So I'm struggling right now.
Not with alcoholic consumption before noon. I'm stronger than that...most of the time.
Not with finding an effective birth control method. Snip. Snip. Finally, I'm safe.
No, I'm struggling with a biggie here: religion.
Most of you already know, I grew up Catholic. But as I have gotten older, I don't necessarily feel connected to God at church. Rather, I feel the most connected with the Big Man, when I'm out amongst the green carpet of fresh grass and blooming wildflowers outside in nature.
I kid you not, some Sundays come and Tom loads up the girlie's and takes them to church, and I go off on a hike with Charlotte.
It's just where I'm at right now, that's all. Simply put, I am a spiritual person, not necessarily, a hell and brimstone, religious one. However, I totally dig Mother Mary, and Jesus, while definitely trying to be open to other religions.
One day, as Emma intently examined The Last Supper portrait hanging on our wall (once a Catholic, always a Catholic), she looked to me and asked, "Mama, what's Jesus doing here?"
"Well honey, this is the last time he had dinner with his friends, the Disciples," I answered.
"Why Mama? Why was it the last time he ate with his friends?" she asked.
Oh shit, here it comes, I thought. How do you word "he was crucified and died on a cross for your sins" in a kid-friendly sort of way?
"The next day, he died on the cross," I said simply.
Emma looked at me. She looked at The Last Supper. She looked back at me, tears welling up in her eyes.
"Oh but WAIT!!!" I said, excitedly, "Listen to THIS! It was like the best magic trick EVER! Do you know what happened 3 days later?" I was trying to give her the facts, but keep it light.
"Jesus ROSE up from the dead!!! (this was the non-Da Vinci Code version, alright?) Can you believe that? Isn't that GREAT?! And that, baby girl, is why we celebrate Easter."
I was invited to have lunch with some ladies recently, where we would be discussing Easter traditions. The table was set simply, but with beautiful fresh cut flowers. Fruit and yummy burritos were served. And I walked in carrying Charlotte and a six pack of beer. Hey, it was 1 o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon, but it's all good, right?
I'm not sure you could call the "Doom and Gloom" of Lent a tradition. I've never been good with someone telling me I have to give something up, so instead, I try to just be more mindful during Lent. I try to just more aware. I try to be more in the moment.
Like helping Cosette tie her shoes, instead of sighing in frustration at her inability to do so. Breathing calmly, when after changing a dirty tablecloth for a clean one (one that perhaps doesn't have syrup stuck to the place mats), only to have one of the girls spill a glass of milk all over it. And so it goes, right?
Tom and I try to also instill this value in the girls, because after all, isn't that what we should be going for on this journey? But I am open to anything that will make biblical stories (yaaaawn), more engaging and fun!
Anyways, these ladies brought up the coolest idea, and I'm sure some of you already know about these: Resurrection Eggs. The concept is very simple and tangible for kids and adults alike: there are 12 plastic eggs, and inside of each one, is a symbol of Jesus's journey until Easter day. I got mine at a Christian book store, since I was a Resurrection Egg virgin, but you can just as easily make them.
For those of you that are interested, here is what is inside of each egg, numbered 1-12.
1. A small toy donkey (Jesus rode this into the city)
2. Silver coins (Judas betrayed Jesus with 30 silver coins)
3. Cup (used at The Last Supper)
4. Praying Hands (Jesus praying to God in the garden, knowing what was about to happen)
5. Leather Whip (Pilate had Jesus whipped)
6. Crown of Thorns (soldiers, mocking him, placed this on his head)
7. Nails of the cross (Jesus was made to carry his cross, before being nailed to it)
8. Die (the soldiers were playing a game and taking bets, to see who could "win" Jesus' tunic)
9. Spear (one soldier stabbed Jesus in the side with a spear)
10. Linen cloth (what Jesus was wrapped in after death)
11. Stone (used as a door for Jesus's tomb, which an angel later rolled away)
12. Empty (as the tomb was)
For the very first time in my life, I understand the story of Easter! Call me slow, but hey man, I'm fired up!
You can hide the eggs, or pull one out at dinner time, letting each kid take a turn. Or you could even have the kids make their own treasure box with all 12 symbols inside. That way, you don't have to hear, "I want to hold the DONKEY!!!!! You got to open the EGG!!! It's MY turn," as you share the story and joy of our risen Lord.
Happy Easter everyone!
Friday, April 22, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
Little House Lives On
For Halloween, most kids want to dress up like Darth Vadar, a miniature Twilight Vampire, Batman, or a "Diva" who's wearing a glittered mid driff shirt, while clutching a sequined microphone.
