Christmas' of my youth, hold a fond place in my memory.
Foxy would go buck wild with donning and decorating at 694 Harriet Avenue. I do believe, and my brothers can correct me if I'm wrong, that Foxy un-loaded two bedroom closets filled to the brim with boxes of holiday decorations. And that didn't even include all the shit she made my dad take down from the rafters. Foxy was not messing around. I mean, we had little Santa towels in the bathroom. And we had not one, but TWO trees.
That's right. This ensured that, we kids, could decorate our tree ghetto style...ie: homemade ornaments made with glittered macaroni, strung popcorn, and empty beer cans. You get the picture. It was located in our family room.
And Foxy could have her "fancy" tree that was decorated with sparkly glass ornaments in the living room. The living room that we never used, come to think of it. EXCEPT on Christmas morning! Another reason Christmas rocked...we got to go INTO the living room.
Our usual, strictly regimented TV schedule, was loosened up a bit too. My brothers and I waited with anticipation for Charlie Brown's Christmas special, Rudolph, and Frosty the Snowman before the days of recording. We watched them (gasp) live.
I have found that as Tom and I go about raising our little family, we have started some traditions of our own around this time. One being, that the girls go with Daddy and pick out a tree, while Mommy takes a shower. This year, Daddy had a 35 dollar budget and the girls made sure he stuck to it. I love how my offspring morph into "Control Freak Michelle" with proper guidance when I'm not even around.
Next, comes the stringing of popcorn. It doesn't get more white trash than this, but the girls loooove it. And so each year, I pop like 36 bags of microwave popcorn, and they're off. Until someone sits on a needle that her sister left on the seat of the chair.
Another tradition, is the decorating of Christmas cookies. I hate cooking and baking. It's like a cruel joke how at this time of year, folks are in their kitchens, ENJOYING making edible delicacies for their loved ones.
I DREAD it. I'm not good at it. I do it because I started the stupid tradition and the girls love it. WHAT was I thinking?
So here's the compromise: we bake ONE thing. Cut out sugar cookies, from a package. The best part is "decorating" them. But then, if you have ever participated in this type of activity with young kids, you'd know that all frosting colors morph into one grayish hue. Top those 5 inches of gray frosting on a cut out cookie, with more sprinkles, and M & M's than you have ever seen in your life, and you've got a real live sugar bomb.
We actually put these bombs on plates and give them away to our neighbors, as though they are gifts. In fact, if you are lucky enough to be one of the lucky recipients of these delicious, hand made, cookie plates, it means you are truly loved. Really, you are. Loved, a lot. So much, you'll probably go into a sugar coma.
The Faaantasy of Lights is another yearly tradition. We enjoy the drive through light displays in Vasona, while listening to Christmas music, and are in and out in about 20 minutes.
If you've done this, then you already know you are given TWO pairs 3-D glasses, even if you have 12 people in your car. This makes for interesting negotiations in the car between siblings. I swear, one year, I'm gonna call dibs on BOTH pairs of 3-D glasses, smoke the wacky tabacky, and really enjoy the Fantasy of Lights.
Christmas in the Park in downtown is not for wimps. We do this, but usually only after ingesting large amounts of alcohol, and taking light rail. We have found, from past experience, that we are less likely to be involved in any sort of gang cross-fire, if we just walk quietly through with our flasks. Again, the kids looove it.
We have also started watching one of my favorite movies of all time, "It's A Wonderful Life". But while watching last year, and George is contemplating whether or not to jump off the bridge, Emma looked up at me and said woefully, "Mama, it's not a wonderful life...it's a horrible life for him." I assured her, it would get better. I, for one, firmly believe that George Bailey is a total dream boat.
This year is the first time the girls have really gotten excited to give gifts to each other, and it's so fun to watch.
But I wonder, is it bad that I don't even ask my kids to make a list? Or write a letter to Santa? Am I denying them a critical piece of their childhood? Will they one day be sitting on their shrink's couch, and say, "My mom never even had me write a letter to Santa Claus...WTF? "
I mean, as a kid, I loooved looking through the Sears Toy catalog and circling EVERything. I guess I want the girls to appreciate each other and not stuff. In fact, Emma was making a little list the other day, and she asked Abby if she wanted to do the same. Her sister replied, "No, I don't need to, because I know that you'll share your gifts with me, and I'll share with you."
Wishing you a safe, loving, and tradition-filled holiday.
Watch out for the cookies.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Paging Dr. Hot
It takes A LOT to embarrass me. Or leave me speechless. Or make me blush.
Well, I successfully accomplished all 3 of those in the last 24 hours, in my follow up visit with Dr.Hot. See, I'm going to Vegas in April for a friend's 40th birthday, and I need to have that garden hose removed (ie: my varicose vein), so I can rock the short dress. I DO have priorities, you know.
So I had an appointment with the good doctor, but as usual, was in a HUGE rush leaving the house with baby in tow. Anyone who has ever tried leaving the comfort of their own home with a new baby, knows that the preparation is like planning a trip...abroad...for 3 months.
You are forced to ask yourself things like...Do I have diapers? Do I have wipes? Do I have an extra bottle? Am I wearing clean underwear?
See, I forgot to ask myself that last question, and remembered that I wasn't wearing ANY, as I pulled into the hospital parking lot. I started to panic a bit.
But then I came up with a plan, while changing into the hospital gown. If I tucked the gown neatly between my legs, just so, and didn't move one inch, he'd never notice.
My plan was working perfectly, until he walked into the room, and greeted me with a hug.
I didn't budge...he'll have to stoop down to hug me, I thought. Which he did. So far, so good.
For those of you not familiar with Dr.Hot, please read my previous blog. The conversation that ensued went as follows:
Dr.Hot: So let's take a look at that vein, Michelle.
Me: Can we do that while I'm sitting down, since I'm holding the baby? (see, I was using Charlotte to cover my back, so to speak)
Dr.Hot: Um, okay. (I hold up my leg like a ballerina...a ballerina who isn't very flexible, wearing a chastity belt, with a hospital gown tucked between her legs).
Me: I also feel some pressure in my groin area.
Dr.Hot: Let's look.
Me: Let's look, like right now? Can't you just kind of take my word for it, and we'll leave it at that.
Dr.Hot: No Michelle. I need to look at it.
Here it comes, here it comes, I thought. I have to warn him. I'm just gonna throw myself under the bus right now.
Me: Dr.Hot, I'm not wearing underwear.
Dr.Hot, totally unfazed and professional: Okay, let's take a look.
I let him look briefly, as I turn all shades of crimson. And then I have an epiphany: it is WAY better to NOT know your doctor when he's looking at your parts.
Now I'll share something with you that I normally don't tell anyone. I feel extremely self-conscience about it, and it embarrasses me, so that I wear a swim skirt to cover it. But I have a fatty cyst on the bottom of my right bum cheek. So I figured, if Dr.Hot is cutting on my right leg, maybe I should have that knocked out too, you know?
Me: I also have a cyst that I would like to have removed.
Dr.Hot: Okay, where is it?
All new shades of crimson appear across my face, neck and shoulders.
I tell him. He wants to look. I agree, reluctantly. I swear, I felt like I was 12 years old.
Me: Dr.Hot, this is just awful. I'm very embarrassed here. Is this really necessary?
Dr.Hot: Since there will be three incision sites, do you want to be sedated?
Me: Yes, sedation sounds great. (how about you sedate me RIGHT NOW? or shoot me?)
Dr. Hot says he'll set up the procedure for January.
And all I can think of is: Dr. Hot totally saw my parts. Like ALL of my parts. That was mortifying. That was AWFUL. I just ate a huge slice of humble pie. This will be a blog.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Well, I Never...
Remember when you used to say stuff like, "I will never..." fill in the blank here. The phrase, in and of itself, is pure comedy. Because all of us, at sometime, were in someplace, with someone, doing something, that we swore we would never do.
Unless you're a total SQUARE. But I'm thinking if you're reading this right now, you're more of a groovy shape, like a circle or an octagon.
When we judge others, and feel the right to say things like, "Look at that crazy man / woman / man dressed as a woman!! Well, I would never..." we lose sight of ourselves. We lose sight of our OWN flaws, and our OWN imperfections, and are really striving to feel greater than thou. So let's check ourselves, shall we?
I, myself, have said things like the following:
I'll never...have more than 4 kids cause that's just plain crazy talk. Yeah, FIVE kids, and one vasectomy later...
I'll never...be the floozy who tries to sneak past the bouncer at Boswell's to save a measly 5 dollar cover charge. I mean, who does that?! Whaaat? WHAAAT?! It was cold, and I really had to pee, and...
I'll never...let my kids play out front without shoes, or a jacket, or unsupervised. When in reality, at this point, I lock the door to keep them OUT, even if for some reason, the five year old ends up in just her panties. Which has happened by the way...
I'll never...nurse in public. Who wants to see droopy, leaky, nasty boobies? I'll tell you who wants those saggy pieces of skin ...my screaming, hungry, inconsolable baby. Hey man, these are working boobies, not trophy boobies, so if it grosses you out, guess what? I seriously don't care.
If I could throw my boob over the back seat and nurse while driving, I'd do it in a heartbeat. If I could pump while waiting to check out at Safeway, I totally would. I could totally offer organic creamer at the Starbucks kiosk, and probably make some extra cash for my goods. Imagine the possibilities...
I'll never forget when a close girlfriend of mine, who is thin, with a naturally fast metabolism (yes, people like this actually DO exist), shared something with me not long ago. She said, "Michelle, why do people think it's okay to say to me, 'You are so skinny. Look at you...you must weigh hardly anything.' They mean it as a compliment, but I'm sensitive about my weight. I certainly can't go up to them, and say, 'Gee, your ass looks huge. Do you EVER stop eating?'"
Things that make you go hmmm....
When I had lost about 80 pounds, and was just a few more away from goal, a new woman joined our Weight Watchers group. And I could just tell, as she gave me the once over, that she was thinking, "What in the HELL is SHE doing here? She has nothing to worry about."
I mean, this woman didn't know me from Adam. She had no idea that I had 3 small kids that I forced into a jogger at gunpoint everyday, so I could get a walk in. She had no inkling of how I had struggled with my weight from the time I was 8 years old. She didn't know that I had suffered from Bulimia on and off for years.
How could she? She was too busy judging me.
But see, here's what you and I already know. Her judgement had nothing to do with ME. But rather, was really about her own insecurities and lack of self esteem. And maybe even a fear of failure. So recognizing this, I try to be mindful before going postal. I try to stay calm. I try to give folks the benefit of the doubt, so to speak.
But boy, it's really hard to do that some days. So why don't we make a pact right now, okay? When we are feeling judged by another human being, let's send them a little bit of sunshine. Right up their ass, is usually the most effective spot.
By the way, I would love to hear how you once said, you would NEVER, only to find out that down the road, you did...
Unless you're a total SQUARE. But I'm thinking if you're reading this right now, you're more of a groovy shape, like a circle or an octagon.
When we judge others, and feel the right to say things like, "Look at that crazy man / woman / man dressed as a woman!! Well, I would never..." we lose sight of ourselves. We lose sight of our OWN flaws, and our OWN imperfections, and are really striving to feel greater than thou. So let's check ourselves, shall we?
I, myself, have said things like the following:
I'll never...have more than 4 kids cause that's just plain crazy talk. Yeah, FIVE kids, and one vasectomy later...
I'll never...be the floozy who tries to sneak past the bouncer at Boswell's to save a measly 5 dollar cover charge. I mean, who does that?! Whaaat? WHAAAT?! It was cold, and I really had to pee, and...
I'll never...let my kids play out front without shoes, or a jacket, or unsupervised. When in reality, at this point, I lock the door to keep them OUT, even if for some reason, the five year old ends up in just her panties. Which has happened by the way...
I'll never...nurse in public. Who wants to see droopy, leaky, nasty boobies? I'll tell you who wants those saggy pieces of skin ...my screaming, hungry, inconsolable baby. Hey man, these are working boobies, not trophy boobies, so if it grosses you out, guess what? I seriously don't care.
If I could throw my boob over the back seat and nurse while driving, I'd do it in a heartbeat. If I could pump while waiting to check out at Safeway, I totally would. I could totally offer organic creamer at the Starbucks kiosk, and probably make some extra cash for my goods. Imagine the possibilities...
I'll never forget when a close girlfriend of mine, who is thin, with a naturally fast metabolism (yes, people like this actually DO exist), shared something with me not long ago. She said, "Michelle, why do people think it's okay to say to me, 'You are so skinny. Look at you...you must weigh hardly anything.' They mean it as a compliment, but I'm sensitive about my weight. I certainly can't go up to them, and say, 'Gee, your ass looks huge. Do you EVER stop eating?'"
Things that make you go hmmm....
When I had lost about 80 pounds, and was just a few more away from goal, a new woman joined our Weight Watchers group. And I could just tell, as she gave me the once over, that she was thinking, "What in the HELL is SHE doing here? She has nothing to worry about."
I mean, this woman didn't know me from Adam. She had no idea that I had 3 small kids that I forced into a jogger at gunpoint everyday, so I could get a walk in. She had no inkling of how I had struggled with my weight from the time I was 8 years old. She didn't know that I had suffered from Bulimia on and off for years.
How could she? She was too busy judging me.
But see, here's what you and I already know. Her judgement had nothing to do with ME. But rather, was really about her own insecurities and lack of self esteem. And maybe even a fear of failure. So recognizing this, I try to be mindful before going postal. I try to stay calm. I try to give folks the benefit of the doubt, so to speak.
But boy, it's really hard to do that some days. So why don't we make a pact right now, okay? When we are feeling judged by another human being, let's send them a little bit of sunshine. Right up their ass, is usually the most effective spot.
By the way, I would love to hear how you once said, you would NEVER, only to find out that down the road, you did...
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Transition: Part II
I'm in official nursing position on the couch, with baby Charlotte in the football hold, and a tumbler of wine riding shot gun in my free hand, when my precious 5 year old approaches.
As she peers down at my exposed midsection, her eyes glaze over, looking somewhat horrified. "Mama?" she asks, as she sticks her little hand into my doughy post mama tummy, and watches it disappear entirely, "Yes, baby?" I ask, taking a swig of grape juice. "Your belly looks biiiig."
Yesiree...the post mama body is not for wimps, let me tell you. C'mon ladies, you know how this goes. You just pushed out a human being who weighs anywhere from 5 to 12 pounds, which is nowhere NEAR the 25-100 you gained growing him or her. When you're pregnant, folks love to say, "Ohhh...it's all baby weight." Well, I'll tell you what. That's not what my ass is saying right now.
I love how when I'm on a run, my body moves fluidly...it's like a well rehearsed dance, really. Arms, legs, shoulders back, head held high, music pumping; my body working in synchronicity.
Post baby, it's a whole nother story. Case in point, I'm wogging the Glen this past week, and I swear, my body betrayed me. First of all, there was nothing fluid about my movements whatsoever. It was like each step I took, left me getting slapped in the face by my ginormous lactating breasts, as my ass smacked the back of my neck from behind.
Who's body is this? I asked myself, as I wogged. It felt like aftershocks from an Earthquake. That is the closest way I can describe how it felt moving with 25 extra lbs I gotta lose. It left me thinking that on my next wog, maybe I should wear 5 sports bras...or maybe a corset make of duct tape. But hey, at least I'm out there, is what you're saying right? Riiiight. I want YOU to join me in YOUR corset of duct tape.
Please don't get me wrong. I'm not beating myself up. For me, this experience makes me fully appreciate my body and what it can DO...from going on a run, to the most spectacular event of all...creating life. I have to say, it's a pretty cool ride.
For those of you that were kind of enough to read my last blog, and shower me with words of kindness, support, and unconditional love, you will be relieved to discover that I haven't cried in 3 whole days. Yes, Ms.Charlotte and I are learning each other's ways. It's taking a bit of time, but we're both trying to be patient...she, more so than I right now.
Just when I thought I had it all figured out... God has sent me one perfect little angel to continue to teach and humble me. And the Biggies, well, they're transitioning, too. For the most part, the girls have really stepped up to help out. But each of them have their own way. Abby, Bella, and Emma enjoy feeding and cuddling with lil Charlotte. Cosette likes to call 911 when she's feeling the need for attention.
It's all good here in Walsh Land. Moment by moment. Day by day. We all do this dance of life together. And I thank you for joining us.
As she peers down at my exposed midsection, her eyes glaze over, looking somewhat horrified. "Mama?" she asks, as she sticks her little hand into my doughy post mama tummy, and watches it disappear entirely, "Yes, baby?" I ask, taking a swig of grape juice. "Your belly looks biiiig."
Yesiree...the post mama body is not for wimps, let me tell you. C'mon ladies, you know how this goes. You just pushed out a human being who weighs anywhere from 5 to 12 pounds, which is nowhere NEAR the 25-100 you gained growing him or her. When you're pregnant, folks love to say, "Ohhh...it's all baby weight." Well, I'll tell you what. That's not what my ass is saying right now.
I love how when I'm on a run, my body moves fluidly...it's like a well rehearsed dance, really. Arms, legs, shoulders back, head held high, music pumping; my body working in synchronicity.
Post baby, it's a whole nother story. Case in point, I'm wogging the Glen this past week, and I swear, my body betrayed me. First of all, there was nothing fluid about my movements whatsoever. It was like each step I took, left me getting slapped in the face by my ginormous lactating breasts, as my ass smacked the back of my neck from behind.
Who's body is this? I asked myself, as I wogged. It felt like aftershocks from an Earthquake. That is the closest way I can describe how it felt moving with 25 extra lbs I gotta lose. It left me thinking that on my next wog, maybe I should wear 5 sports bras...or maybe a corset make of duct tape. But hey, at least I'm out there, is what you're saying right? Riiiight. I want YOU to join me in YOUR corset of duct tape.
