I want if I can, in fact, have all of the same things?
I'm not really sure what the lesson to be learned is, but her life seems so simple. If only mine were...
She has this toy. It's a chipmunk. I bought it for her because she loves chasing chipmunks outside and I figured it'd be harmless fun to watch her get hours of enjoyment out of tossing this small plush animal and then pouncing on it, only to chew on its face until the tennis ball in the corner looks like it will provide more entertainment.
I want that.
I suppose if I wanted to, I could make my husband feed me. I don't need to be taken on walks. I can manage to make it to the bathroom on my own, but maybe a little encouragement when I go would be nice. I deserve treats every now and then, and toys (age appropriate) are always a nice surprise. So what is it that she has that I want if I can, in fact, have all of the same things?
I'm not really sure what the lesson to be learned is, but her life seems so simple. If only mine were...
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Practice
12:30am - Arrive at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
12:45am - Get into bed after arriving at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
5:45am - Dog wakes up to go outside after going to bed at 12:45 after arriving at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
6:00am- 5 year old neice wakes up to noise of the dog going outside and decides to come into my bedroom to say hello after waking up at 5:45 for the dog to go outside after going to bed at 12:45 after arriving at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
6:10am - Dog gets too excited with neice in the room and accidentally scratches her. This causes her to get upset at which husband tells her that the dog needs a timeout and to come back at 8:00. After her initial entrance at 6:00 after waking up at 5:45 for the dog to go outside after going to bed at 12:45 after arriving at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
6:20am - Niece taps lightly on door before opening and asking, "Is it 8:00 yet?" After her initial entrance at 6:00 after asking her to come back later after waking up at 5:45 for the dog to go outside after going to bed at 12:45 after arriving at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
7:30am - Sister walks into bedroom to tell me that my dog is running around. I tell her her kid is in my room. She leaves after two uninvited visits from my 5 year old niece after her initial entrance at 6:00 after waking up at 5:45 for the dog to go outside after going to bed at 12:45 after arriving at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
7:30-9:00am - Interrupted, uncomfortable sleep. After two uninvited visits from my 5 year old neiece after her initial entrance at 6:00 after waking up at 5:45 for the dog to go outside after going to bed at 12:45 after arriving at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
9:00 - What's the use? Get up after an hour and half of interrupted, uncomfortable sleep after two uninvited visits from my 5 year old neice after her initial entrance at 6:00 after waking up at 5:45 for the dog to go outside after going to bed at 12:45 after arriving at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
I love my neice. I am at my father's house to celebrate her 5th birthday. I do not begrudge her her excitement over her birthday or seeing me. I'm just very, very tired. I know, I know...practice, right?
12:45am - Get into bed after arriving at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
5:45am - Dog wakes up to go outside after going to bed at 12:45 after arriving at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
6:00am- 5 year old neice wakes up to noise of the dog going outside and decides to come into my bedroom to say hello after waking up at 5:45 for the dog to go outside after going to bed at 12:45 after arriving at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
6:10am - Dog gets too excited with neice in the room and accidentally scratches her. This causes her to get upset at which husband tells her that the dog needs a timeout and to come back at 8:00. After her initial entrance at 6:00 after waking up at 5:45 for the dog to go outside after going to bed at 12:45 after arriving at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
6:20am - Niece taps lightly on door before opening and asking, "Is it 8:00 yet?" After her initial entrance at 6:00 after asking her to come back later after waking up at 5:45 for the dog to go outside after going to bed at 12:45 after arriving at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
7:30am - Sister walks into bedroom to tell me that my dog is running around. I tell her her kid is in my room. She leaves after two uninvited visits from my 5 year old niece after her initial entrance at 6:00 after waking up at 5:45 for the dog to go outside after going to bed at 12:45 after arriving at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
7:30-9:00am - Interrupted, uncomfortable sleep. After two uninvited visits from my 5 year old neiece after her initial entrance at 6:00 after waking up at 5:45 for the dog to go outside after going to bed at 12:45 after arriving at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
9:00 - What's the use? Get up after an hour and half of interrupted, uncomfortable sleep after two uninvited visits from my 5 year old neice after her initial entrance at 6:00 after waking up at 5:45 for the dog to go outside after going to bed at 12:45 after arriving at my father's house after a 9 1/2 hour drive, of which I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
I love my neice. I am at my father's house to celebrate her 5th birthday. I do not begrudge her her excitement over her birthday or seeing me. I'm just very, very tired. I know, I know...practice, right?