Not the Walsh girls! Oh no! A very good friend introduced them to the Little House On the Prairie series about 4 years ago, and it's been all downhill since then. The Walsh sisters encompassed Ma, Mary, Laura (before blindness set in), and Carrie this past Halloween, when my Auntie was kind enough to make their costumes. Without a pattern. From scratch. Bonnets, aprons, and all.
On any given day, I am re-living my own childhood,, as I sit and watch THE show that I grew up with. Little House, with it's wholesome values, and God fearing men, was pretty much one of the only TV shows that passed with Foxy's approval, and I was allowed to watch with wild abandon. Fond memories, they are. In case you were wondering, The Waltons and The Brady Bunch came in a close second.
But let me tell you what's changed and gotten even better over the last 3 decades regarding Little House: watching Pa chop wood. Just saying. I go into each episode, holding my breath with the anticipation that maybe, I will be graced with Michael Landon's bronzed chest, glistening with perspiration, as he swings his big ax. Hey man, chopping wood isn't for wimps.
Anyhoo, getting back to my story. So, over Spring Break, I decide to take the girls to San Jose History Park. I've never been there, but I've heard that it's cool. And as I pull into the lot, I see a replica of old town San Jose, complete with a gas station, post office, homes with wrap around porches, and a train.
But what I didn't see, was something that left my girls speaking in COULD THIS REALLY BE HAPPENING TO US? tones.
"Mom, oh my gosh. Oh my gosh!"
"What?" I put the truck in park.
"There's a COVERED WAGON!!!!! Kids are wearing BONNETS!!!! There's a wooden SHACK!!!!"
The Walsh girls bolted from our vehicle before I even had my seat belt unbuckled. I mean, as far as they were concerned, we had just fucking entered Walnut Grove. Word to your Ma.
I finally caught up with Charlotte in the stroller a good 5 minutes later. As I approached, I saw a young male docent who could maybe drink legally, but it was difficult to tell. And he was speaking in a hushed tone too...but he was no match for my girls. And he certainly wasn't chopping any wood.
"Um girls, we have a class going on right now," he looked to me for back up, as all 4 blond heads pop out from the back of the covered wagon, "but you can come back in just a little while."
Seeing that this was going nowhere quick, because clearly my girls believed that Nellie Olson was somewhere on the premises...she just HAD to be, I looked at him and calmly explained, "You have to understand. They dressed up in Little House costumes for Halloween."
I mean, who does that? Do other kids, pull up in their moms SUV and literally FREAK out with enthusiasm over a covered wagon and a wooden shack? I think we may be a bit extreme in that department. I do believe that if there was some sort of award for enthusiasm, we would win it.
Case in point. We're at the library a day later. All 4 have found a good book and a nook to devour their latest read. I'm tucked into a back corner while nursing Charlotte, donning my Hooter Hider, and reading out loud to Cozy, yet another Disney Princess book of crap. When all of a sudden, a monochromatic voice comes over the loud speaker.
"Hello friends of the Willow Glen Library. In just five minutes, we'll be making Origami collages in the Community Room. Please join us for this marvelous opportunity."
My girls reaction, much like the covered wagon, was off the hook. It's like someone just announced that ice cream was now a staple food in our diet for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
"On my gosh Mom. Can I go? It's ORIGAMI HOUR!!!!"
Charlotte popped off my breast, as if saying, "Well hurry up woman, paper making creations are about to take place. MOOVE IT!"
So there I was, once again, trying to gather up our belongings in a hurried fashion, not even fully checking to make sure my breasts had made it back inside of my shirt, as I stumbled into the Community Room with my nursing cape on backwards. Charlotte had lost a sock in the upheaval, and who knew where all the books that we had the intention to check out had gone to. It's didn't matter, man. Origami magic was about to take flight.
So I guess my point is, well, I don't really have one. My girls are funny. They love the simple stuff. In fact, just today, I had to stop them cold turkey at Costco from taking no less than a dozen cardboard boxes.
"Mom, please? Pleeease? Can we take some boxes?"
You're wondering what's the big deal, right? Well, I'll tell you. We've had every sort of box from Pizza to tampon boxes made into SOME thing. But it's a something that requires 10 rolls of tape, 2 staplers, and my good scissors.
I try not to squash the enthusiasm too much, but I would like to have access to a roll of scotch tape that hasn't been fully utilized to make a cardboard city, you know?
Maybe I'm asking too much. But I'm pretty sure, that one day I'll look back on this fleeting time of pure innocence and long for it to come back...huh? Probably right around the time the twins turn 13, and are pulling the same pranks I did with Foxy.
Oh God help me.
Not the Walsh girls! Oh no! A very good friend introduced them to the Little House On the Prairie series about 4 years ago, and it's been all downhill since then. The Walsh sisters encompassed Ma, Mary, Laura (before blindness set in), and Carrie this past Halloween, when my Auntie was kind enough to make their costumes. Without a pattern. From scratch. Bonnets, aprons, and all.