Please don't get me wrong. I'm not beating myself up. For me, this experience makes me fully appreciate my body and what it can DO...from going on a run, to the most spectacular event of all...creating life. I have to say, it's a pretty cool ride.
For those of you that were kind of enough to read my last blog, and shower me with words of kindness, support, and unconditional love, you will be relieved to discover that I haven't cried in 3 whole days. Yes, Ms.Charlotte and I are learning each other's ways. It's taking a bit of time, but we're both trying to be patient...she, more so than I right now.
Just when I thought I had it all figured out... God has sent me one perfect little angel to continue to teach and humble me. And the Biggies, well, they're transitioning, too. For the most part, the girls have really stepped up to help out. But each of them have their own way. Abby, Bella, and Emma enjoy feeding and cuddling with lil Charlotte. Cosette likes to call 911 when she's feeling the need for attention.
It's all good here in Walsh Land. Moment by moment. Day by day. We all do this dance of life together. And I thank you for joining us.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Transition
Chances are if you're reading my blog right now, you know me pretty well. So you probably already know that I have been crying a lot lately. In fact, at Parent/Teacher Conferences yesterday, I warned each of the teachers before we started, that I may break down sobbing uncontrollably at any point, through no fault of their own. It wasn't them. It was me.
Call it hormones. Call it Post-Partum Craziness. Call it whatever you fancy. But this sweet lil Charlotte undoubtedly has thrown her Mama for quite a loop.
You see, we've been having issues with nursing, she and I. And it pretty much started from the moment she entered the world. She would get on my breast, then pop off, for no apparent reason. Hmmm...I thought to myself, that's weird. All the other girls hopped on and ate voraciously...like text book style, you know? I even asked to consult with a Lactation Consultant before I was released from the hospital, who assured me, "She's fine. Make sure you get your entire aeriola in her mouth." Was she referring to the aeriola, that after feeding four previous babies, was the size of a Thanksgiving turkey platter? Ohhhkay.
Well, as it turns out, the more babies you have nursed, the more "tissue" you have for lil tiny peanut to put into her mouth to get a good latch. It's like the difference between having a beer bong that flows freely, and one that has holes in it. See my point, now do ya?
My first real breakdown happened out in public...at Booksin...as the girls entertained themselves on the playground. Charlotte was hungry, and so the Booby Cafe opened. My other girls nursed anytime, anywhere, under any circumstances. Therein lies the beauty of breast-feeding. But what happened next left me feeling totally helpless.
I tried unsuccessfully, to get Charlotte to nurse for over an hour. I kept thinking, "Baby girl, I have what you need right here. Warm, ready to go. GET ON!" But no. She was on, then off, on, then off. For over an HOUR. She's crying. I'm crying. My lil peanut was refusing my breast. Rejecting my milk. NOT eating, as we both grew more frantic and frustrated.
It didn't help matters that the Nugget wasn't gaining weight. I was told to pump first, so that when I offered her both breasts, she would have the Hindmilk...the milk with all the fat. And then supplement with breast milk afterwards, from the bottle. Yeah...that's all good in THEORY.
She would be due to eat, and there I was on the F'ing pump. Only to offer my breast, and still be rejected. And guess what? I still had to finish pumping and feed her a bottle. Not to mention, WASH all the shit associated with the pump. 1 1/2 hours later, same Circus act...errrrrr.
I began to totally emphasize with other Mama's who doubted their breast-feeding abilities. I mean, I had had success in the past, and I was doubting MY ability, not to mention, my sanity.
Emotionally, I was spent. I began feeling guilty for not being a good Mama to my biggies. So much self-imposed pressure to be the same mom that I was before giving birth, without giving myself permission to let some things go. I wanted to still be that mom who held it all together with a hot breakfast before they left for school, with snacks packed into the backpack, as I kissed them good-bye in the morning.
When in reality, I was held prisoner in my Lazy Boy chair, attempting to nurse, failing, pumping, and feeling totally and utterly exhausted and frustrated.
You see, I'm grieving a loss here. I love nursing. I love the bonding that takes place between my baby and me. I love knowing that God created us both perfectly, and that I can feed my lil babe at the breast. I love how my baby can eat with wild abandon, milk collecting in the corners of her mouth, and look up at me, while her tiny hand gently holds onto my breast, with total unconditional love.
Is she healthy? Yes. Does she take the bottle? Yes. Is she still getting my milk? Yes.
But I'm feeling sad right now. I'm working through it. My hope is that we'll be able to figure this dance out so that Ms. Charlotte will be able to nurse more effectively. I have a Lactation consultant coming to my house tomorrow. But right now, this is where we are. Living not day by day. But rather, moment by moment.
I don't feel like a great mommy right now. I just feel a bit lost. So if you see me, and it looks like I have been crying, I have been. Just give me a hug. Because I could really use it.
Call it hormones. Call it Post-Partum Craziness. Call it whatever you fancy. But this sweet lil Charlotte undoubtedly has thrown her Mama for quite a loop.
You see, we've been having issues with nursing, she and I. And it pretty much started from the moment she entered the world. She would get on my breast, then pop off, for no apparent reason. Hmmm...I thought to myself, that's weird. All the other girls hopped on and ate voraciously...like text book style, you know? I even asked to consult with a Lactation Consultant before I was released from the hospital, who assured me, "She's fine. Make sure you get your entire aeriola in her mouth." Was she referring to the aeriola, that after feeding four previous babies, was the size of a Thanksgiving turkey platter? Ohhhkay.
Well, as it turns out, the more babies you have nursed, the more "tissue" you have for lil tiny peanut to put into her mouth to get a good latch. It's like the difference between having a beer bong that flows freely, and one that has holes in it. See my point, now do ya?
My first real breakdown happened out in public...at Booksin...as the girls entertained themselves on the playground. Charlotte was hungry, and so the Booby Cafe opened. My other girls nursed anytime, anywhere, under any circumstances. Therein lies the beauty of breast-feeding. But what happened next left me feeling totally helpless.
I tried unsuccessfully, to get Charlotte to nurse for over an hour. I kept thinking, "Baby girl, I have what you need right here. Warm, ready to go. GET ON!" But no. She was on, then off, on, then off. For over an HOUR. She's crying. I'm crying. My lil peanut was refusing my breast. Rejecting my milk. NOT eating, as we both grew more frantic and frustrated.
It didn't help matters that the Nugget wasn't gaining weight. I was told to pump first, so that when I offered her both breasts, she would have the Hindmilk...the milk with all the fat. And then supplement with breast milk afterwards, from the bottle. Yeah...that's all good in THEORY.
She would be due to eat, and there I was on the F'ing pump. Only to offer my breast, and still be rejected. And guess what? I still had to finish pumping and feed her a bottle. Not to mention, WASH all the shit associated with the pump. 1 1/2 hours later, same Circus act...errrrrr.
I began to totally emphasize with other Mama's who doubted their breast-feeding abilities. I mean, I had had success in the past, and I was doubting MY ability, not to mention, my sanity.
Emotionally, I was spent. I began feeling guilty for not being a good Mama to my biggies. So much self-imposed pressure to be the same mom that I was before giving birth, without giving myself permission to let some things go. I wanted to still be that mom who held it all together with a hot breakfast before they left for school, with snacks packed into the backpack, as I kissed them good-bye in the morning.
When in reality, I was held prisoner in my Lazy Boy chair, attempting to nurse, failing, pumping, and feeling totally and utterly exhausted and frustrated.
You see, I'm grieving a loss here. I love nursing. I love the bonding that takes place between my baby and me. I love knowing that God created us both perfectly, and that I can feed my lil babe at the breast. I love how my baby can eat with wild abandon, milk collecting in the corners of her mouth, and look up at me, while her tiny hand gently holds onto my breast, with total unconditional love.
Is she healthy? Yes. Does she take the bottle? Yes. Is she still getting my milk? Yes.
But I'm feeling sad right now. I'm working through it. My hope is that we'll be able to figure this dance out so that Ms. Charlotte will be able to nurse more effectively. I have a Lactation consultant coming to my house tomorrow. But right now, this is where we are. Living not day by day. But rather, moment by moment.
I don't feel like a great mommy right now. I just feel a bit lost. So if you see me, and it looks like I have been crying, I have been. Just give me a hug. Because I could really use it.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
You Complete Me
Let me start by saying I'm SO not loving Tom Cruise right now...after that whole jumping on Oprah's couch shenanigan...pluuuuueaz. But I will steal his line from Jerry Maguire, because after birthing my last baby, there are no words more perfect than these. So, sue me, Tom.
So there I was, 3 days overdue with #5, and 4 cm dilated, begging my OB for an induction. "Okay Michelle. We can agree that the baby is cooked. I see an opening the day after tomorrow." To which I quickly replied, "I'll take it!" FINALLY...light at the end of the tunnel, for baby and mama.
I should have known better than after serving the eviction notice, that baby would decide to come on THEIR terms. So around 8 o'clock that night, I started to have a few contractions.
But my rule of thumb during labor is, when I start dropping the F bomb with EVERY contraction, then it's time to go. And these were painful, but definitely "La Maze" friendly. I called Foxy, who lives in Santa Rosa, and hubby, who was working late, and explained, "You know, I'm having a few labor pains, but I think I'm fine. (DENIAL) Why don't I put the girls down for bed, and call you if anything dramatically changes."
Well, Mama's just KNOW better, and my mom had herself in the damn car already, and started driving to San Jose.
Which was good, because within 30-45 minutes, I was on all fours in my bedroom, trying not to disturb the girls, while dropping the F bomb with every contraction. I called Tom and said, "Come home NOW." I mean, I really thought, I could possibly squeeze in an episode of Dancing With the Stars that I had on TiVo, between labor pains. Maybe I wouldn't get to the actual "Results Show", but c'mon, I could handle this, right? Wrong.
You know how you see those horrible shows on TLC, titled, "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant"? Yeah, right, she didn't know she was pregnant, until she went into the bathroom to move her bowels, and a baby dropped out into the toilet!
Warning: Only other women should read the next paragraph, ok?
Ladies, now that we're alone, let me tell you, I'm not gonna lie. Each time I had a contraction, I felt as though I would vomit, AND have a BM, simultaneously...only through the joy of LABOR, right?! Let's be real: NO ONE wants to poop on the table while birthing a baby. And our body has a natural way of cleaning itself out before hand, so that it probably won't happen. But, as God as my witness, I was scared shitless...literally. Fearful, that if I had a BM, I would look down into the toilet and see a tiny little person. You'll be happy to know, I made it through okay.
By 9:30, Tom still wasn't home. I called frantically, "Where the FUCK are you?"
Note: during this part of labor, the F word is used as a noun, verb, and adjective. "Honey, I'm coming from Watsonville...I'm 15 minutes away." AGHHHHHH! I thought he was in San Jose, NOT Santa Cruz.
In the meantime, my Auntie arrived to spend the night with the girls. "Auntie, I ate your chicken soup for dinner. But I'm a bit worried that if I throw it up, I'll never be able to eat it again." Kind of like that one time in college, you had waaaay too much Tequila?
She talked me through my labor, assuring me to "Just breathe through it." But I don't really think I was breathing. I would classify it as more of a moaning wail, sprinkled with obscenities.
Finally, Tom showed up, and we arrived at Kaiser around 10:30 pm, with Foxy hauling ass, leading the way. When we arrived at Labor and Delivery, I was taken into an observation room. Now mind you, this was the same room, where I "acted" that I may be in labor about 5 days earlier, and I was promptly sent home, defeated.
"I'm going to have the baby in here?" I asked the nurse. "We have to make sure you're in active labor," she stated matter of factly. After dropping the F bomb with the next contraction, I told her, "You're funny."
After realizing I was 5-6 cm dilated, I got the green light, and it seemed like things were speeding up. As they moved me to the birthing room, the nurses kept saying, "FIFTH baby? You need to push?" My reply was, "No, I don't need to push. I NEED an epidural."
And voila, like magic, the Anaesthesiologist appeared. After she hooked me up, we became Besties. Turns out, she's a runner too. We talked about different races, and training. ALL the while, I felt absolutely NO pain. SEE...that's what I'm talken' bout.
Around 7am the next morning, I was at 10 cm, ready to push. I love it when the Doc says, "Okay Michelle, go ahead and give a push," like it's a practice round.
Hey man, I got my game face on, you know? So I do as the good Doc asks, and give a push. All of sudden, she's back peddling, saying, "Okay Michelle, you can STOP pushing. This baby is going to come before I even put my gloves on." I'm like, you TOLD me to push woman.
I push again, "Okay, this baby is sunny side up. Baby is facing the wrong way so baby may be a bit bruised when they come out." I push again, a head appears. But then a HUGE nurse steps right in front of the mirror, and well, I didn't get to see the rest of the show, so to speak.
But I did get the best part ever. When that slippery little nugget was handed to me, so that I could make the official gender announcement. As I turned that tiny little peanut over and looked down, I said, "It's a GIRL!"
There was not even a moment, an iota, a hesitation, of disappointment that it wasn't a boy. Just a feeling of pure completion to my very soul.
Here she is. We were missing this very precious piece that I didn't even know we needed. But now, it's all so clear. I need her, way more than she will ever need me.
Welcome to the world, Charlotte Grace. I can't wait to see what you will teach us all.
So there I was, 3 days overdue with #5, and 4 cm dilated, begging my OB for an induction. "Okay Michelle. We can agree that the baby is cooked. I see an opening the day after tomorrow." To which I quickly replied, "I'll take it!" FINALLY...light at the end of the tunnel, for baby and mama.
I should have known better than after serving the eviction notice, that baby would decide to come on THEIR terms. So around 8 o'clock that night, I started to have a few contractions.
But my rule of thumb during labor is, when I start dropping the F bomb with EVERY contraction, then it's time to go. And these were painful, but definitely "La Maze" friendly. I called Foxy, who lives in Santa Rosa, and hubby, who was working late, and explained, "You know, I'm having a few labor pains, but I think I'm fine. (DENIAL) Why don't I put the girls down for bed, and call you if anything dramatically changes."
Well, Mama's just KNOW better, and my mom had herself in the damn car already, and started driving to San Jose.
Which was good, because within 30-45 minutes, I was on all fours in my bedroom, trying not to disturb the girls, while dropping the F bomb with every contraction. I called Tom and said, "Come home NOW." I mean, I really thought, I could possibly squeeze in an episode of Dancing With the Stars that I had on TiVo, between labor pains. Maybe I wouldn't get to the actual "Results Show", but c'mon, I could handle this, right? Wrong.
You know how you see those horrible shows on TLC, titled, "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant"? Yeah, right, she didn't know she was pregnant, until she went into the bathroom to move her bowels, and a baby dropped out into the toilet!
Warning: Only other women should read the next paragraph, ok?
Ladies, now that we're alone, let me tell you, I'm not gonna lie. Each time I had a contraction, I felt as though I would vomit, AND have a BM, simultaneously...only through the joy of LABOR, right?! Let's be real: NO ONE wants to poop on the table while birthing a baby. And our body has a natural way of cleaning itself out before hand, so that it probably won't happen. But, as God as my witness, I was scared shitless...literally. Fearful, that if I had a BM, I would look down into the toilet and see a tiny little person. You'll be happy to know, I made it through okay.
By 9:30, Tom still wasn't home. I called frantically, "Where the FUCK are you?"
Note: during this part of labor, the F word is used as a noun, verb, and adjective. "Honey, I'm coming from Watsonville...I'm 15 minutes away." AGHHHHHH! I thought he was in San Jose, NOT Santa Cruz.
In the meantime, my Auntie arrived to spend the night with the girls. "Auntie, I ate your chicken soup for dinner. But I'm a bit worried that if I throw it up, I'll never be able to eat it again." Kind of like that one time in college, you had waaaay too much Tequila?
She talked me through my labor, assuring me to "Just breathe through it." But I don't really think I was breathing. I would classify it as more of a moaning wail, sprinkled with obscenities.
Finally, Tom showed up, and we arrived at Kaiser around 10:30 pm, with Foxy hauling ass, leading the way. When we arrived at Labor and Delivery, I was taken into an observation room. Now mind you, this was the same room, where I "acted" that I may be in labor about 5 days earlier, and I was promptly sent home, defeated.
"I'm going to have the baby in here?" I asked the nurse. "We have to make sure you're in active labor," she stated matter of factly. After dropping the F bomb with the next contraction, I told her, "You're funny."
After realizing I was 5-6 cm dilated, I got the green light, and it seemed like things were speeding up. As they moved me to the birthing room, the nurses kept saying, "FIFTH baby? You need to push?" My reply was, "No, I don't need to push. I NEED an epidural."
And voila, like magic, the Anaesthesiologist appeared. After she hooked me up, we became Besties. Turns out, she's a runner too. We talked about different races, and training. ALL the while, I felt absolutely NO pain. SEE...that's what I'm talken' bout.
Around 7am the next morning, I was at 10 cm, ready to push. I love it when the Doc says, "Okay Michelle, go ahead and give a push," like it's a practice round.
Hey man, I got my game face on, you know? So I do as the good Doc asks, and give a push. All of sudden, she's back peddling, saying, "Okay Michelle, you can STOP pushing. This baby is going to come before I even put my gloves on." I'm like, you TOLD me to push woman.
I push again, "Okay, this baby is sunny side up. Baby is facing the wrong way so baby may be a bit bruised when they come out." I push again, a head appears. But then a HUGE nurse steps right in front of the mirror, and well, I didn't get to see the rest of the show, so to speak.
But I did get the best part ever. When that slippery little nugget was handed to me, so that I could make the official gender announcement. As I turned that tiny little peanut over and looked down, I said, "It's a GIRL!"
There was not even a moment, an iota, a hesitation, of disappointment that it wasn't a boy. Just a feeling of pure completion to my very soul.