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Unpacking.
A little over three years ago, I was diagnosed with severe depression with an accute adjustment disorder. My sadness had moved beyond circumstance and actually manifested in a chemical imbalance in my brain that was not curable with a new pair of shoes or a sunny day. I had known something was wrong for a while, but admitting there's a problem seems to be universal hurtle over which everyone with a disease must soar immeasurable heights to clear.
When I look back, I'm amazed I paused at all to take stock in what I was feeling. I was recently married, mourning the loss of my husband's grandfather, finishing my master's degree and starting a new career, and settling into a new apartment. Busy.
Without knowing it, all of the things that were keeping me from taking care of myself were also major life changes - technically, there are five: death/birth, marriage/divorce, new job/degree, moving, and disease/disability. After my diagnosis, I learned that experienceing any two or three of those life changes within a year's time can cause any number of anxiety or depression related conditions. I had experienced 4 of the 5 in fewer than six months.
As with many things, there were clues. Most I chose to ignore or assumed were byproducts of whatever I was dealing with at the time: procrastinating when a paper was due, stressing over finding a job/what would happen once I found one, fixating on the arrangement of the furniture in my new place. Truthfully, though, the biggest clue was one I had stopped to look into. Even saught help. For over a year, I had little to no interest in anything romantic (ehem - sex). My husband and I had been together for 4 years before we got married, living together for almsot two years of it. It was no secret that we were "living in sin," but in reality there was no sin. We both chalked it up to stress. And the professional answer I got: stress.
About 2 months prior to our wedding, I went back to the doctor for another opinion. I was sure I had some sort of blood disease or hormone imbalance and was not leaving until they had an answer for me other than stress. My wedding night was 8 weeks away, and gosh darn it, there would be passion! They reluctantly did the bloodwork, but when the results came back, they showed an decreased level in testosterone. See!
But they said it was nothing to worry about. Again, it could just be due to stress. Back to square one.
Our wedding came and went. My labido, however, was gone.
A few months later, I started my new job. It was amazing! It was what I was meant to do! And yet, I couldn't get out of bed in the morning. How could something so important to me strike up so little motivation? This was not just stress.
The official diagnosis came a few weeks later. My husband encouraged me to see a psychologist. The last time I had spoken to a "shrink" was when my best friend died. Surely, this wasn't the same. But I went. I sat in the chair and very calmly and professionally explained why I was there. She gave me a survey. A simple questionnaire about how I felt, what I ate or didn't eat, how I slept or didn't sleep, my love life or lack thereof, etc. It took what felt like an eternity to fill-out. My throat was dry, my eyes wet, my fingers numb. How could she ask such personal questions? She had just met me! They couldn't have been more generic.
And then she "graded" it.
I don't remember her exact phrasing, but what she said hit me like a ton of bricks.
Severe Depression.
And then the verbal questions: Do you have suicidal thoughts? No. Is anyone hurting you physically or emotionally? No. Do you have a regular psychiatric healthcare provider? No. Wait. What? I, um, just started a new job. I have new insurance. I don't even know if this is covered.
I have no idea what her name was. I wish I did so I could thank her. She not only gave me an answer other than "stress," but she gave me hope. The rest of the appointment was spent walking me through the process of finding a psychiatrist and a psychologist. She didn't let me leave until I stopped crying. She made sure I had a way home. I'm sure she does it every day, but she helped me start unpacking - settling into my new life and sorting through the baggage I had brought with me thus far.