Here she is. We were missing this very precious piece that I didn't even know we needed. But now, it's all so clear. I need her, way more than she will ever need me.
Welcome to the world, Charlotte Grace. I can't wait to see what you will teach us all.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Patience is a Virtue
A virtue that I absolutely do not practice or exhibit on a regular basis well...at all.
It all hit me like a ton of Jaigermeister this morning. NO, NO, NO. I haven't been drinking. Just dreaming about it. But you know how you do one shot of Jaiger, and you're feeling pretty darn good? But then 3 additional shots later, it seems like maybe that wasn't so well thought out?
Okay, so now that you're following me again, (alcoholics in da house...woop, woop).
So I'm standing in the middle of the crosswalk near my home, using my keen mommy vision to look both ways. I am waiting to assure my girls, who are on their bikes, that it is indeed, safe to cross. Ginormously pregnant, weighing close to 200 bones...hard to miss, right?
You know what happened? Some Yahoo whizzes by me at about 45 mph. Right next to a PARK. Across the street from a SCHOOL. With a big ol' prego in the MIDDLE of the street. If I'd have given my girls the "okay" to cross just 10 seconds earlier, this A-hole would have successfully taken out a family of 6.
And FOR WHAT? Because he's late for work? For an appointment? For Driving School? It left me thinking, what is the big f'ing rush? All he had to do was...gasp...stop for a moment, and allow us to cross safely. He wasn't wearing his patience panties.
But then I had a realization: this is ME all too often. I struggle with this very attribute myself. I want patience, and I want it RIGHT NOW, God Dammit.
When I get stuck driving behind Pokey McPokerson going 15 mph is a 40 mph zone, my sphincter automatically tightens up to the size of a raisin. It is then I feel entitled to refer to this driver, as "Grandma" or "Gramps" - even is they're in their mid 30's. And that's with the girls IN the car. You wouldn't want to know what pours out of my foul mouth when I'm solo.
When I used to run Willow Glen with my triple jogging stroller, onlookers on Lincoln Avenue would see me coming. And then continue to stand smack dab in the the middle of the sidewalk, gawking. I'm not sure if they were processing the Circus Act moving towards them, or WHAT. But I would have a good clip going, and have to stop...my triple jogging stroller, which had 3 kids, and was carrying over 100 pounds. Imagine running with a Costco cart full of BEER, while a clueless, snack-seeking Yahoo darts in front of you. I mean, it would take all of your strength to stop, and NOT plow them over. And what's left of your strength to get going again.
After doing this about 5 times in downtown, I was forced to make a decision: these people better move their asses, or I would simply run them over.
Hmmmm...but then, that's the same philosophy as the A-hole who almost took me out this morning, huh?
At my 36 week doctor appointment, my OB delivered some devastating news, "Michelle, the baby is down low....BUT your cervix is closed up tight." I wanted to scream at her, "Dr.C, throw me a bone here. Tell me I'm at a Cheerio, give me hope! 'Cause I'm DONE growing this human, and I'm really ready to rock a beer buzz."
So, when I went in this last time, at 38 weeks along, I pretended that I wasn't even pregnant as she preformed a pelvic exam. "Oh, looks like you're 2-3 cm dilated." What?!!! REALLY?!!! I tried not to get too excited, but it felt like perhaps, I would totally luck out, and birth the baby right then and there. How convenient!
Suddenly I was overcome with AMNESIA...forgetting that all of my previous children had rented my womb up until the bitter end. Case in point, I was induced at 40 weeks with the twins...that's the kind of crazy you see on the Discovery Channel, okay?
But here I sat, my feet propped up in the stir-ups, thinking, imagining, hoping, that this time it would be different. TWO less weeks of cankles. A release from waddle-filled walking. Closer to my destination of drinking 4 beers in a row. The possibilities were endless.
And here I sit, one week later, still pregnant. A dear friend said, "Michelle, this just #5 already telling you exactly who's in charge." Ain't that the truth?
You see, I'm a hard head. I like to think that I am in control. (Insert laughing from God here). But I am constantly reminded that I'm not in control of anything, at anytime, at all. It's frustrating and humbling all at the same time. And it's only when I take a big sigh, and let go of it all, that things play out just the way they are supposed to.
So I'm sighing, now #5. Did you hear that? You can vacate my uterus ANYtime now. We're ready for you. I really, really, really want to meet you. I want to see you. Hold you. And most importantly love you all up.
What's that you say? It's up to you when you will be joining us? Oh, that's right. The best things are worth the wait, little one. I get it. Come on out when you're ready.
It all hit me like a ton of Jaigermeister this morning. NO, NO, NO. I haven't been drinking. Just dreaming about it. But you know how you do one shot of Jaiger, and you're feeling pretty darn good? But then 3 additional shots later, it seems like maybe that wasn't so well thought out?
Okay, so now that you're following me again, (alcoholics in da house...woop, woop).
So I'm standing in the middle of the crosswalk near my home, using my keen mommy vision to look both ways. I am waiting to assure my girls, who are on their bikes, that it is indeed, safe to cross. Ginormously pregnant, weighing close to 200 bones...hard to miss, right?
You know what happened? Some Yahoo whizzes by me at about 45 mph. Right next to a PARK. Across the street from a SCHOOL. With a big ol' prego in the MIDDLE of the street. If I'd have given my girls the "okay" to cross just 10 seconds earlier, this A-hole would have successfully taken out a family of 6.
And FOR WHAT? Because he's late for work? For an appointment? For Driving School? It left me thinking, what is the big f'ing rush? All he had to do was...gasp...stop for a moment, and allow us to cross safely. He wasn't wearing his patience panties.
But then I had a realization: this is ME all too often. I struggle with this very attribute myself. I want patience, and I want it RIGHT NOW, God Dammit.
When I get stuck driving behind Pokey McPokerson going 15 mph is a 40 mph zone, my sphincter automatically tightens up to the size of a raisin. It is then I feel entitled to refer to this driver, as "Grandma" or "Gramps" - even is they're in their mid 30's. And that's with the girls IN the car. You wouldn't want to know what pours out of my foul mouth when I'm solo.
When I used to run Willow Glen with my triple jogging stroller, onlookers on Lincoln Avenue would see me coming. And then continue to stand smack dab in the the middle of the sidewalk, gawking. I'm not sure if they were processing the Circus Act moving towards them, or WHAT. But I would have a good clip going, and have to stop...my triple jogging stroller, which had 3 kids, and was carrying over 100 pounds. Imagine running with a Costco cart full of BEER, while a clueless, snack-seeking Yahoo darts in front of you. I mean, it would take all of your strength to stop, and NOT plow them over. And what's left of your strength to get going again.
After doing this about 5 times in downtown, I was forced to make a decision: these people better move their asses, or I would simply run them over.
Hmmmm...but then, that's the same philosophy as the A-hole who almost took me out this morning, huh?
At my 36 week doctor appointment, my OB delivered some devastating news, "Michelle, the baby is down low....BUT your cervix is closed up tight." I wanted to scream at her, "Dr.C, throw me a bone here. Tell me I'm at a Cheerio, give me hope! 'Cause I'm DONE growing this human, and I'm really ready to rock a beer buzz."
So, when I went in this last time, at 38 weeks along, I pretended that I wasn't even pregnant as she preformed a pelvic exam. "Oh, looks like you're 2-3 cm dilated." What?!!! REALLY?!!! I tried not to get too excited, but it felt like perhaps, I would totally luck out, and birth the baby right then and there. How convenient!
Suddenly I was overcome with AMNESIA...forgetting that all of my previous children had rented my womb up until the bitter end. Case in point, I was induced at 40 weeks with the twins...that's the kind of crazy you see on the Discovery Channel, okay?
But here I sat, my feet propped up in the stir-ups, thinking, imagining, hoping, that this time it would be different. TWO less weeks of cankles. A release from waddle-filled walking. Closer to my destination of drinking 4 beers in a row. The possibilities were endless.
And here I sit, one week later, still pregnant. A dear friend said, "Michelle, this just #5 already telling you exactly who's in charge." Ain't that the truth?
You see, I'm a hard head. I like to think that I am in control. (Insert laughing from God here). But I am constantly reminded that I'm not in control of anything, at anytime, at all. It's frustrating and humbling all at the same time. And it's only when I take a big sigh, and let go of it all, that things play out just the way they are supposed to.
So I'm sighing, now #5. Did you hear that? You can vacate my uterus ANYtime now. We're ready for you. I really, really, really want to meet you. I want to see you. Hold you. And most importantly love you all up.
What's that you say? It's up to you when you will be joining us? Oh, that's right. The best things are worth the wait, little one. I get it. Come on out when you're ready.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
FOCUS!!!!
As I strolled into the school office to pick up Bella early for an appointment, I was greeted by another Mama. One I have grown very fond of over our elementary school years together. I don't know her really well, but she puts out a good vibe, you dig?
"You grabbing your kids?" I asked.
"Yep. We're going to the Orthodontist," she replied, "How about you?"
"Me? Oh, we're going to the Psychiatrist."
I felt like I was playing a game called, "Who's Family is More Mentally Unstable?" I mean, how many 10 year olds do you know that go to a PSYCHIATRIST? Let me clarify by saying that I am not ashamed, embarrassed, or freaked out that we go to counseling or the Psychiatrist. But most folks, who are being seen by mental health professionals, keep it on the DL.
Not me. Let's talk about the big pink elephant in the room, shall we? In fact, just the other day, one of my Weight Watcher members said, "Michelle, I have had about 6 different WW leaders. But you're the only one who says, let's be real with ourselves. Let's figure out the REAL reason why we are using food." Cause we can talk about points, and snack tips, and exercising til we are blue in the face...and STILL STRUGGLE because we refuse to dig deeper.
I simply replied, "Well, I'm sure your other leaders didn't spend thousands of dollars in therapy, like I have."
When I became a mama, I didn't think for a second, that any of my kids would have a Learning Disability. That is NOT the kind of shit you see on the Pampers commercials, you know? By the time the twins entered Kindergarten, I was jumping for joy, naively thinking, "I'm FINALLY going to get a break!" I had just given birth to Cosette, Emma had started Preschool, and I had two 5 year olds in school for 4 hours...I actually considered it a "break". HAHAHA.
There were definitely little red flags that the girls were struggling, that I just didn't recognize at the time. Mainly, because I was a sleep deprived, first time mama of school age kids. And partly because, Kindergarten had changed two-fold in the last 30 years. Expecting my 5 year olds to read, seemed, a little...um....overzealous. I thought, "What the hell happened to Circle Time?"
By the time, Bella hit second grade, she "got" that she had fallen significantly behind. She would come home and sob about it. "Mama, it's so hard. I don't understand. Everyone else is ahead of me." Do you know how that tore me up? My baby's confidence was crumbling, and she was only SEVEN years old.
Calmly, I told Bella, "Honey, you have so many other gifts that are not being graded in school. You are an amazing artist, singer, and a kind, and caring friend. All Mom and Dad ask is that you do your best." But these words didn't matter because she didn't believe them.
We all know what if feels like to be left behind. When everyone else is "getting it" except us. Or when we are picked last for the team. It sucks. It doesn't feel good. And it feels like the world is coming down around us.
You would think that the school district wants the best for your child, right? Especially if they are falling behind? Especially if their confidence is dwindling faster than a Kenyan running a hundred yard dash? NOPE. I had to fight, tooth and nail, to get the twins tested to determine where their inefficiencies were. I felt like I had to convince them, "I'm not making this shit up. My girls are struggling....please HELP me, so I can help THEM." But testing costs time and money.... After realizing that I was not going to stop stalking them, the twins were tested. It seems that they were both "low", but not "low" enough to receive Resource help or a tutor. In fact, a child must be TWO years BELOW grade level to qualify for help. WTF?
Feeling frustrated and defeated, I took Bella to see a Developmental Pediatrician, hoping he could shed some light on why Bella was struggling so much. (Side note, Abby was still having a hard time, and was behind, but was holding her own.) He looked at her testing from the district. He asked Bella a few questions. He diagnosed her with ADHD, inattentive form. He recommended meds. All in about 20 minutes.
I walked out thinking, he could take a flying F'ing leap, because there is NO WAY I'm drugging my baby. The Hell If... F Off. You know, all the typical "denial" type monologue we play in our heads, when we are not ready to deal with the truth.
I mean, sure I had to yell "FOCUS BELLA" at least 20 times during homework. And yes, several times, I had to clap my hands in front of her face, to bring her back to reality. But the doctor diagnosing her, was like saying she was "damaged goods". You can't tell a mama her baby is broken, and expect her to accept that info with open arms, you know?
And so, there I lived, in Denial. I researched on the Internet for hours on end, trying to find a way to help my daughter. I tried a high protein diet. I added Omega vitamins into the mix. After Bella started wearing tinted glasses to reduce glare, we started Vision Therapy. And as 2 more years passed, Bella's learning gap became bigger. Her confidence plummeted. And I started to understand and accept that what I was doing, wasn't working.
In the meantime, I pursued getting a 504 Plan in place for each one of the twins. For those of you not familiar with LD lingo, a 504 Plan includes modifications and accommodations drawn up by the teacher, parent, and school official, and is supposed to be honored as a legal document. But you know what I realized? A 504 Plan in the San Jose Unified School District, is a fucking Boy Scout Pledge.
Bella would bring home a TEN page Theme test that she had...gasp...failed, and I was asked to go over it with her at home, and fix the mistakes. During that process, I asked her,
"Did the teacher give you extra time?" NO.
"Was the test broken in to smaller pieces and given in chunks?" NO.
"Did you feel overwhelmed, and you just filled in the bubbles and answers so you could be done?" (And make the torture STOP?) Yes Mom, and then I had to still finish it during recess.
THAT is when I saw RED. These were modifications that were clearly listed on Bella's 504 Plan, but either no one cared, or no one was paying attention. And see, here is what really pisses me off. I'm not fighting just for MY kids. For every kid like Abby and Bella, who takes a little longer to complete work, and processes differently, there are at least 5 more kids just like them.
I became a full time Advocate/Master Communicator/Stalker, to ensure that while the teachers understood I was supporting them at home, I would be holding them accountable at school. And if something like the prior ever happened again, you better be damn sure, you will be hearing from me about it. And I probably wouldn't be wearing my patience panties.
BTW, teachers are a HUGE part of this equation. For the amazing teachers out there, who are willing to teach to ALL kids abilities, I applaud, and thank, and love you.
But having the twins in different classrooms each year, makes it nearly impossible NOT to compare teachers and styles. Typically, Abby receives the fabulous teacher. And Bella gets the one who is stuck in the Stone Age Days...resistant to change, resistant to incorporating new techniques, and resistant to using technology that is readily available to help kids learn! It doesn't help my frustration level that I actually worked in the teaching profession. And gosh, may know a thing or two, about how to effectively teach kids using different modalities. For example, while teaching my 6th graders Vocabulary, we acted out the word, drew an illustration for the word, AND wrote out the definition for the word. I know, crazy, huh?
Finally, I came to terms with the fact that I needed to revisit medication for Bella. But I also realized that we would also benefit from counseling. Through this process, Bella could learn coping strategies when she feels overwhelmed or frustrated. So now, 2 months after starting, when my 10 year old is having a "Postal" moment, she can identify her feelings, journal about them, and move on. I don't know about you, but I was about 35 when I learned how to do that. It doesn't hurt that Bella's counselor is a twin mom...she ROCKS.
We also have a phenomenal Psychiatrist, who is no-nonsense, like me. She invested 90 minutes during our initial consultation, wanting to meet the entire family, and really talk to Bella. This sat much better with me, than the initial 20 minute diagnosis, 2 years earlier. Dr. F also has kids in SJUSD, and so we covetched. She explained to me, that if I didn't mind essentially, being a pain in the ass, there were some other ways I could get Bella what she needed at school. I liked this lady. I liked her alot. She was on OUR side. She cared about my baby. She wanted what was best for us. And yes, it included a trial prescription of Adderrall.
For the first time ever, Bella feels good about school. She doesn't dread it. She is able to FOCUS. She starts and finishes her homework. Meltdowns still happen occasionally, but are infrequent. It's not perfect, but just for a moment, I feel like I can breathe...Until one of the other girls will need me. And they will. It is such an interesting dance to be an advocate for one or two children, while not forgetting about where the others are.
If anyone has figured out how to be the perfect parent, without becoming a full-fledged alcoholic, I would like to hear from you.
But for those of you, who are struggling like I am, let's remember we are not alone. More than anything else, we are here to support eachother. Without judgement, but rather, with love and understanding. And I for one, can say, that I have felt this support from family and friends. And it is the only thing that has gotten me through this endeavour, without jumping.
"You grabbing your kids?" I asked.
"Yep. We're going to the Orthodontist," she replied, "How about you?"
"Me? Oh, we're going to the Psychiatrist."
I felt like I was playing a game called, "Who's Family is More Mentally Unstable?" I mean, how many 10 year olds do you know that go to a PSYCHIATRIST? Let me clarify by saying that I am not ashamed, embarrassed, or freaked out that we go to counseling or the Psychiatrist. But most folks, who are being seen by mental health professionals, keep it on the DL.
Not me. Let's talk about the big pink elephant in the room, shall we? In fact, just the other day, one of my Weight Watcher members said, "Michelle, I have had about 6 different WW leaders. But you're the only one who says, let's be real with ourselves. Let's figure out the REAL reason why we are using food." Cause we can talk about points, and snack tips, and exercising til we are blue in the face...and STILL STRUGGLE because we refuse to dig deeper.
I simply replied, "Well, I'm sure your other leaders didn't spend thousands of dollars in therapy, like I have."
When I became a mama, I didn't think for a second, that any of my kids would have a Learning Disability. That is NOT the kind of shit you see on the Pampers commercials, you know? By the time the twins entered Kindergarten, I was jumping for joy, naively thinking, "I'm FINALLY going to get a break!" I had just given birth to Cosette, Emma had started Preschool, and I had two 5 year olds in school for 4 hours...I actually considered it a "break". HAHAHA.
There were definitely little red flags that the girls were struggling, that I just didn't recognize at the time. Mainly, because I was a sleep deprived, first time mama of school age kids. And partly because, Kindergarten had changed two-fold in the last 30 years. Expecting my 5 year olds to read, seemed, a little...um....overzealous. I thought, "What the hell happened to Circle Time?"
By the time, Bella hit second grade, she "got" that she had fallen significantly behind. She would come home and sob about it. "Mama, it's so hard. I don't understand. Everyone else is ahead of me." Do you know how that tore me up? My baby's confidence was crumbling, and she was only SEVEN years old.
Calmly, I told Bella, "Honey, you have so many other gifts that are not being graded in school. You are an amazing artist, singer, and a kind, and caring friend. All Mom and Dad ask is that you do your best." But these words didn't matter because she didn't believe them.
We all know what if feels like to be left behind. When everyone else is "getting it" except us. Or when we are picked last for the team. It sucks. It doesn't feel good. And it feels like the world is coming down around us.
You would think that the school district wants the best for your child, right? Especially if they are falling behind? Especially if their confidence is dwindling faster than a Kenyan running a hundred yard dash? NOPE. I had to fight, tooth and nail, to get the twins tested to determine where their inefficiencies were. I felt like I had to convince them, "I'm not making this shit up. My girls are struggling....please HELP me, so I can help THEM." But testing costs time and money.... After realizing that I was not going to stop stalking them, the twins were tested. It seems that they were both "low", but not "low" enough to receive Resource help or a tutor. In fact, a child must be TWO years BELOW grade level to qualify for help. WTF?
Feeling frustrated and defeated, I took Bella to see a Developmental Pediatrician, hoping he could shed some light on why Bella was struggling so much. (Side note, Abby was still having a hard time, and was behind, but was holding her own.) He looked at her testing from the district. He asked Bella a few questions. He diagnosed her with ADHD, inattentive form. He recommended meds. All in about 20 minutes.
I walked out thinking, he could take a flying F'ing leap, because there is NO WAY I'm drugging my baby. The Hell If... F Off. You know, all the typical "denial" type monologue we play in our heads, when we are not ready to deal with the truth.
I mean, sure I had to yell "FOCUS BELLA" at least 20 times during homework. And yes, several times, I had to clap my hands in front of her face, to bring her back to reality. But the doctor diagnosing her, was like saying she was "damaged goods". You can't tell a mama her baby is broken, and expect her to accept that info with open arms, you know?
And so, there I lived, in Denial. I researched on the Internet for hours on end, trying to find a way to help my daughter. I tried a high protein diet. I added Omega vitamins into the mix. After Bella started wearing tinted glasses to reduce glare, we started Vision Therapy. And as 2 more years passed, Bella's learning gap became bigger. Her confidence plummeted. And I started to understand and accept that what I was doing, wasn't working.
In the meantime, I pursued getting a 504 Plan in place for each one of the twins. For those of you not familiar with LD lingo, a 504 Plan includes modifications and accommodations drawn up by the teacher, parent, and school official, and is supposed to be honored as a legal document. But you know what I realized? A 504 Plan in the San Jose Unified School District, is a fucking Boy Scout Pledge.
Bella would bring home a TEN page Theme test that she had...gasp...failed, and I was asked to go over it with her at home, and fix the mistakes. During that process, I asked her,
"Did the teacher give you extra time?" NO.
"Was the test broken in to smaller pieces and given in chunks?" NO.
"Did you feel overwhelmed, and you just filled in the bubbles and answers so you could be done?" (And make the torture STOP?) Yes Mom, and then I had to still finish it during recess.
THAT is when I saw RED. These were modifications that were clearly listed on Bella's 504 Plan, but either no one cared, or no one was paying attention. And see, here is what really pisses me off. I'm not fighting just for MY kids. For every kid like Abby and Bella, who takes a little longer to complete work, and processes differently, there are at least 5 more kids just like them.
I became a full time Advocate/Master Communicator/Stalker, to ensure that while the teachers understood I was supporting them at home, I would be holding them accountable at school. And if something like the prior ever happened again, you better be damn sure, you will be hearing from me about it. And I probably wouldn't be wearing my patience panties.
BTW, teachers are a HUGE part of this equation. For the amazing teachers out there, who are willing to teach to ALL kids abilities, I applaud, and thank, and love you.
But having the twins in different classrooms each year, makes it nearly impossible NOT to compare teachers and styles. Typically, Abby receives the fabulous teacher. And Bella gets the one who is stuck in the Stone Age Days...resistant to change, resistant to incorporating new techniques, and resistant to using technology that is readily available to help kids learn! It doesn't help my frustration level that I actually worked in the teaching profession. And gosh, may know a thing or two, about how to effectively teach kids using different modalities. For example, while teaching my 6th graders Vocabulary, we acted out the word, drew an illustration for the word, AND wrote out the definition for the word. I know, crazy, huh?
Finally, I came to terms with the fact that I needed to revisit medication for Bella. But I also realized that we would also benefit from counseling. Through this process, Bella could learn coping strategies when she feels overwhelmed or frustrated. So now, 2 months after starting, when my 10 year old is having a "Postal" moment, she can identify her feelings, journal about them, and move on. I don't know about you, but I was about 35 when I learned how to do that. It doesn't hurt that Bella's counselor is a twin mom...she ROCKS.
We also have a phenomenal Psychiatrist, who is no-nonsense, like me. She invested 90 minutes during our initial consultation, wanting to meet the entire family, and really talk to Bella. This sat much better with me, than the initial 20 minute diagnosis, 2 years earlier. Dr. F also has kids in SJUSD, and so we covetched. She explained to me, that if I didn't mind essentially, being a pain in the ass, there were some other ways I could get Bella what she needed at school. I liked this lady. I liked her alot. She was on OUR side. She cared about my baby. She wanted what was best for us. And yes, it included a trial prescription of Adderrall.
For the first time ever, Bella feels good about school. She doesn't dread it. She is able to FOCUS. She starts and finishes her homework. Meltdowns still happen occasionally, but are infrequent. It's not perfect, but just for a moment, I feel like I can breathe...Until one of the other girls will need me. And they will. It is such an interesting dance to be an advocate for one or two children, while not forgetting about where the others are.
If anyone has figured out how to be the perfect parent, without becoming a full-fledged alcoholic, I would like to hear from you.
But for those of you, who are struggling like I am, let's remember we are not alone. More than anything else, we are here to support eachother. Without judgement, but rather, with love and understanding. And I for one, can say, that I have felt this support from family and friends. And it is the only thing that has gotten me through this endeavour, without jumping.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Perspective
Let me tell you about a little question that everyone keeps asking me that is really starting to piss me off...
"How are you feeling?"
It doesn't seem like a loaded inquiry. I truly understand that everyone from family, to moms' at school, to the cute little Trader Joe's cashier who's bagging my groceries, are genuinely curious to know, how I'm holding up. "How are you?" is code talk for, "It must really suck right now to be you. Tell me about it."
But see, here's the thing. I'm not so sure most of the world is really ready for my uncensored version of "how I am feeling." at 36 weeks pregnant, with my fifth kid.
Here is what I want to say when someone innocently asks, "How are you?"
Fat. I don't like weighing more than my spouse, alright?
Ginormously swollen. From my breasts that look like they belong on someone else's body, to my belly which is displaying the lovely Linea Nigra (or whatever the F it is called), right down to my cankles. I feel like I could earn money at the Fair right now..."Step right up! Step right up! Tell us where this prego's legs end, and her ankles begin and YOU WIN A PRIZE!!!"
Tired. I grew a skeletal system today, what did you do? I don't care what ANYone says: growing a human being at age 38 is NOT the same as it was at 28! Thank GAWD I had the twins first.
Uncomfortable. Does your uterus feel like it's slapping between your knees? Can you carry on a conversation, without gasping for air, sounding like you may go into cardiac arrest at any moment? Do your panties become sweaty with perspiration from walking down the God Damn hallway of your house? Do you make random grunting and groaning sounds as you try to "drift off to sleep?"
If you answered yes to any of the above, you also must be knocked up. Isn't it F'ing GREAT?!!!!
Seriously though, time really is going by quicker than I imagined, and I am working hard on "being in the moment" during this LAST pregnancy. But I won't lie when I tell you that I had to make one thing crystal clear to my husband recently. "You sir, will not be getting any of this, (me, motioning to my entire body, while I snap my fingers) until you get snipped."
He made his vasectomy appointment the next day.
Recently, my sister in law was sharing with me that after each of her 2 kids were born, she made it home the same day in time for dinner. I sat listening, in shock....WHY would you want to go HOME? To laundry, and groceries, and your OTHER kids? Ohhh hell nooo. I view the entire labor and delivery process as an extended vacation AWAY from my immediate family.
After my vaginal birth with Cosette, the doc popped into my room the next morning to give me the okay to leave. The hospital. Now. Someone else needs your bed, and you're taking up space AND costing us money.
Doc: How's your pain today, Michelle?
Me: Doc, before I give you the details of my pain, let me tell you about what's going on at home. I have 3 small children aged 5 and under. You can't even gage my pain level right now. I mean, where do I start? How much time do you have? (Do you hear the violin music?)
Doc: Okay, I understand. Why don't you leave day after tomorrow?
Me: YOU ROCK. You have just been officially added to my Christmas card list.
Why in the world would I leave a place that does the following: Brings me food when I request it. Yes, you read that right. I push a red button, and some nice person brings me juice and graham crackers with peanut butter. At home, this scenario is reversed.
I also get to watch TV, uninterrupted, in the MIDDLE of the DAY. OMG!!! Seriously?
I can have the baby taken to the nursery so I can actually get some sleep, and someone will bring the baby back to me when it's time to nurse. I think I must be dreaming.
And best of all, the nice nurses at Kaiser offer me Vicodin ever 4-8 hours. That's what I'm talking about.
Yes, you too, can do this each and every time you have a baby if you so desire. The invitation is open: please come see me after I deliver. Because if history repeats itself, I'll be at Kaiser, for at least 3 days.
We can catch up, watch Oprah, and play Scrabble. But would you please do me a favor? Bring some wine.
"How are you feeling?"
It doesn't seem like a loaded inquiry. I truly understand that everyone from family, to moms' at school, to the cute little Trader Joe's cashier who's bagging my groceries, are genuinely curious to know, how I'm holding up. "How are you?" is code talk for, "It must really suck right now to be you. Tell me about it."
But see, here's the thing. I'm not so sure most of the world is really ready for my uncensored version of "how I am feeling." at 36 weeks pregnant, with my fifth kid.
Here is what I want to say when someone innocently asks, "How are you?"
Fat. I don't like weighing more than my spouse, alright?
Ginormously swollen. From my breasts that look like they belong on someone else's body, to my belly which is displaying the lovely Linea Nigra (or whatever the F it is called), right down to my cankles. I feel like I could earn money at the Fair right now..."Step right up! Step right up! Tell us where this prego's legs end, and her ankles begin and YOU WIN A PRIZE!!!"
Tired. I grew a skeletal system today, what did you do? I don't care what ANYone says: growing a human being at age 38 is NOT the same as it was at 28! Thank GAWD I had the twins first.
Uncomfortable. Does your uterus feel like it's slapping between your knees? Can you carry on a conversation, without gasping for air, sounding like you may go into cardiac arrest at any moment? Do your panties become sweaty with perspiration from walking down the God Damn hallway of your house? Do you make random grunting and groaning sounds as you try to "drift off to sleep?"
If you answered yes to any of the above, you also must be knocked up. Isn't it F'ing GREAT?!!!!
Seriously though, time really is going by quicker than I imagined, and I am working hard on "being in the moment" during this LAST pregnancy. But I won't lie when I tell you that I had to make one thing crystal clear to my husband recently. "You sir, will not be getting any of this, (me, motioning to my entire body, while I snap my fingers) until you get snipped."
He made his vasectomy appointment the next day.
Recently, my sister in law was sharing with me that after each of her 2 kids were born, she made it home the same day in time for dinner. I sat listening, in shock....WHY would you want to go HOME? To laundry, and groceries, and your OTHER kids? Ohhh hell nooo. I view the entire labor and delivery process as an extended vacation AWAY from my immediate family.
After my vaginal birth with Cosette, the doc popped into my room the next morning to give me the okay to leave. The hospital. Now. Someone else needs your bed, and you're taking up space AND costing us money.
Doc: How's your pain today, Michelle?
Me: Doc, before I give you the details of my pain, let me tell you about what's going on at home. I have 3 small children aged 5 and under. You can't even gage my pain level right now. I mean, where do I start? How much time do you have? (Do you hear the violin music?)
Doc: Okay, I understand. Why don't you leave day after tomorrow?
Me: YOU ROCK. You have just been officially added to my Christmas card list.
Why in the world would I leave a place that does the following: Brings me food when I request it. Yes, you read that right. I push a red button, and some nice person brings me juice and graham crackers with peanut butter. At home, this scenario is reversed.
I also get to watch TV, uninterrupted, in the MIDDLE of the DAY. OMG!!! Seriously?
I can have the baby taken to the nursery so I can actually get some sleep, and someone will bring the baby back to me when it's time to nurse. I think I must be dreaming.
And best of all, the nice nurses at Kaiser offer me Vicodin ever 4-8 hours. That's what I'm talking about.
Yes, you too, can do this each and every time you have a baby if you so desire. The invitation is open: please come see me after I deliver. Because if history repeats itself, I'll be at Kaiser, for at least 3 days.
We can catch up, watch Oprah, and play Scrabble. But would you please do me a favor? Bring some wine.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Rascal the Rabbit: 9/15/09 - 9/5/10
I'm sure many of you are already aware that our bunny, Rascal, has gone to God. He's met his maker. He's doing the big binky jumps in the sky.
He had a good life. That is...until he got eaten. By something. We're not sure exactly what got him. But guessing by the...um...remains that were found at the crime scene, it could have been anything from a common house cat to a polar bear.
Thank God the murder took place when the girls and I were up North, visiting my folks. Tom, on the other hand, groggily walked out back that morning, to sit down and enjoy his morning cup of Joe. Nothing would prepare him for what he was about to witness.
Midnight came bounding up to greet him, like usual. But no Rascal. Hmmmmm....Tom thought. Where IS that other bun? Much to Tom's dismay, shortly thereafter, he discovered the body. Or should I say, parts of the body, strewn across the backyard. I'm telling you right now, there is just some shit that husband's are supposed to handle, because there is NO way I would have handled that situation without screaming.
So Tom delivers the devastating news to me. And it is then my turn, to pass it on to our offspring. Well, my M.O. with stuff like this is simply, "Just do it. No time's a good time, so bite the bullet, and get it over with."
Surprisingly, every one of the girls took the news better than I expected. I mean, sure, there were sniffly noses, teary eyes, and the occasional, long drawn out moan, pleading, "WHYYYYY RASCAL? WHYYY YOU?!" But for the most part, I thought I had the hard job...you know, being the Bearer of Bad Tidings, so to speak. Is that even a phrase, or did I just make that up?
Anyways, little did I realize that on our way home, Tom would be grilled on the cell phone for information regarding this horrific homicide. It was like, CSI, Who Killed Rascal the Rabbit? The conversation that followed went like this:
Abigail: "Daddy, how do you know for sure that Rascal is dead?
Tom: "Well honey, I found a feather and a little bit of blood. I think an owl got him."
Abigail: "Maybe he's still alive Daddy. Maybe he's injured and hiding under the shed."
REALITY: Tom found Rascal in pieces. All over the yard. Decapitated, head severed and partially consumed. There's NO way you tell that to your kid.
Emma: "Daddy, were Rascal's eyes open or closed?" (Note, at this point, I'm trying not to crash the car, while I think, Poor Tom!)
Tom: "They were closed sweetie. He died peacefully."
REALITY: Which eye are you referring to? Because both of them were eaten out of his skull.
Up until this point, I gave my husband 5 stars. I mean, he was deflecting. He was thinking on his toes. He was consoling the girls, without giving out too much info. Lastly, the cell is handed to Isabella, Rascal's rightful owner.
Isabella: "Daddy, did you bury Rascal?"
Tom: "No, honey, I picked up what was left, and threw him into the garbage."
Isabella: "You THREW him into the GARBAGE?!!! WHYYYY Rascal? WHYYYYY YOU?!!!"
I mean, we were sooo close. And then he had to be honest. Shit, tell her, you gave Rascal a Viking burial, out at sea, with a little wood raft set adrift, enraptured by flames. ANYthing, but the garbage can. The truth is so overrated sometimes.
Midnight is currently back in her bunny hutch. She will be let out only with supervision. But honestly, I have to say, those rabbits had a good run for about 3 months. Eating our yard. Lazing in the sun. Doing the binky jumps. Rascal didn't live a long life. But he certainly had one helluva party while he was here.
He had a good life. That is...until he got eaten. By something. We're not sure exactly what got him. But guessing by the...um...remains that were found at the crime scene, it could have been anything from a common house cat to a polar bear.
Thank God the murder took place when the girls and I were up North, visiting my folks. Tom, on the other hand, groggily walked out back that morning, to sit down and enjoy his morning cup of Joe. Nothing would prepare him for what he was about to witness.
Midnight came bounding up to greet him, like usual. But no Rascal. Hmmmmm....Tom thought. Where IS that other bun? Much to Tom's dismay, shortly thereafter, he discovered the body. Or should I say, parts of the body, strewn across the backyard. I'm telling you right now, there is just some shit that husband's are supposed to handle, because there is NO way I would have handled that situation without screaming.