When I look back, I'm amazed I paused at all to take stock in what I was feeling. I was recently married, mourning the loss of my husband's grandfather, finishing my master's degree and starting a new career, and settling into a new apartment. Busy.
Without knowing it, all of the things that were keeping me from taking care of myself were also major life changes - technically, there are five: death/birth, marriage/divorce, new job/degree, moving, and disease/disability. After my diagnosis, I learned that experienceing any two or three of those life changes within a year's time can cause any number of anxiety or depression related conditions. I had experienced 4 of the 5 in fewer than six months.
As with many things, there were clues. Most I chose to ignore or assumed were byproducts of whatever I was dealing with at the time: procrastinating when a paper was due, stressing over finding a job/what would happen once I found one, fixating on the arrangement of the furniture in my new place. Truthfully, though, the biggest clue was one I had stopped to look into. Even saught help. For over a year, I had little to no interest in anything romantic (ehem - sex). My husband and I had been together for 4 years before we got married, living together for almsot two years of it. It was no secret that we were "living in sin," but in reality there was no sin. We both chalked it up to stress. And the professional answer I got: stress.
About 2 months prior to our wedding, I went back to the doctor for another opinion. I was sure I had some sort of blood disease or hormone imbalance and was not leaving until they had an answer for me other than stress. My wedding night was 8 weeks away, and gosh darn it, there would be passion! They reluctantly did the bloodwork, but when the results came back, they showed an decreased level in testosterone. See!
But they said it was nothing to worry about. Again, it could just be due to stress. Back to square one.
Our wedding came and went. My labido, however, was gone.
A few months later, I started my new job. It was amazing! It was what I was meant to do! And yet, I couldn't get out of bed in the morning. How could something so important to me strike up so little motivation? This was not just stress.
The official diagnosis came a few weeks later. My husband encouraged me to see a psychologist. The last time I had spoken to a "shrink" was when my best friend died. Surely, this wasn't the same. But I went. I sat in the chair and very calmly and professionally explained why I was there. She gave me a survey. A simple questionnaire about how I felt, what I ate or didn't eat, how I slept or didn't sleep, my love life or lack thereof, etc. It took what felt like an eternity to fill-out. My throat was dry, my eyes wet, my fingers numb. How could she ask such personal questions? She had just met me! They couldn't have been more generic.
And then she "graded" it.
I don't remember her exact phrasing, but what she said hit me like a ton of bricks.
Severe Depression.
And then the verbal questions: Do you have suicidal thoughts? No. Is anyone hurting you physically or emotionally? No. Do you have a regular psychiatric healthcare provider? No. Wait. What? I, um, just started a new job. I have new insurance. I don't even know if this is covered.
I have no idea what her name was. I wish I did so I could thank her. She not only gave me an answer other than "stress," but she gave me hope. The rest of the appointment was spent walking me through the process of finding a psychiatrist and a psychologist. She didn't let me leave until I stopped crying. She made sure I had a way home. I'm sure she does it every day, but she helped me start unpacking - settling into my new life and sorting through the baggage I had brought with me thus far.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
It's just a toy.
You know, one of those ring stacker things with the multi-colored plastic donuts that vary in size and mount onto a falic looking plastic obelisc. A ring stacker. Well, I now have one.
It's my first baby toy.
It's my first baby anything.
It's just a toy.
I love it.
(Thank you Ali!)
It's my first baby toy.
It's my first baby anything.
It's just a toy.
I love it.
(Thank you Ali!)
Monday, February 23, 2009
Things I hate...