So Tom delivers the devastating news to me. And it is then my turn, to pass it on to our offspring. Well, my M.O. with stuff like this is simply, "Just do it. No time's a good time, so bite the bullet, and get it over with."
Surprisingly, every one of the girls took the news better than I expected. I mean, sure, there were sniffly noses, teary eyes, and the occasional, long drawn out moan, pleading, "WHYYYYY RASCAL? WHYYY YOU?!" But for the most part, I thought I had the hard job...you know, being the Bearer of Bad Tidings, so to speak. Is that even a phrase, or did I just make that up?
Anyways, little did I realize that on our way home, Tom would be grilled on the cell phone for information regarding this horrific homicide. It was like, CSI, Who Killed Rascal the Rabbit? The conversation that followed went like this:
Abigail: "Daddy, how do you know for sure that Rascal is dead?
Tom: "Well honey, I found a feather and a little bit of blood. I think an owl got him."
Abigail: "Maybe he's still alive Daddy. Maybe he's injured and hiding under the shed."
REALITY: Tom found Rascal in pieces. All over the yard. Decapitated, head severed and partially consumed. There's NO way you tell that to your kid.
Emma: "Daddy, were Rascal's eyes open or closed?" (Note, at this point, I'm trying not to crash the car, while I think, Poor Tom!)
Tom: "They were closed sweetie. He died peacefully."
REALITY: Which eye are you referring to? Because both of them were eaten out of his skull.
Up until this point, I gave my husband 5 stars. I mean, he was deflecting. He was thinking on his toes. He was consoling the girls, without giving out too much info. Lastly, the cell is handed to Isabella, Rascal's rightful owner.
Isabella: "Daddy, did you bury Rascal?"
Tom: "No, honey, I picked up what was left, and threw him into the garbage."
Isabella: "You THREW him into the GARBAGE?!!! WHYYYY Rascal? WHYYYYY YOU?!!!"
I mean, we were sooo close. And then he had to be honest. Shit, tell her, you gave Rascal a Viking burial, out at sea, with a little wood raft set adrift, enraptured by flames. ANYthing, but the garbage can. The truth is so overrated sometimes.
Midnight is currently back in her bunny hutch. She will be let out only with supervision. But honestly, I have to say, those rabbits had a good run for about 3 months. Eating our yard. Lazing in the sun. Doing the binky jumps. Rascal didn't live a long life. But he certainly had one helluva party while he was here.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Confessions of an At-Home Mom
Okay, so I need to come clean with something. I've been grappling with this for awhile now. It makes it difficult for me to fall asleep at night. And left wondering...what is this world coming to?
There is a mom at the Cabana where I take the girls. Let's call her "I Want to Kill You When No One is Looking". Oh wait. That's not really very nice, is it? Well, she is the one that represents the severity of the situation I am referring to.
Allow me to break it down for you.
Glorious 85 degree day at the Cabana Club. Big girls playing Marco Polo. Swollen prego mama putting her feet up for a moment. Cosette floating in an inflatable tube, having the time of her life.
And then it happens. The unthinkable.
This mom comes over to my Cozy, and says she needs the tube back for her son. Okay, I get that, IF Cosette had the tube for longer than, let's say, 60 seconds. So of course, Cozy gives back the tube happily, and the mom proceeds to hold onto it. Like it's a nugget of gold.
Does the son even float on it? NO. Is he really even interested in having his tube back to PLAY with it? NO. He wanted his tube back because my daughter HAD it. And his mom doesn't want to deal with the fit he will pitch if he doesn't get it back NOW.
Therein, lies the problem. I see the above as a "teachable moment". All kids, including mine, have a hard time when someone else wants something that belongs to "them". But this is where WE come in. To teach them to share. To teach them, that this is what friends do. To teach them, that we will help them learn this process so they become better people.
Call me crazy, but this is how I would have handled it, if Cozy was freaking out.
Cozy: NOOOOO! That's MY tube.
Me: Well, friends share. So he's going to have a turn on your tube. And in five minutes, you can have a turn.
Cozy: NOOOOOO! It's MINE.
Me: Here are your choices: share your tube, or get out of the pool. What are you choosing?
I'm not making this shit up. Ask anyone of my friends and they will tell you, "Yes, that's exactly how Meanie Mommy Michelle would handle that." What I don't get, is why it appears to be F'ing Rocket Science to some other folks.
After that mom took the tube from Cozy, I made it impossible for her to not feel me staring at her. I was mad-dogging her. I was angry. But I also decided, for the best interest of all concerned, that I had to let it go.
Then it happened AGAIN...on Cosette's birthday. Not only did she take her tube away from Cosette. During adult swim, as I floated on 2 noodles that the girls had found lying around, the son pitched the fit of all time. You wanna know why? I had one of his noodles.
The mom looked at me. I glared right back. She had to make a decision...take on big 'ol prego, or listen to her kid whine. She chose the later.
So now I have a strategy. The next time, she decides to bring toys to the pool that she doesn't want to share, I will float in all of them. Every last one. Let's see how she handles that.
There is a mom at the Cabana where I take the girls. Let's call her "I Want to Kill You When No One is Looking". Oh wait. That's not really very nice, is it? Well, she is the one that represents the severity of the situation I am referring to.
Allow me to break it down for you.
Glorious 85 degree day at the Cabana Club. Big girls playing Marco Polo. Swollen prego mama putting her feet up for a moment. Cosette floating in an inflatable tube, having the time of her life.
And then it happens. The unthinkable.
This mom comes over to my Cozy, and says she needs the tube back for her son. Okay, I get that, IF Cosette had the tube for longer than, let's say, 60 seconds. So of course, Cozy gives back the tube happily, and the mom proceeds to hold onto it. Like it's a nugget of gold.
Does the son even float on it? NO. Is he really even interested in having his tube back to PLAY with it? NO. He wanted his tube back because my daughter HAD it. And his mom doesn't want to deal with the fit he will pitch if he doesn't get it back NOW.
Therein, lies the problem. I see the above as a "teachable moment". All kids, including mine, have a hard time when someone else wants something that belongs to "them". But this is where WE come in. To teach them to share. To teach them, that this is what friends do. To teach them, that we will help them learn this process so they become better people.
Call me crazy, but this is how I would have handled it, if Cozy was freaking out.
Cozy: NOOOOO! That's MY tube.
Me: Well, friends share. So he's going to have a turn on your tube. And in five minutes, you can have a turn.
Cozy: NOOOOOO! It's MINE.
Me: Here are your choices: share your tube, or get out of the pool. What are you choosing?
I'm not making this shit up. Ask anyone of my friends and they will tell you, "Yes, that's exactly how Meanie Mommy Michelle would handle that." What I don't get, is why it appears to be F'ing Rocket Science to some other folks.
After that mom took the tube from Cozy, I made it impossible for her to not feel me staring at her. I was mad-dogging her. I was angry. But I also decided, for the best interest of all concerned, that I had to let it go.
Then it happened AGAIN...on Cosette's birthday. Not only did she take her tube away from Cosette. During adult swim, as I floated on 2 noodles that the girls had found lying around, the son pitched the fit of all time. You wanna know why? I had one of his noodles.
The mom looked at me. I glared right back. She had to make a decision...take on big 'ol prego, or listen to her kid whine. She chose the later.
So now I have a strategy. The next time, she decides to bring toys to the pool that she doesn't want to share, I will float in all of them. Every last one. Let's see how she handles that.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
And That's the Truth, Ruth
There are a few "Universal Truths" floating around out there that I would like to address. In my humble existence on this planet, we call Earth, I have found out one really significant thing. NEVER believe what ANYONE tells you because they are LYING.
Lie Number 1: Marriage is Easy.
Do I really need to expand here? I mean, I don't want to pop the bubbles of those out there who are engaged, or newly wed...but I'm going to. Marriage is A LOT of work. If you want to LIKE your spouse and continue to stay married to them, that is. No one ever told me that. At least if they did, I was like, "whatever".
Remember that blessed event known as your wedding day? The day that was solely devoted to YOU and your spouse? Where family and friends gathered to support and love you? Not to mention, score a free meal, and drink like fish from the open bar, all at your expense?
I've discovered the days of having it be all about me, are long gone. When kids enter the mix, it only makes your marriage, how shall we say, more interesting. Like anything, marriage can become monotonous. Marriage can lead you into this fantasy of living happily ever after, only to discover, that you and your spouse have begun taking each other for granted. Exhibit A:
Courtship Conversation:
Her: Hey baby, I can't wait to see you tonight.
Him: I know. Me either. I'm counting down the minutes.
Her: Oh Snookums, I'm going to attack you with my love.
Him: Not if I attack you first.
Marriage Conversation:
Her: What time do you think you'll be home tonight? (Implication: so I can hand off the kids and get a break?)
Him: Ummmm, it just depends. I might have to work late. (Implication: so I can skip bath and bed time help with the kids, because I'm wiped out).
Her: Oh, okay. (Implication: you will not be having sex for the next 24 months).
Him: (In his head, "I am SO getting some tonight.")
You know, Tom and I have only been married for 12 years, but most days it feels like 120. One thing is for certain though: our love has grown deeper with the passage of time. Because let's be honest, that courtship fantasy phase ends the minute you get married...and realize...you will be...with this person...for the rest...of your life.
If I have learned anything about marriage, it's this: we turn OFF the TV and actually TALK to each other every night. Do I want to do that all the time? No. But, I want to stay married, and I realize that communication is key. And having fun with each other. And great intimacy...I'll stop talking now.
Lie Number 2: Raising Kids is Easy
Please see my previous blogs regarding this subject.
Lie Number 3: I Can't Lose Weight Because "Fill In the Blank Here."
I'm hypoglycemic. I'm hyperglycemia. I'm in menopause. I'm not in menopause. My great-grandfather came over on the Mayflower, and we have this condition that makes it really hard to lose weight.
Here's the reason why folks like this continue to struggle with their weight: they are "stuck". This is truly what they believe. And until they TURN OFF that internal BS, and tune into the POSITIVE THINKING channel, they are doomed. Because really, it's not about (gasp) the food we ingest. The food, just happens to be the drug of our choice. And oh, what a sweet choice it is. I finally learned, as I would reach for a 2 pound box of See's candy, to ask myself, "What am I really hungry for?" Is it See's? Or is it validation? Or maybe stress release? If I came back to See's, then I gave myself permission to have a piece.
Here are some tips I have learned from losing and maintaining my weight: tracking my food is helpful for awareness. Moving my ass is imperative to my sanity. And not depriving myself is key. I mean, we all have our weakness: I had to give up drinking during the week. Now, I just binge drink on the weekend. But you guys know what I'm trying to say here.
Let's love and honor ourselves on this journey, shall we? Right where we are. Flaws, imperfections and all. Let's realize when we make a mistake, and learn from it vs. beating ourselves up. Cause if we keep following others and what they do and say, we lose sight of ourselves. And our voice. And our choices.
Yay for self-discovery.
Lie Number 1: Marriage is Easy.
Do I really need to expand here? I mean, I don't want to pop the bubbles of those out there who are engaged, or newly wed...but I'm going to. Marriage is A LOT of work. If you want to LIKE your spouse and continue to stay married to them, that is. No one ever told me that. At least if they did, I was like, "whatever".
Remember that blessed event known as your wedding day? The day that was solely devoted to YOU and your spouse? Where family and friends gathered to support and love you? Not to mention, score a free meal, and drink like fish from the open bar, all at your expense?
I've discovered the days of having it be all about me, are long gone. When kids enter the mix, it only makes your marriage, how shall we say, more interesting. Like anything, marriage can become monotonous. Marriage can lead you into this fantasy of living happily ever after, only to discover, that you and your spouse have begun taking each other for granted. Exhibit A:
Courtship Conversation:
Her: Hey baby, I can't wait to see you tonight.
Him: I know. Me either. I'm counting down the minutes.
Her: Oh Snookums, I'm going to attack you with my love.
Him: Not if I attack you first.
Marriage Conversation:
Her: What time do you think you'll be home tonight? (Implication: so I can hand off the kids and get a break?)
Him: Ummmm, it just depends. I might have to work late. (Implication: so I can skip bath and bed time help with the kids, because I'm wiped out).
Her: Oh, okay. (Implication: you will not be having sex for the next 24 months).
Him: (In his head, "I am SO getting some tonight.")
You know, Tom and I have only been married for 12 years, but most days it feels like 120. One thing is for certain though: our love has grown deeper with the passage of time. Because let's be honest, that courtship fantasy phase ends the minute you get married...and realize...you will be...with this person...for the rest...of your life.
If I have learned anything about marriage, it's this: we turn OFF the TV and actually TALK to each other every night. Do I want to do that all the time? No. But, I want to stay married, and I realize that communication is key. And having fun with each other. And great intimacy...I'll stop talking now.
Lie Number 2: Raising Kids is Easy
Please see my previous blogs regarding this subject.
Lie Number 3: I Can't Lose Weight Because "Fill In the Blank Here."
I'm hypoglycemic. I'm hyperglycemia. I'm in menopause. I'm not in menopause. My great-grandfather came over on the Mayflower, and we have this condition that makes it really hard to lose weight.
Here's the reason why folks like this continue to struggle with their weight: they are "stuck". This is truly what they believe. And until they TURN OFF that internal BS, and tune into the POSITIVE THINKING channel, they are doomed. Because really, it's not about (gasp) the food we ingest. The food, just happens to be the drug of our choice. And oh, what a sweet choice it is. I finally learned, as I would reach for a 2 pound box of See's candy, to ask myself, "What am I really hungry for?" Is it See's? Or is it validation? Or maybe stress release? If I came back to See's, then I gave myself permission to have a piece.
Here are some tips I have learned from losing and maintaining my weight: tracking my food is helpful for awareness. Moving my ass is imperative to my sanity. And not depriving myself is key. I mean, we all have our weakness: I had to give up drinking during the week. Now, I just binge drink on the weekend. But you guys know what I'm trying to say here.
Let's love and honor ourselves on this journey, shall we? Right where we are. Flaws, imperfections and all. Let's realize when we make a mistake, and learn from it vs. beating ourselves up. Cause if we keep following others and what they do and say, we lose sight of ourselves. And our voice. And our choices.
Yay for self-discovery.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Survival of the Fittest
I don't know how women have babies "naturally". Seriously. I'm not kidding. At all.
Like if the epidural didn't exist, and we HAD to give birth in the fields naturally (ie: screaming obscenities, and writhing with pain induced seizures), and then head back out to the field to bury the placenta, and shuck some more corn for dinner, I'm sorry. If it was up to me, there would be no human population left.
My hat is OFF to women who push out an 8 pound baby without the body numbing help of modern medicine. Personally, I have always been so damn scared of how painful labor could become, I never get the hospital past like 4 cm...legitimate enough to be in "active" labor, but early enough to call the Anesthesiologist at the first inkling of real pain. I like to trick myself into believing that I could handle it...all 10 cm, you know, my body opening into a crevasse the size of a begal, so I could birth someone's HEAD, followed by their entire BODY. But who am I kidding? Poor Tom. I don't even want to see his reaction if I had no meds. Oh my stars.
So as far as survival of the fittest is concerned, I would totally lose this match.
We used to have 3 rabbits, now we have 2. What happened, you ask? Well, Henry was a biter. And I don't use that term lightly. Before having him neutered, he would mount the other male bunny, and just ride him...well...sort of like an inmate. We thought for sure, having his manhood removed, would chill him out. No can do. Henry continued to bite...everyone, and everything. And I'm not talking about little nips here. I'm talking, flesh hanging from the palm of your hand type injuries. When going out to feed the bunnies, the girls had resorted to donning Ugg boots that reached thigh level, to shield them from an attack. The last straw came the day, I heard Cosette screaming from the backyard...we didn't have any Uggs in her size.
That's it! I thought. This bunny is gonna meet his maker. "Girls," I calmly, but assuredly stated, "Henry is going to be let free today. I'm sure he will find a nice home, amongst other savage animals in the wild." And so Tom loaded up the girls, and drove to a hill with a creek near our home. "If Henry is strong enough, he will survive just fine out here," Tom explained to the girls. Secretly, I hoped, that as soon as our truck had driven out of sight, a huge HAWK would swoop down, and... a girl can dream, can't she?
Playing on any organized team these days is a trip. I hear that everyone gets a trophy. First place or last place. WTH is up with all of this "warm and fuzzy" stuff? Trophies go to the best. Losers don't get shit. Welcome to the rest of your life, kids.
And what's up with everyone making the team?! NO! If you get cut, it means you suck. The coach is doing you a favor because you won't be riding pine all season long. If you really want to make the team, go home, practice for 52 weeks so you don't suck, and we'll see you at try-outs next year. If you can't eat that sort of humble pie, become a stat person, towel boy, or costume donning mascot for the team.
Playing sports my entire life, molded me in so many different ways. I learned how to use everyone's strengths to work as a team. I learned discipline through running liners when I, or one of my teammates missed a free throw in practice. I learned that getting benched after I screwed up in a game, didn't feel good. But how would I ever dig deeper, and become a better player if I was kept in?
I don't know. Maybe I'm just living in a different universe here. I try to teach the girls that everyone has different gifts. But that we all have struggles too. The important thing is to work on our weaknesses, without beating ourselves up, while remembering to celebrate our strengths!
Just don't ask me to have a home birth in my bathtub supervised by a doula for this baby, so Cosette can cut the cord...ain't gonna happen. Not my strength. But you know, I'm okay with it.
Like if the epidural didn't exist, and we HAD to give birth in the fields naturally (ie: screaming obscenities, and writhing with pain induced seizures), and then head back out to the field to bury the placenta, and shuck some more corn for dinner, I'm sorry. If it was up to me, there would be no human population left.
My hat is OFF to women who push out an 8 pound baby without the body numbing help of modern medicine. Personally, I have always been so damn scared of how painful labor could become, I never get the hospital past like 4 cm...legitimate enough to be in "active" labor, but early enough to call the Anesthesiologist at the first inkling of real pain. I like to trick myself into believing that I could handle it...all 10 cm, you know, my body opening into a crevasse the size of a begal, so I could birth someone's HEAD, followed by their entire BODY. But who am I kidding? Poor Tom. I don't even want to see his reaction if I had no meds. Oh my stars.
So as far as survival of the fittest is concerned, I would totally lose this match.
We used to have 3 rabbits, now we have 2. What happened, you ask? Well, Henry was a biter. And I don't use that term lightly. Before having him neutered, he would mount the other male bunny, and just ride him...well...sort of like an inmate. We thought for sure, having his manhood removed, would chill him out. No can do. Henry continued to bite...everyone, and everything. And I'm not talking about little nips here. I'm talking, flesh hanging from the palm of your hand type injuries. When going out to feed the bunnies, the girls had resorted to donning Ugg boots that reached thigh level, to shield them from an attack. The last straw came the day, I heard Cosette screaming from the backyard...we didn't have any Uggs in her size.
That's it! I thought. This bunny is gonna meet his maker. "Girls," I calmly, but assuredly stated, "Henry is going to be let free today. I'm sure he will find a nice home, amongst other savage animals in the wild." And so Tom loaded up the girls, and drove to a hill with a creek near our home. "If Henry is strong enough, he will survive just fine out here," Tom explained to the girls. Secretly, I hoped, that as soon as our truck had driven out of sight, a huge HAWK would swoop down, and... a girl can dream, can't she?
Playing on any organized team these days is a trip. I hear that everyone gets a trophy. First place or last place. WTH is up with all of this "warm and fuzzy" stuff? Trophies go to the best. Losers don't get shit. Welcome to the rest of your life, kids.
And what's up with everyone making the team?! NO! If you get cut, it means you suck. The coach is doing you a favor because you won't be riding pine all season long. If you really want to make the team, go home, practice for 52 weeks so you don't suck, and we'll see you at try-outs next year. If you can't eat that sort of humble pie, become a stat person, towel boy, or costume donning mascot for the team.
Playing sports my entire life, molded me in so many different ways. I learned how to use everyone's strengths to work as a team. I learned discipline through running liners when I, or one of my teammates missed a free throw in practice. I learned that getting benched after I screwed up in a game, didn't feel good. But how would I ever dig deeper, and become a better player if I was kept in?
I don't know. Maybe I'm just living in a different universe here. I try to teach the girls that everyone has different gifts. But that we all have struggles too. The important thing is to work on our weaknesses, without beating ourselves up, while remembering to celebrate our strengths!
Just don't ask me to have a home birth in my bathtub supervised by a doula for this baby, so Cosette can cut the cord...ain't gonna happen. Not my strength. But you know, I'm okay with it.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
The Hell If...
Call me passive aggressive. Or crabby. Or just plain unethical. It's okay. Sticks and stones...
The H if...I will pay full price for my four year old to go to the movies. When the attendant asks how many, I reply, 3 kids, 1 adult, as I push Cosette between my legs to be left unseen. If there are any follow up questions, my reply is this, "What? This one here? Oh, she's just 2 years old. Yep, she's really tall for her age."
The same stands true in any situation that I view as Redonkulous. For example, when checking in at a pool to pay with my girlfriend and her 2 kids, the sweet little 16 year old behind the counter asked, "How many families? One or two?" Please note, one family costs $25, and two families cost $50. Without a moment's hesitation, I said, "Just one. We are a lesbian couple, and this is our beautiful family," then I pointed at my swollen belly, and finished up, "Sperm donors...each and every one of them."
The H if...I will be told specifically what type of glue stick to purchase for Kindergarten. Are you kidding me?! I just spent 100 bucks for 4 kids on school supplies, and you will graciously accept what my child is bringing in....Do you know what it is like to go Back To School shopping with 4 kids? DO YOU? DO YOU? You requested Avery glue sticks, and received the Office Max brand...deal with it.
The H if...I will let someone give me shit for wearing 6 inch heels. It only took me 30 years, and thousands of dollars in therapy, to OWN my height and frame. So when a person has the balls to ask, "You're 5'11, why are you wearing stiletto's while you do your grocery shopping?" My reply is simply this: "Because I can."
The H if...I will ever let my girls conceive the notion that a 6 foot, 117 pound fashion model is normal! I would love to see one of these "women" in real life. Can we be honest here? I weigh in at a healthy 150 pounds (when not with child). So imagine, 30 pounds less on my frame...REALLY? This is desirable? Achievable? Beautiful? THE HELL IF....
The H if...a nanny should have more control over your children than YOU do. An acquaintance just recently shared with me, that she paid for a nanny to accompany their family while on vacation to Europe. Cool... I thought. Nice...a date night with hubby at the Eiffel Tower...drinking wine in Tuscany, sipping espresso while appreciating amazing artwork....all without kids. Then she said, "I had to bring the nanny because my kids just don't mind me." You would have been so proud. I didn't even reply. Just smiled and nodded.
The H if...I will pay full price for my four year old to go to the movies. When the attendant asks how many, I reply, 3 kids, 1 adult, as I push Cosette between my legs to be left unseen. If there are any follow up questions, my reply is this, "What? This one here? Oh, she's just 2 years old. Yep, she's really tall for her age."
The same stands true in any situation that I view as Redonkulous. For example, when checking in at a pool to pay with my girlfriend and her 2 kids, the sweet little 16 year old behind the counter asked, "How many families? One or two?" Please note, one family costs $25, and two families cost $50. Without a moment's hesitation, I said, "Just one. We are a lesbian couple, and this is our beautiful family," then I pointed at my swollen belly, and finished up, "Sperm donors...each and every one of them."
The H if...I will be told specifically what type of glue stick to purchase for Kindergarten. Are you kidding me?! I just spent 100 bucks for 4 kids on school supplies, and you will graciously accept what my child is bringing in....Do you know what it is like to go Back To School shopping with 4 kids? DO YOU? DO YOU? You requested Avery glue sticks, and received the Office Max brand...deal with it.
The H if...I will let someone give me shit for wearing 6 inch heels. It only took me 30 years, and thousands of dollars in therapy, to OWN my height and frame. So when a person has the balls to ask, "You're 5'11, why are you wearing stiletto's while you do your grocery shopping?" My reply is simply this: "Because I can."
The H if...I will ever let my girls conceive the notion that a 6 foot, 117 pound fashion model is normal! I would love to see one of these "women" in real life. Can we be honest here? I weigh in at a healthy 150 pounds (when not with child). So imagine, 30 pounds less on my frame...REALLY? This is desirable? Achievable? Beautiful? THE HELL IF....
The H if...a nanny should have more control over your children than YOU do. An acquaintance just recently shared with me, that she paid for a nanny to accompany their family while on vacation to Europe. Cool... I thought. Nice...a date night with hubby at the Eiffel Tower...drinking wine in Tuscany, sipping espresso while appreciating amazing artwork....all without kids. Then she said, "I had to bring the nanny because my kids just don't mind me." You would have been so proud. I didn't even reply. Just smiled and nodded.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Denial
Some of you may not know this about me: but I reside in a little community in my head, that goes by the name of Denial. It's nice here. Lovely, actually. Because everything is perfect. And nothing is wrong.
In Denial, I'm not 8 months pregnant. Oh no. In fact, in Denial, I have yet to purchase one piece of maternity clothing. Instead, I just squeeze my 5'11 rapidly expanding frame, into my regular clothes. This includes bathing suits and workout gear. The innocent bystanders in Denial, don't notice that I'm pregnant either. That by boobs are so high up in my sports bra, they are actually grazing the bottom of my chin, as I go on my 4 mile waddle. I will be damned to pay money for an article of material that has an expiration date. I would rather look like a fool. And I must...because a really loving friend just brought me an entire bag of maternity clothes. But then, she's not from Denial. She's from a little town called Reality.
In Denial, kids never go back to school. I don't get it when parents jump for joy when the kids enter back into the institution where square pegs are forced into round holes. Don't think for a second, that I love spending endless days of quality time with my kids. It's more that I am lazy. I hate being "on" for dreaded Homework duty, random project due dates, and extra activities like field trips, and Walk A Thon's. I would much rather go to the beach, take the girls swimming, and sleep until 8am each morning, while the twins dole out Cheerios. In Denial, the summertime schedule works to my strengths.
In Denial, my youngest child would never, ever say anything in public to humiliate me. In Denial, she would act like an angel, with a glowing halo. In Safeway, if she saw an elderly fellow slowly walking past us in the cereal aisle, she would never sing a song called, "Old Man, Old Man, you are so slow, Old Man.", leaving me to hush her. And pray that Old Man, was so hard of hearing, he didn't actually catch any of the tune written and sung solely for him. In Denial, my four year old, would never yell out things from the car window, that would make a grown man cringe. For example, while on vacation, our driveway was blocked by the neighbor's vehicle who decided to park anywhere she pleased. When the neighbor finally came out to move her car, the child yelled out, "What are you?! DRUNK?!"
In Denial, I have 2.4 kids, a white picket fence, and a husband who resembles Hugh Jackman. In Denial, rainbows and unicorns are abundant. I'm not 38, I'm 28. And I certainly, don't have garden hose pregnancy induced varicose veins. In Denial, I am still going to Chico State, riding my bike everywhere, and well, doing whatever the hell I want.
Who am I kidding? Reality is okay. But it's just that sometimes, I go to Denial for a visit. Sometimes it's a short visit. But other times, require an extended stay. You should come see me sometime. Really... there's plenty of room for visitors in Denial.
In Denial, I'm not 8 months pregnant. Oh no. In fact, in Denial, I have yet to purchase one piece of maternity clothing. Instead, I just squeeze my 5'11 rapidly expanding frame, into my regular clothes. This includes bathing suits and workout gear. The innocent bystanders in Denial, don't notice that I'm pregnant either. That by boobs are so high up in my sports bra, they are actually grazing the bottom of my chin, as I go on my 4 mile waddle. I will be damned to pay money for an article of material that has an expiration date. I would rather look like a fool. And I must...because a really loving friend just brought me an entire bag of maternity clothes. But then, she's not from Denial. She's from a little town called Reality.
In Denial, kids never go back to school. I don't get it when parents jump for joy when the kids enter back into the institution where square pegs are forced into round holes. Don't think for a second, that I love spending endless days of quality time with my kids. It's more that I am lazy. I hate being "on" for dreaded Homework duty, random project due dates, and extra activities like field trips, and Walk A Thon's. I would much rather go to the beach, take the girls swimming, and sleep until 8am each morning, while the twins dole out Cheerios. In Denial, the summertime schedule works to my strengths.
In Denial, my youngest child would never, ever say anything in public to humiliate me. In Denial, she would act like an angel, with a glowing halo. In Safeway, if she saw an elderly fellow slowly walking past us in the cereal aisle, she would never sing a song called, "Old Man, Old Man, you are so slow, Old Man.", leaving me to hush her. And pray that Old Man, was so hard of hearing, he didn't actually catch any of the tune written and sung solely for him. In Denial, my four year old, would never yell out things from the car window, that would make a grown man cringe. For example, while on vacation, our driveway was blocked by the neighbor's vehicle who decided to park anywhere she pleased. When the neighbor finally came out to move her car, the child yelled out, "What are you?! DRUNK?!"
In Denial, I have 2.4 kids, a white picket fence, and a husband who resembles Hugh Jackman. In Denial, rainbows and unicorns are abundant. I'm not 38, I'm 28. And I certainly, don't have garden hose pregnancy induced varicose veins. In Denial, I am still going to Chico State, riding my bike everywhere, and well, doing whatever the hell I want.
Who am I kidding? Reality is okay. But it's just that sometimes, I go to Denial for a visit. Sometimes it's a short visit. But other times, require an extended stay. You should come see me sometime. Really... there's plenty of room for visitors in Denial.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Checking Off "The List"
"Mama, you look tired,"Cosette observed recently, first thing in the morning. Mind you, she made this comment BEFORE I had even ingested one sip of coffee, but AFTER I had served up a stack of 72 hot and fluffy pancakes that she and her sisters devoured for breakfast. Damn right, I'm tired, sister.
Seeing the opportunity for a teachable moment, for my daughter to be truly grateful for EVERYthing I (and all Mama's) do on a daily basis, I asked openly, "Well Cosette, what things does Mama do that would make her tired?" I also thought that referring to myself in the third person, would really drive the point home.
Not a chance.
"Well, Mama, I don't know. You relax in the sun, get on the computer, and yell a lot." According to my four year old, I am living a charmed life. What the hell do I have to complain about, right? And I most certainly, should NOT be tired. Think about it: I don't really DO much.
I vividly remember having a similar conversation about eight years ago with my therapist. Before becoming an at home mom, I was the ultimate List Maker. I was accustomed to teaching 33 sixth graders, while coordinating lesson plans, field trips, report cards, and hormones, you know? I got stuff done! I had my list, and nothing made me feel better, than checking off those boxes. I equated it to a job well done.
An aspect I didn't see coming when I stayed home in the beginning, was that I did the saaaaaame thing day after day. As soon as I would stock the fridge with food (check), it was empty again. As soon as I put away washed and folded laundry (check), dirty clothing filled the basket. I would vacuum, (check) only to have the dog bring the backyard INTO the house, five minutes later.
I felt like a hamster on a wheel. No boxes to check off. Just an eternal, never ending pit of monotonous chores....with no real sign of progress.
"When does it end? I feel like I'm going slowly insane. I never get anything accomplished," I confided to my counselor, "If I have to fill up one more sippy cup, I swear...."
"Sure you are getting things accomplished," she assured me, "It's just that the list has changed, and it doesn't look like it used to, Michelle. It's not like you "seal a deal" on a daily basis. Or that you get a raise for your hard work. The list has changed. These are boxes that can no longer be simply checked off at the end of the day. You are raising your girls...it is an immeasurable task."
For the first time in a looong time, I felt validated. As Oprah would say, I was having an "A-ha" moment.
And the other thing I would soon find out was this: the chores I dreaded with their simplicity and monotony like filling sippy cups, handing out Goldfish, and going to the park, would soon be missed after my girls started school. The lovely days of naps and Elmo, were soon replaced with homework and book report due dates.
So I have learned that although the stage I am currently enduring with my kids may seem as though it will never end, it does. And it is usually followed by a mourning period, because now I understand their youth is slowly ticking away on the clock. And I can't do a damn thing to stop it.
What I CAN do is focus on being in the moment with them.
Even when I wish it would end because it's soooo hard. When one child is labeled GATE as the other is labeled ADHD. When I wonder the next time my husband and I will have the time and money to go on a date night. When I just don't have the answers. And neither does Google.
So now my list includes activities like taking the girls outside for a hike/bike ride/or swim (relaxing in the sun); or taking care of myself by venting on my blog (being on the computer); or trying to raise my girls without totally going insane (yelling a lot).
In all honesty, Cosette just answered my question the way she sees things. Her perspective is open for interpretation, that's all. I was expecting her to list all of the things I do for her, but the truth of the matter is this: it's what she and her sisters do for ME, that makes me a better Mama, wife and friend.
I'm just hoping that the next time one of my kids throws me under the bus, I will have at least had a cup of coffee.
Seeing the opportunity for a teachable moment, for my daughter to be truly grateful for EVERYthing I (and all Mama's) do on a daily basis, I asked openly, "Well Cosette, what things does Mama do that would make her tired?" I also thought that referring to myself in the third person, would really drive the point home.
Not a chance.
"Well, Mama, I don't know. You relax in the sun, get on the computer, and yell a lot." According to my four year old, I am living a charmed life. What the hell do I have to complain about, right? And I most certainly, should NOT be tired. Think about it: I don't really DO much.
I vividly remember having a similar conversation about eight years ago with my therapist. Before becoming an at home mom, I was the ultimate List Maker. I was accustomed to teaching 33 sixth graders, while coordinating lesson plans, field trips, report cards, and hormones, you know? I got stuff done! I had my list, and nothing made me feel better, than checking off those boxes. I equated it to a job well done.
An aspect I didn't see coming when I stayed home in the beginning, was that I did the saaaaaame thing day after day. As soon as I would stock the fridge with food (check), it was empty again. As soon as I put away washed and folded laundry (check), dirty clothing filled the basket. I would vacuum, (check) only to have the dog bring the backyard INTO the house, five minutes later.
I felt like a hamster on a wheel. No boxes to check off. Just an eternal, never ending pit of monotonous chores....with no real sign of progress.
"When does it end? I feel like I'm going slowly insane. I never get anything accomplished," I confided to my counselor, "If I have to fill up one more sippy cup, I swear...."
"Sure you are getting things accomplished," she assured me, "It's just that the list has changed, and it doesn't look like it used to, Michelle. It's not like you "seal a deal" on a daily basis. Or that you get a raise for your hard work. The list has changed. These are boxes that can no longer be simply checked off at the end of the day. You are raising your girls...it is an immeasurable task."
For the first time in a looong time, I felt validated. As Oprah would say, I was having an "A-ha" moment.
And the other thing I would soon find out was this: the chores I dreaded with their simplicity and monotony like filling sippy cups, handing out Goldfish, and going to the park, would soon be missed after my girls started school. The lovely days of naps and Elmo, were soon replaced with homework and book report due dates.
So I have learned that although the stage I am currently enduring with my kids may seem as though it will never end, it does. And it is usually followed by a mourning period, because now I understand their youth is slowly ticking away on the clock. And I can't do a damn thing to stop it.
What I CAN do is focus on being in the moment with them.
Even when I wish it would end because it's soooo hard. When one child is labeled GATE as the other is labeled ADHD. When I wonder the next time my husband and I will have the time and money to go on a date night. When I just don't have the answers. And neither does Google.