1. Stupid People
2. Email Forwards
3. Email Spam
4. Stupid people who ask stupid questions
5. Stupid people who believe stupid email forwards
6. Stupid people who send stupid email forwards
7. Stupid people who send stupid email spam
8. Stupid people who believe stupid email spam
9. Stupid people who believe other stupid people
10. Stupid people who I know are not really stupid.
2. Email Forwards
3. Email Spam
4. Stupid people who ask stupid questions
5. Stupid people who believe stupid email forwards
6. Stupid people who send stupid email forwards
7. Stupid people who send stupid email spam
8. Stupid people who believe stupid email spam
9. Stupid people who believe other stupid people
10. Stupid people who I know are not really stupid.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Life
As I read over my post from yesterday, I realized that most people would not consider it normal to go to bed at 7:30. Alas, that has been my bedtime for the past few weeks. No, I'm not sick. I'm just pregnant.
Ok, so not just pregnant - I AM pregnant. Ten weeks and 3 days to be exact. So far, I've dealt with everything early pregnancy has to offer: sore, ever-expanding breasts, exhaustion like no exhaustion I have ever experienced, morning sickness, afternoon sickness, evening sickness, night sickness, everything in-between sickness, inexplicable crying, cravings, round-the-clock hunger, and of course the indescribable feeling of carrying a human life inside of me!
Generally, I am not a gushy person. I would be lying if I didn't say I wasn't emotional, but gushy, no. But there really is no comparison to the way this makes you feel. I know some women have terrible pregnancies (my sister), some feel nothing until they are actually holding a child, and still other's try and try and for whatever reason will never know any of it. I, however, consider myself lucky on so many levels. Puking was miserable, but there was a reason for it. Sleeping all the time is not as restful as it sounds, yet somehow it recharges me. A bulging waistline a tad ahead of what all the "it" pregnancy books recommend, and still I look forward to having an even bigger baby bump.
Gushy, no. Emotional, yes.
Ok, so not just pregnant - I AM pregnant. Ten weeks and 3 days to be exact. So far, I've dealt with everything early pregnancy has to offer: sore, ever-expanding breasts, exhaustion like no exhaustion I have ever experienced, morning sickness, afternoon sickness, evening sickness, night sickness, everything in-between sickness, inexplicable crying, cravings, round-the-clock hunger, and of course the indescribable feeling of carrying a human life inside of me!
Generally, I am not a gushy person. I would be lying if I didn't say I wasn't emotional, but gushy, no. But there really is no comparison to the way this makes you feel. I know some women have terrible pregnancies (my sister), some feel nothing until they are actually holding a child, and still other's try and try and for whatever reason will never know any of it. I, however, consider myself lucky on so many levels. Puking was miserable, but there was a reason for it. Sleeping all the time is not as restful as it sounds, yet somehow it recharges me. A bulging waistline a tad ahead of what all the "it" pregnancy books recommend, and still I look forward to having an even bigger baby bump.
Gushy, no. Emotional, yes.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Sleep
Today I slept. I went to bed at 7:30pm last night. My dog woke me up to go outside (good girl) at 2:30am. At 7:30am, I was up. My dog, however was still in bed. Knowing that I need to eat as soon as I'm conscious, I had breakfast, sat on the couch and dinked around the Internet for a while. And then...sleep. The dog came to sit with me for a few minutes and then decided it was all much too exciting and went back to bed - which incidentally is my bed! I took her cue and followed her. It was maybe 8:30.
It's now 1:40pm. I was once again awakened by the dog to take care of business (good girl). Since I'm sure I've given her some sort of canine UTI due to irregular outings, I gave her some peanut butter as a reward, made myself some ravioli, and am now back on the couch.
I will follow her lead.
It's now 1:40pm. I was once again awakened by the dog to take care of business (good girl). Since I'm sure I've given her some sort of canine UTI due to irregular outings, I gave her some peanut butter as a reward, made myself some ravioli, and am now back on the couch.
I will follow her lead.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Two steps forward, three years back.
So I've decided I can be a blogger. I used to have this image of what a blogger was - mostly formulated from one of the most annoying people I've ever met who I had the unfortunate experience of taking a two - count them: one, two - person class with. But recently, as I've become addicted to the blogs of some friends of mine, my viewpoint has changed. So here goes...