So now my list includes activities like taking the girls outside for a hike/bike ride/or swim (relaxing in the sun); or taking care of myself by venting on my blog (being on the computer); or trying to raise my girls without totally going insane (yelling a lot).
In all honesty, Cosette just answered my question the way she sees things. Her perspective is open for interpretation, that's all. I was expecting her to list all of the things I do for her, but the truth of the matter is this: it's what she and her sisters do for ME, that makes me a better Mama, wife and friend.
I'm just hoping that the next time one of my kids throws me under the bus, I will have at least had a cup of coffee.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Invasion
Personal space. A phone booth. B-O-U-N-D-A-R-I-E-S.
Just recently, I encountered one of the most disturbing events of my life: an invasion of people all up in my bizness, with NONE of the above.
Out of respect for my fellow man, when I encroach upon the beach with my gaggle of loud, obnoxious, sand flicking offspring, I give other people space. It's just common courtesy.
You know, how you do. Set up a phone booth North, South, East and West of our chosen mine field, because with 4 kids, sand WILL fly. And it's not a question of if; it's a matter of when.
This is not a matter I take lightly. I put a lot of time and thought into making this decision, before just parking it anywhere. I need to scope out who will be my neighbors for the entire afternoon.
For example, plopping down next to an elderly couple is out of the question; UNLESS they are in the company of their grand kids. Random groups of teenagers are also an iffy choice due to their possible poor behavior choices (ie: making out, drinking Mickey's from a brown paper bag, or (gasp) using foul language). Just because that cute little 17 year old in the polka dot bikini may look like Hannah Montana, she very well may act like Lindsey Lohan.
In my decade of surviving any kind of day trip with my girls, I have found that other moms tend to be the best kind of neighbors. Moms carry all the necessities: extra sand toys, snacks to share, and usually, wine in some sort of concealed container.
So, here's my predicament: I'm on vacay with my girlfriend, and we're chilling Lakeside, while our 6 kids run amok. No sooner had we planted our chairs in the sand, than some Yahoo parks her clan literally inches from our stuff. My girlfriend politely explains just how many kids we have with us in our camp, hoping to gently, but jokingly encourage her to move away to a further location.
But Clueless failed to catch the ginormous hint of her immediate and impending doom. So when one of our kids ran all over her towel, flicking sand with wild abandon, neither of us said a damn word. Clueless was warned, and Clueless failed to heed our warning. And unless our kids learned how to FLY, it was not physically possible to NOT mess up her camp. Quite simply, she was in our phone booth.
The very next day, similar invasion, different location: Big Trees State Park. One of my favorite places to chill and be one with the Motha Nature. I'm talking "glory of God perfection". Where chipmunks eat nuts to their hearts content, and butterflies and dragonflies dip and dart into the crisp, calm and cool water of the creek, while it laps at your feet.
Got your visual in place? Well, promptly cancel that out, and replace it with a bunch of Weekend Warrior "nature lovers".
I mean, how in the hell am I supposed to catch up on reading about Carrie Underwood's dream wedding in People magazine, when WW (Weekend Warrior) Mom is yelling, "Johnny, come put REPELLENT on. And here's the SUNSCREEN. Johnny, put those rocks down RIGHT NOW. Where's your HAT? Oh my goodness, look at your hands. Here's a wet wipe."
My M.O. is simply this: if a location is already occupied, find a different one. I guess the 5 families that decided to join us that day, didn't get the memo. These people packed in everything but a toilet to "enjoy nature".
Becoming frustrated and annoyed, I wanted to yell out to that mom, "You are in NATURE! Stop stalking your kids, take a load off, drink a beer, and please, BE QUIET. You are ruining my Zen moment."
I struggled with this invasion, and started to question, what does God want me to learn from this? But I just kept coming to the same conclusion: never get pregnant again, so that I can down 4 beers and pretend like I'm by myself.
As if on cue, my daughter came walking towards me, talking to a rather tall man. Who's the psycho talking to my 10 year old, I thought? But as they approached, I realized who it was.
"Father John?"
"Hey, I recognized your girls. I'm here camping with my family."
It's like God knew I needed divine intervention before going postal, and sent me Father John. After getting over the awkward moment of hugging him, 7 months pregnant, wearing only my bathing suit, we had a great conversation. I was reminded about what is really important while we're here. And it's not Carrie Underwood's wedding.
It is the connection that we have with others. Whether it's for an hour, an afternoon, a year, or a lifetime. Even when it makes us frustrated. Or angry. Or severely annoyed.
But if you come into my personal space boundary, all I ask is this: could you please keep your voice down, and bring a beer, or possibly an Us Weekly magazine to share? Cause that would be so appreciated.
Just recently, I encountered one of the most disturbing events of my life: an invasion of people all up in my bizness, with NONE of the above.
Out of respect for my fellow man, when I encroach upon the beach with my gaggle of loud, obnoxious, sand flicking offspring, I give other people space. It's just common courtesy.
You know, how you do. Set up a phone booth North, South, East and West of our chosen mine field, because with 4 kids, sand WILL fly. And it's not a question of if; it's a matter of when.
This is not a matter I take lightly. I put a lot of time and thought into making this decision, before just parking it anywhere. I need to scope out who will be my neighbors for the entire afternoon.
For example, plopping down next to an elderly couple is out of the question; UNLESS they are in the company of their grand kids. Random groups of teenagers are also an iffy choice due to their possible poor behavior choices (ie: making out, drinking Mickey's from a brown paper bag, or (gasp) using foul language). Just because that cute little 17 year old in the polka dot bikini may look like Hannah Montana, she very well may act like Lindsey Lohan.
In my decade of surviving any kind of day trip with my girls, I have found that other moms tend to be the best kind of neighbors. Moms carry all the necessities: extra sand toys, snacks to share, and usually, wine in some sort of concealed container.
So, here's my predicament: I'm on vacay with my girlfriend, and we're chilling Lakeside, while our 6 kids run amok. No sooner had we planted our chairs in the sand, than some Yahoo parks her clan literally inches from our stuff. My girlfriend politely explains just how many kids we have with us in our camp, hoping to gently, but jokingly encourage her to move away to a further location.
But Clueless failed to catch the ginormous hint of her immediate and impending doom. So when one of our kids ran all over her towel, flicking sand with wild abandon, neither of us said a damn word. Clueless was warned, and Clueless failed to heed our warning. And unless our kids learned how to FLY, it was not physically possible to NOT mess up her camp. Quite simply, she was in our phone booth.
The very next day, similar invasion, different location: Big Trees State Park. One of my favorite places to chill and be one with the Motha Nature. I'm talking "glory of God perfection". Where chipmunks eat nuts to their hearts content, and butterflies and dragonflies dip and dart into the crisp, calm and cool water of the creek, while it laps at your feet.
Got your visual in place? Well, promptly cancel that out, and replace it with a bunch of Weekend Warrior "nature lovers".
I mean, how in the hell am I supposed to catch up on reading about Carrie Underwood's dream wedding in People magazine, when WW (Weekend Warrior) Mom is yelling, "Johnny, come put REPELLENT on. And here's the SUNSCREEN. Johnny, put those rocks down RIGHT NOW. Where's your HAT? Oh my goodness, look at your hands. Here's a wet wipe."
My M.O. is simply this: if a location is already occupied, find a different one. I guess the 5 families that decided to join us that day, didn't get the memo. These people packed in everything but a toilet to "enjoy nature".
Becoming frustrated and annoyed, I wanted to yell out to that mom, "You are in NATURE! Stop stalking your kids, take a load off, drink a beer, and please, BE QUIET. You are ruining my Zen moment."
I struggled with this invasion, and started to question, what does God want me to learn from this? But I just kept coming to the same conclusion: never get pregnant again, so that I can down 4 beers and pretend like I'm by myself.
As if on cue, my daughter came walking towards me, talking to a rather tall man. Who's the psycho talking to my 10 year old, I thought? But as they approached, I realized who it was.
"Father John?"
"Hey, I recognized your girls. I'm here camping with my family."
It's like God knew I needed divine intervention before going postal, and sent me Father John. After getting over the awkward moment of hugging him, 7 months pregnant, wearing only my bathing suit, we had a great conversation. I was reminded about what is really important while we're here. And it's not Carrie Underwood's wedding.
It is the connection that we have with others. Whether it's for an hour, an afternoon, a year, or a lifetime. Even when it makes us frustrated. Or angry. Or severely annoyed.
But if you come into my personal space boundary, all I ask is this: could you please keep your voice down, and bring a beer, or possibly an Us Weekly magazine to share? Cause that would be so appreciated.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Creeeepy
I'm the girl who drinks milk straight from the carton. The one who you will find dancing on the tables after a few cocktails, underwear optional. I believe in the 5 second rule when food hits the deck. I have even been known to swig beer from a complete stranger in a bar.
Some of you may find this type of behavior gross, unacceptable, or even crossing the line. I have some advice for you: lighten up, man! It's true, I don't have many boundaries. But I do have some.
You may find this hard to believe, but there are actually a few things in this life that I find repulsive. Things that seriously creep me out. In offending order of least to greatest creep factor, they are as follows:
5. High School Senior guys who totally scam on the incoming Freshman girls. I realize that we're only talking about a 3-4 year age difference here, but there is something just plain WRONG with this scenario.
Picture this: 14 year old Hope, a sweet, young, fun-loving, naive, and innocent cutie pie, who listens to Taylor Swift and goes to Church every Sunday. In her free time, she knits scarves and blankets for the homeless. She believes in world peace and pink nail polish.
Now, enter High School senior, Stud: a sexually-driven, testosterone oozing, football playing, 18 year old dude, who drives a truck with a FLATBED. We all know how this story ends.
Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking right about now...isn't there a 13 year age gap between Tom and myself? Yes, in fact, as Tom graduated High School, I was exiting Kindergarten. But this is MY blog, and I make the rules, and there always an exception. Besides, it's not like Tom was stalking me in Kindergarten...he was too busy scamming on Freshman GIRLS!!!
4. Clean children creep me out. I'm talking like squeaky clean. Like an entire Gymboree ensemble, complete with matching ice-cream cone hair clip, and ruffly socks. WTF? My motto is this: if you are under the age of 12, you should be filthy. Appear unkempt, with matted hair. And be riding that fine line of looking as if you live in a trailer down by the river. Childhood is about having FUN. Who has time to take a shower?
3. The offensive tramp stamp comes in next. Call me a wuss for never taking part in more body modification than a pair of pierced ears, done at age 6. But we, as a society, NEED to DRAW the LINE somewhere.
And you know what? That multi-colored butterfly, fairy, Disney character, or Japanese symbol that you get inked into your skin at age 21, sure as shit, doesn't look that way at age 61!
I don't like to see the tramp stamp anywhere. Period. It screams out 'dirty girl'.
At the bar, peeking over a pair of thong panties, it's like watching a suffocating butterfly attempting to take flight. At the beach, where the stamp in its entirety is displayed for the rest of the world to gaze upon. I don't want to see TINK flying above your crack.
I cover my stretch marks so you don't have to endure those, please show me the same courtesy.
2. Onto the next creepy thing: too much 'work' done. Plastic surgeons can fix ANYthing now. Got a forehead that hangs down so low, you can't pass the vision test at the DMV while renewing your license? BOTOX! Got boobies that resemble wet tube socks that just came out of the washing machine? AUGMENTATION! Got a tummy that you must stuff into your grandma panties even though you've lost 100 pounds? Not referring to anyone in particular here...TUCK IT!
Listen up people. The whole point of having some body part fixed, lifted, or refreshed, should NOT be obvious to the average onlooker. That's like saying I can walk into the doc's office looking like Jimeny Cricket, and strut out looking like Hugh Jackman.
MMMMM....Hugh Jackman.
1. This brings me to the most offensive thing that creeps me out to my very core. Being close to 40 years old, I welcome an occasional whistle from the passing car. Don't deny it ladies, you know it makes ya feel sorta hot.
But what's up, when some dude thinks it's his duty to cat call me while I am very obviously PREGNANT? Creeeepy. I think it's appropriate to use the same verbiage I scream out to my 4 year old when she is about to run out into oncoming traffic: NOT OKAY!!!!!!!
The slimy offender, with no moral sense, is riding in some sort of truck, or raised vehicle, to obviously compensate for his small manhood. Usually there are garden tools, paint buckets, or a pit bull riding shot-gun.
Hey man, I'm just trying to get my four mile waddle in, while keeping the garden hose intact... just be respectful. I will repeat, this is NOT OKAY!
Except maybe, coming from a High School Senior...
Some of you may find this type of behavior gross, unacceptable, or even crossing the line. I have some advice for you: lighten up, man! It's true, I don't have many boundaries. But I do have some.
You may find this hard to believe, but there are actually a few things in this life that I find repulsive. Things that seriously creep me out. In offending order of least to greatest creep factor, they are as follows:
5. High School Senior guys who totally scam on the incoming Freshman girls. I realize that we're only talking about a 3-4 year age difference here, but there is something just plain WRONG with this scenario.
Picture this: 14 year old Hope, a sweet, young, fun-loving, naive, and innocent cutie pie, who listens to Taylor Swift and goes to Church every Sunday. In her free time, she knits scarves and blankets for the homeless. She believes in world peace and pink nail polish.
Now, enter High School senior, Stud: a sexually-driven, testosterone oozing, football playing, 18 year old dude, who drives a truck with a FLATBED. We all know how this story ends.
Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking right about now...isn't there a 13 year age gap between Tom and myself? Yes, in fact, as Tom graduated High School, I was exiting Kindergarten. But this is MY blog, and I make the rules, and there always an exception. Besides, it's not like Tom was stalking me in Kindergarten...he was too busy scamming on Freshman GIRLS!!!
4. Clean children creep me out. I'm talking like squeaky clean. Like an entire Gymboree ensemble, complete with matching ice-cream cone hair clip, and ruffly socks. WTF? My motto is this: if you are under the age of 12, you should be filthy. Appear unkempt, with matted hair. And be riding that fine line of looking as if you live in a trailer down by the river. Childhood is about having FUN. Who has time to take a shower?
3. The offensive tramp stamp comes in next. Call me a wuss for never taking part in more body modification than a pair of pierced ears, done at age 6. But we, as a society, NEED to DRAW the LINE somewhere.
And you know what? That multi-colored butterfly, fairy, Disney character, or Japanese symbol that you get inked into your skin at age 21, sure as shit, doesn't look that way at age 61!
I don't like to see the tramp stamp anywhere. Period. It screams out 'dirty girl'.
At the bar, peeking over a pair of thong panties, it's like watching a suffocating butterfly attempting to take flight. At the beach, where the stamp in its entirety is displayed for the rest of the world to gaze upon. I don't want to see TINK flying above your crack.
I cover my stretch marks so you don't have to endure those, please show me the same courtesy.
2. Onto the next creepy thing: too much 'work' done. Plastic surgeons can fix ANYthing now. Got a forehead that hangs down so low, you can't pass the vision test at the DMV while renewing your license? BOTOX! Got boobies that resemble wet tube socks that just came out of the washing machine? AUGMENTATION! Got a tummy that you must stuff into your grandma panties even though you've lost 100 pounds? Not referring to anyone in particular here...TUCK IT!
Listen up people. The whole point of having some body part fixed, lifted, or refreshed, should NOT be obvious to the average onlooker. That's like saying I can walk into the doc's office looking like Jimeny Cricket, and strut out looking like Hugh Jackman.
MMMMM....Hugh Jackman.
1. This brings me to the most offensive thing that creeps me out to my very core. Being close to 40 years old, I welcome an occasional whistle from the passing car. Don't deny it ladies, you know it makes ya feel sorta hot.
But what's up, when some dude thinks it's his duty to cat call me while I am very obviously PREGNANT? Creeeepy. I think it's appropriate to use the same verbiage I scream out to my 4 year old when she is about to run out into oncoming traffic: NOT OKAY!!!!!!!
The slimy offender, with no moral sense, is riding in some sort of truck, or raised vehicle, to obviously compensate for his small manhood. Usually there are garden tools, paint buckets, or a pit bull riding shot-gun.
Hey man, I'm just trying to get my four mile waddle in, while keeping the garden hose intact... just be respectful. I will repeat, this is NOT OKAY!
Except maybe, coming from a High School Senior...
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Doctor HOT
Most pregos crave things like, triple layer chocolate brownie fudge cake. Or Spicy Cheetos. Or Doritos slathered in Cheez Whiz. Or iodized salt, right from the shaker. Not me.
I'm craving beer. And not just any beer will do. I want Blue Moon. It's not fair God dammit.
So I decided to discuss the cruelty of this situation with my Gynecologist. Who, by the way, is the cutest little Indian woman that you will ever meet in your life. She has a receding hairline, and is old enough to be my mom, but speaks to me like an equal. I am sure that she silently prays that one day, I will find a birth control method that actually works.
Me: Soooo, Dr.C, I'm really craving beer right now. I can have one or two, right? (notice how I don't clarify per hour, per day, or per week).
Dr.C: One or two a week is okay. You must be making a man in there.
Confession: I have already had a few beers during the course of this pregnancy. But I wanted Dr.C's blessing. And before you go casting stones, I gave up EVERYthing during my pregnancy with the twins, and THEY are my kids with learning challenges. So I view each pregnancy sort of like a science experiment now.
Me: I'm painting right now. That's okay, right? It's NOT oil based paint.
Dr.C: Yeah, yeah. Just wear a mask if the fumes are bothering you.
See, this is what I LOOOOVE about my doctor. She's just chill. She doesn't freak out that I'm painting or drinking beer. In fact, I bet if I told her I wanted to sky dive tomorrow, she would tandem jump with me, "just in case".
A lot of people dis Kaiser, but the truth of the matter is, finding the right doctor is key. And believe me, they have a list of like 1.000,000 to choose from.