As I was driving home from work today, I began thinking about a person I know whose mother died recently from breast cancer. While this person is an acquaintance, at best, I was deeply affected by her recent tragedy due to the fact that my mother-in-law was diagnosed in December. Oddly enough, this is not a segue into the events and emotions of the past few months, instead a linear journey of my thought process as I drove home. I will eventually discuss my more personal thoughts regarding my mother-in-law's illness, but it's all very fresh, and frankly, too soon.
The thought about breast cancer made me think about death in general, which brought me back three years to when the proverbial $#!+ hit the fan. Actually, it brought me back to when I was 18 and lost my best friend in a car accident, but those thoughts are mostly fleeting now as my time without her has exceeded my time with her. Back to three years ago - On Christmas day, 2005, my husband's grandfather died from cancer. Very rarely do people die from cancer, but this was one of those cases. Not pneumonia, not the flu, cancer. It was devastating. In a very short time, the man had become my mentor and surrogate grandfather. I am very close with my husband's family, but I owe a lot of that to him. Very early on, he took me under his wing and welcomed me into the family when not everyone was willing to do so. I should probably mention at this time that my mother-in-law's diagnosis came a week before Christmas this year. Fortunately, thanks to the good doctors at Mayo Clinic, she was able to have surgery later that week. Unforunately, that brought us full-circle back to cancer on Christmas.
So as I sat in my car, I pondered the book-end events of Christmasses past and present. And then I remembered one thing. Life. There have been many more than two steps to the process that has led me to where I am today, and I'm sure there will be many more steps to come. However, even though I am saddened by the horrific illness that has reared it's ugly head on my family once again, I can honestly say I have hope for the future. Hope for remission, hope for happiness, and in many meanings, hope for healing.
As I was driving home from work today, I began thinking about a person I know whose mother died recently from breast cancer. While this person is an acquaintance, at best, I was deeply affected by her recent tragedy due to the fact that my mother-in-law was diagnosed in December. Oddly enough, this is not a segue into the events and emotions of the past few months, instead a linear journey of my thought process as I drove home. I will eventually discuss my more personal thoughts regarding my mother-in-law's illness, but it's all very fresh, and frankly, too soon.
The thought about breast cancer made me think about death in general, which brought me back three years to when the proverbial $#!+ hit the fan. Actually, it brought me back to when I was 18 and lost my best friend in a car accident, but those thoughts are mostly fleeting now as my time without her has exceeded my time with her. Back to three years ago - On Christmas day, 2005, my husband's grandfather died from cancer. Very rarely do people die from cancer, but this was one of those cases. Not pneumonia, not the flu, cancer. It was devastating. In a very short time, the man had become my mentor and surrogate grandfather. I am very close with my husband's family, but I owe a lot of that to him. Very early on, he took me under his wing and welcomed me into the family when not everyone was willing to do so. I should probably mention at this time that my mother-in-law's diagnosis came a week before Christmas this year. Fortunately, thanks to the good doctors at Mayo Clinic, she was able to have surgery later that week. Unforunately, that brought us full-circle back to cancer on Christmas.
So as I sat in my car, I pondered the book-end events of Christmasses past and present. And then I remembered one thing. Life. There have been many more than two steps to the process that has led me to where I am today, and I'm sure there will be many more steps to come. However, even though I am saddened by the horrific illness that has reared it's ugly head on my family once again, I can honestly say I have hope for the future. Hope for remission, hope for happiness, and in many meanings, hope for healing.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
My first blog
I'm not sure how I feel about blogging. I've always been somewhat against all things private made available to all people public. But I've found that more recently I've had things happen to me that the greater world might appreciate...and then again, maybe not. I've also really enjoyed reading other's blogs and knowing that, somewhere, out there, someone is thinking just like me. So how this will go, I do not know. Will I change the world? Probably not? Will I try? Darn tootin'!
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