In addition to seeing Dr.C that morning, I had another appointment scheduled as well. With a different doctor. A surgeon. And man, is he easy on the eyes! Let's call him Dr.Hawt. Or Dr.Handsome. Or HOLY SHIT! You're MY doctor?! Hells yes!
You see, each subsequent pregnancy brings a new gift. My first pregnancy left stretch marks that spared not one square inch of skin, leaving me looking like The Rainbow Fish.
The second time around, I developed the "Mask of Pregnancy", which sort of left me looking like I needed to shave a 5 o'clock shadow, even though I am a WOman.
My last pregnancy left me with my uterus being practically catapulted out of my body if I sneezed. God forbid, if while writing a check one day for my groceries at Safeway, I cough. "CLEAN UP AT CHECK STAND 5! We've got a uterus on the floor!" I'm going to market a uterus hammock for women who have had 3 or more kids, I swear.
This time around, I have been the lucky recipient of yet another, pregnancy induced condition: varicose veins the size of a Home Depot garden hose. And Dr.Hottie, who is a vascular surgeon, just happens to be the same man who took my dad's leg off. So he agreed to examine my garden hose.
I will never forget the first time my dad introduced my brothers and I to Dr.Hot Stuff. Up walked this rather tall, confident, but YOUNG man. Like really YOUNG. Like, does this guy even have his Driver's Permit yet? YOUNG.
Really? I thought to myself. You are a surgeon?! Cause you look like maybe you just got off your shift from Orange Julius an hour ago.
Fast forward ten years, and Dr.Anytime is the Right Time, is like extended family now. He and my dad are buds. The Silver Fox and my dad even went to Dr.Hottie's wedding. Dr.Handsome's wife sold my folks house in Campbell. Like I said, we're sort of like family.
But I can't help but think sometimes...if I wasn't married...and he wasn't married...and I wasn't pregnant AGAIN with my husband's child...well, just maybe. Sigh.
After having a rather detailed ultrasound of the garden hose, Dr. "I Think of Hugh Jackman, When I See You", met with me in his office.
Me, in a frantic tone: Everything's alright, RIGHT?
Dr.Hot: Oh yes. This is not a situation like your dad's was at all. Do you mind if I take a look at the area?
Me: Sure. (mind you, "the area" is basically between my legs, located just beneath my uterus hammock. My only thought was, thank God I wore underwear. But he's a doctor, so it was totally fine...still....)
Dr.Hot: After you deliver, if you'd like to, I can remove that vein.
Me: Sounds good. What about these? (I say, referring to a patch of spider veins that have left that bottom part of my calf looking like someone has clubbed me with a bat)
Dr. Hot: Those veins will most likely dissipate after delivery, but probably won't completely go away. That is more of a cosmetic situation.
GOD DAMMIT!!! This was the news I had feared. In my mind, I was thinking, let's bang this all out at once. If you're going to remove the garden hose, can't you just take care of those too? And how about a boob lift and tummy tuck, while we're at it? I'd also like to get my teeth whitened and a spray on tan. COME ON!
My visit with Dr.Lovely ended with a hug, and a promise that I would tell my dad to call him soon.
I'll be honest, five hours spent at Kaiser on a spectacular sunny day is NOT my idea of a great time. But it could of been worse. Dr. C could have told me that beer is completely off limits. And Dr.Hot Stuff could have never been born. I mean, I can't complain.
But when I do go back to have this garden hose removed, you better believe I'll be rocking a cocktail dress.
* No doctors were injured or hurt in any way during the creation of this blog. For those of you who know Dr. Hot by his real name, he has politely asked to remain ANONYMOUS. Hmmm...I wonder why.
I'm craving beer. And not just any beer will do. I want Blue Moon. It's not fair God dammit.
So I decided to discuss the cruelty of this situation with my Gynecologist. Who, by the way, is the cutest little Indian woman that you will ever meet in your life. She has a receding hairline, and is old enough to be my mom, but speaks to me like an equal. I am sure that she silently prays that one day, I will find a birth control method that actually works.
Me: Soooo, Dr.C, I'm really craving beer right now. I can have one or two, right? (notice how I don't clarify per hour, per day, or per week).
Dr.C: One or two a week is okay. You must be making a man in there.
Confession: I have already had a few beers during the course of this pregnancy. But I wanted Dr.C's blessing. And before you go casting stones, I gave up EVERYthing during my pregnancy with the twins, and THEY are my kids with learning challenges. So I view each pregnancy sort of like a science experiment now.
Me: I'm painting right now. That's okay, right? It's NOT oil based paint.
Dr.C: Yeah, yeah. Just wear a mask if the fumes are bothering you.
See, this is what I LOOOOVE about my doctor. She's just chill. She doesn't freak out that I'm painting or drinking beer. In fact, I bet if I told her I wanted to sky dive tomorrow, she would tandem jump with me, "just in case".
A lot of people dis Kaiser, but the truth of the matter is, finding the right doctor is key. And believe me, they have a list of like 1.000,000 to choose from.
In addition to seeing Dr.C that morning, I had another appointment scheduled as well. With a different doctor. A surgeon. And man, is he easy on the eyes! Let's call him Dr.Hawt. Or Dr.Handsome. Or HOLY SHIT! You're MY doctor?! Hells yes!
You see, each subsequent pregnancy brings a new gift. My first pregnancy left stretch marks that spared not one square inch of skin, leaving me looking like The Rainbow Fish.
The second time around, I developed the "Mask of Pregnancy", which sort of left me looking like I needed to shave a 5 o'clock shadow, even though I am a WOman.
My last pregnancy left me with my uterus being practically catapulted out of my body if I sneezed. God forbid, if while writing a check one day for my groceries at Safeway, I cough. "CLEAN UP AT CHECK STAND 5! We've got a uterus on the floor!" I'm going to market a uterus hammock for women who have had 3 or more kids, I swear.
This time around, I have been the lucky recipient of yet another, pregnancy induced condition: varicose veins the size of a Home Depot garden hose. And Dr.Hottie, who is a vascular surgeon, just happens to be the same man who took my dad's leg off. So he agreed to examine my garden hose.
I will never forget the first time my dad introduced my brothers and I to Dr.Hot Stuff. Up walked this rather tall, confident, but YOUNG man. Like really YOUNG. Like, does this guy even have his Driver's Permit yet? YOUNG.
Really? I thought to myself. You are a surgeon?! Cause you look like maybe you just got off your shift from Orange Julius an hour ago.
Fast forward ten years, and Dr.Anytime is the Right Time, is like extended family now. He and my dad are buds. The Silver Fox and my dad even went to Dr.Hottie's wedding. Dr.Handsome's wife sold my folks house in Campbell. Like I said, we're sort of like family.
But I can't help but think sometimes...if I wasn't married...and he wasn't married...and I wasn't pregnant AGAIN with my husband's child...well, just maybe. Sigh.
After having a rather detailed ultrasound of the garden hose, Dr. "I Think of Hugh Jackman, When I See You", met with me in his office.
Me, in a frantic tone: Everything's alright, RIGHT?
Dr.Hot: Oh yes. This is not a situation like your dad's was at all. Do you mind if I take a look at the area?
Me: Sure. (mind you, "the area" is basically between my legs, located just beneath my uterus hammock. My only thought was, thank God I wore underwear. But he's a doctor, so it was totally fine...still....)
Dr.Hot: After you deliver, if you'd like to, I can remove that vein.
Me: Sounds good. What about these? (I say, referring to a patch of spider veins that have left that bottom part of my calf looking like someone has clubbed me with a bat)
Dr. Hot: Those veins will most likely dissipate after delivery, but probably won't completely go away. That is more of a cosmetic situation.
GOD DAMMIT!!! This was the news I had feared. In my mind, I was thinking, let's bang this all out at once. If you're going to remove the garden hose, can't you just take care of those too? And how about a boob lift and tummy tuck, while we're at it? I'd also like to get my teeth whitened and a spray on tan. COME ON!
My visit with Dr.Lovely ended with a hug, and a promise that I would tell my dad to call him soon.
I'll be honest, five hours spent at Kaiser on a spectacular sunny day is NOT my idea of a great time. But it could of been worse. Dr. C could have told me that beer is completely off limits. And Dr.Hot Stuff could have never been born. I mean, I can't complain.
But when I do go back to have this garden hose removed, you better believe I'll be rocking a cocktail dress.
* No doctors were injured or hurt in any way during the creation of this blog. For those of you who know Dr. Hot by his real name, he has politely asked to remain ANONYMOUS. Hmmm...I wonder why.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
My Dad
A dad can be so many things to a little girl growing up: a fixer of broken things, a soccer coach, a handle bar holding supporter, for your first bike ride, without training wheels. My dad has been all of those things and so much more.
I didn't realize until I became an adult, that not all little girls had a daddy as loving, gentle and supportive as mine. Which makes me appreciate him all the more as I have grown into a woman. As I watch my husband with our own girls, I am reminded daily of just HOW important that person is in our lives. So that we can grow up strong, confident, fierce, and sure of ourselves. Mamas mold their daughters, but daddies do too...in a different way.
Anyone who knows my dad, understands that he is unique. He's LOUD. He loves to laugh. He's bald. And he just happens to have one leg.
I never had to "be" someone other than just who I was during childhood, for my dad. And honestly, growing up being the only girl and baby in the family, SO worked out to my benefit.
One of my most prominent memories is my dad cheering from the sidelines of my soccer, volleyball, and basketball games. He wasn't just yelling for me; he was belting it out for ALL the girls. My dad understood the importance of feeling validated. And even if you totally sucked at something, he would find a way to make you feel good about how you tried your best.
In fact, that is the most important lesson I have learned from my dad: making mistakes is okay; it's how we grow. I mean, how can you possibly go wrong with that advice? I was given permission to screw up to become a better person...cool.
My dad taught me how to ride my first two wheeler: a scarlet, red ride, with a flowered banana seat, called The Prairie Flower. Although my new bike rocked (remember this was the 70's), I was totally intimidated. This was uncharted territory in my 6 years on the planet. My dad, assured me that I would learn how to ride this bike. It was okay if I fell, or felt nervous. I would do it.
See, here's the thing, I wasn't sure I could ride The Prairie Flower, but he WAS. Did I fall? Did I crash into a few parked cars? Did I scrape my knees into bloody open wounds? I'm sure I did. But I don't remember that part of the experience.
Here is what is etched perfectly in my memory: my dad running beside me, and then letting go of my handle bars. I thought, I am riding my bike! No training wheels! I'm flying! Oh shit, how do I stop?
About ten years ago, after a long bout with circulatory issues, my dad had a below the knee amputation. This was not an easy decision. Nor one that was made lightly. But my dad understood one thing: he must go through this, in order to heal, and move on with his life. My husband and I spent some time with him at the hospital the night before the big surgery, and when a nurse walked into the room, I requested a Sharpie marker.
On the bottom of his "good" foot, I wrote, "NO!!! Wrong one silly!" And on the bottom of the foot that was to be removed, I wrote, "Na, na, na, na - Na, na, na, na - Hey, Hey, Hey, Good-bye!" Yes, it was a joke, but I also wanted to ensure the correct leg was removed. My dad was laughing, and game for this joke the whole time. He was dying to know what his doctor's reaction to that was going to be on the operating table.
My dad's attitude during the entirety of this situation taught me who he really is. His faith remained strong, as he not only dealt with the grieving loss of his leg, but the brutal recovery process, as well. After about 6 months had passed, my dad set his sights on one goal: to walk unassisted, with his new prosthesis, before the twins took their first steps. Guess who won?
About 8 years ago, after watching my dad's success on Weight Watchers, I decided to join. I had just given birth to my third daughter, Emma, and had close to 100 pounds to lose. Wednesday was my weigh-in day. And do you know who I called after every single meeting? My dad. "Dad, I lost 1.2 lbs this week. That brings me to 12 pounds." This was great news and all, but I still had a loooong way to go on this journey. His response was always supportive, "You GO babe! You got this!"
When I got to my goal weight, I called him, practically in tears. "Dad, I think I want to work for the company." Dad said, "You should do it babe. You are so motivating. Look at how much weight you've lost! You would be perfect as a leader." Not much had changed. Here was dad encouraging me like he did in my childhood, when in reality, I was a grown woman.
More often than not, I find that I still need that non-judgemental, encouraging type of love, that comes only from a parent's heart.
About 2 years ago, I received a phone call from my mom that was life-changing. Calmly, she explained that my dad had been bleeding internally, and was in emergency surgery at Kaiser. I tailspinned. I lost connection with reality. I cried uncontrollably.
Shortly after reaching the hospital, dad came out of surgery. He asked for me. I went in, solo, shaking. My dad was laying on the bed, under the blanket. My hero, was weak, and dazed. Had he not gotten to the hospital in time, surely the ending would be different. This was just too close to home. I had friends who lost their parents, but I just guess I had the naive notion, that mine were immortal.
Not so. My dad looked up at me. Holding my hand, he told me how much he loved me. Trying not to totally lose it, I squeezed back, assuring him through teary eyes, that yes, I loved him too. More than he could ever imagine.
My dad has since made a full recovery. And we never end a phone call without saying "I love you." Things have changed. Forever. It is understood, without question, that nothing is promised.
Is any one's family perfect? Hardly. But I am so blessed to have mine.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
I didn't realize until I became an adult, that not all little girls had a daddy as loving, gentle and supportive as mine. Which makes me appreciate him all the more as I have grown into a woman. As I watch my husband with our own girls, I am reminded daily of just HOW important that person is in our lives. So that we can grow up strong, confident, fierce, and sure of ourselves. Mamas mold their daughters, but daddies do too...in a different way.
Anyone who knows my dad, understands that he is unique. He's LOUD. He loves to laugh. He's bald. And he just happens to have one leg.
I never had to "be" someone other than just who I was during childhood, for my dad. And honestly, growing up being the only girl and baby in the family, SO worked out to my benefit.
One of my most prominent memories is my dad cheering from the sidelines of my soccer, volleyball, and basketball games. He wasn't just yelling for me; he was belting it out for ALL the girls. My dad understood the importance of feeling validated. And even if you totally sucked at something, he would find a way to make you feel good about how you tried your best.
In fact, that is the most important lesson I have learned from my dad: making mistakes is okay; it's how we grow. I mean, how can you possibly go wrong with that advice? I was given permission to screw up to become a better person...cool.
My dad taught me how to ride my first two wheeler: a scarlet, red ride, with a flowered banana seat, called The Prairie Flower. Although my new bike rocked (remember this was the 70's), I was totally intimidated. This was uncharted territory in my 6 years on the planet. My dad, assured me that I would learn how to ride this bike. It was okay if I fell, or felt nervous. I would do it.
See, here's the thing, I wasn't sure I could ride The Prairie Flower, but he WAS. Did I fall? Did I crash into a few parked cars? Did I scrape my knees into bloody open wounds? I'm sure I did. But I don't remember that part of the experience.
Here is what is etched perfectly in my memory: my dad running beside me, and then letting go of my handle bars. I thought, I am riding my bike! No training wheels! I'm flying! Oh shit, how do I stop?
About ten years ago, after a long bout with circulatory issues, my dad had a below the knee amputation. This was not an easy decision. Nor one that was made lightly. But my dad understood one thing: he must go through this, in order to heal, and move on with his life. My husband and I spent some time with him at the hospital the night before the big surgery, and when a nurse walked into the room, I requested a Sharpie marker.
On the bottom of his "good" foot, I wrote, "NO!!! Wrong one silly!" And on the bottom of the foot that was to be removed, I wrote, "Na, na, na, na - Na, na, na, na - Hey, Hey, Hey, Good-bye!" Yes, it was a joke, but I also wanted to ensure the correct leg was removed. My dad was laughing, and game for this joke the whole time. He was dying to know what his doctor's reaction to that was going to be on the operating table.
My dad's attitude during the entirety of this situation taught me who he really is. His faith remained strong, as he not only dealt with the grieving loss of his leg, but the brutal recovery process, as well. After about 6 months had passed, my dad set his sights on one goal: to walk unassisted, with his new prosthesis, before the twins took their first steps. Guess who won?
About 8 years ago, after watching my dad's success on Weight Watchers, I decided to join. I had just given birth to my third daughter, Emma, and had close to 100 pounds to lose. Wednesday was my weigh-in day. And do you know who I called after every single meeting? My dad. "Dad, I lost 1.2 lbs this week. That brings me to 12 pounds." This was great news and all, but I still had a loooong way to go on this journey. His response was always supportive, "You GO babe! You got this!"
When I got to my goal weight, I called him, practically in tears. "Dad, I think I want to work for the company." Dad said, "You should do it babe. You are so motivating. Look at how much weight you've lost! You would be perfect as a leader." Not much had changed. Here was dad encouraging me like he did in my childhood, when in reality, I was a grown woman.
More often than not, I find that I still need that non-judgemental, encouraging type of love, that comes only from a parent's heart.
About 2 years ago, I received a phone call from my mom that was life-changing. Calmly, she explained that my dad had been bleeding internally, and was in emergency surgery at Kaiser. I tailspinned. I lost connection with reality. I cried uncontrollably.
Shortly after reaching the hospital, dad came out of surgery. He asked for me. I went in, solo, shaking. My dad was laying on the bed, under the blanket. My hero, was weak, and dazed. Had he not gotten to the hospital in time, surely the ending would be different. This was just too close to home. I had friends who lost their parents, but I just guess I had the naive notion, that mine were immortal.
Not so. My dad looked up at me. Holding my hand, he told me how much he loved me. Trying not to totally lose it, I squeezed back, assuring him through teary eyes, that yes, I loved him too. More than he could ever imagine.
My dad has since made a full recovery. And we never end a phone call without saying "I love you." Things have changed. Forever. It is understood, without question, that nothing is promised.
Is any one's family perfect? Hardly. But I am so blessed to have mine.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
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