On any given day, I am re-living my own childhood,, as I sit and watch THE show that I grew up with. Little House, with it's wholesome values, and God fearing men, was pretty much one of the only TV shows that passed with Foxy's approval, and I was allowed to watch with wild abandon. Fond memories, they are. In case you were wondering, The Waltons and The Brady Bunch came in a close second.
But let me tell you what's changed and gotten even better over the last 3 decades regarding Little House: watching Pa chop wood. Just saying. I go into each episode, holding my breath with the anticipation that maybe, I will be graced with Michael Landon's bronzed chest, glistening with perspiration, as he swings his big ax. Hey man, chopping wood isn't for wimps.
Anyhoo, getting back to my story. So, over Spring Break, I decide to take the girls to San Jose History Park. I've never been there, but I've heard that it's cool. And as I pull into the lot, I see a replica of old town San Jose, complete with a gas station, post office, homes with wrap around porches, and a train.
But what I didn't see, was something that left my girls speaking in COULD THIS REALLY BE HAPPENING TO US? tones.
"Mom, oh my gosh. Oh my gosh!"
"What?" I put the truck in park.
"There's a COVERED WAGON!!!!! Kids are wearing BONNETS!!!! There's a wooden SHACK!!!!"
The Walsh girls bolted from our vehicle before I even had my seat belt unbuckled. I mean, as far as they were concerned, we had just fucking entered Walnut Grove. Word to your Ma.
I finally caught up with Charlotte in the stroller a good 5 minutes later. As I approached, I saw a young male docent who could maybe drink legally, but it was difficult to tell. And he was speaking in a hushed tone too...but he was no match for my girls. And he certainly wasn't chopping any wood.
"Um girls, we have a class going on right now," he looked to me for back up, as all 4 blond heads pop out from the back of the covered wagon, "but you can come back in just a little while."
Seeing that this was going nowhere quick, because clearly my girls believed that Nellie Olson was somewhere on the premises...she just HAD to be, I looked at him and calmly explained, "You have to understand. They dressed up in Little House costumes for Halloween."
I mean, who does that? Do other kids, pull up in their moms SUV and literally FREAK out with enthusiasm over a covered wagon and a wooden shack? I think we may be a bit extreme in that department. I do believe that if there was some sort of award for enthusiasm, we would win it.
Case in point. We're at the library a day later. All 4 have found a good book and a nook to devour their latest read. I'm tucked into a back corner while nursing Charlotte, donning my Hooter Hider, and reading out loud to Cozy, yet another Disney Princess book of crap. When all of a sudden, a monochromatic voice comes over the loud speaker.
"Hello friends of the Willow Glen Library. In just five minutes, we'll be making Origami collages in the Community Room. Please join us for this marvelous opportunity."
My girls reaction, much like the covered wagon, was off the hook. It's like someone just announced that ice cream was now a staple food in our diet for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
"On my gosh Mom. Can I go? It's ORIGAMI HOUR!!!!"
Charlotte popped off my breast, as if saying, "Well hurry up woman, paper making creations are about to take place. MOOVE IT!"
So there I was, once again, trying to gather up our belongings in a hurried fashion, not even fully checking to make sure my breasts had made it back inside of my shirt, as I stumbled into the Community Room with my nursing cape on backwards. Charlotte had lost a sock in the upheaval, and who knew where all the books that we had the intention to check out had gone to. It's didn't matter, man. Origami magic was about to take flight.
So I guess my point is, well, I don't really have one. My girls are funny. They love the simple stuff. In fact, just today, I had to stop them cold turkey at Costco from taking no less than a dozen cardboard boxes.
"Mom, please? Pleeease? Can we take some boxes?"
You're wondering what's the big deal, right? Well, I'll tell you. We've had every sort of box from Pizza to tampon boxes made into SOME thing. But it's a something that requires 10 rolls of tape, 2 staplers, and my good scissors.
I try not to squash the enthusiasm too much, but I would like to have access to a roll of scotch tape that hasn't been fully utilized to make a cardboard city, you know?
Maybe I'm asking too much. But I'm pretty sure, that one day I'll look back on this fleeting time of pure innocence and long for it to come back...huh? Probably right around the time the twins turn 13, and are pulling the same pranks I did with Foxy.
Oh God help me.
Monday, April 11, 2011
To Have and To Hold
From this day forward. In sickness and in health. In good times and bad times. FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIVES. Ah marriage... no pressure.
I had the amazing opportunity to attend a dear friend's wedding this past weekend. I can't even tell you the last time I went to such a blessed event. Thirteen years into my own marriage, it's like the sands of time have come and gone, and everyone that I know has already gotten hitched.
Give me an excuse to eat, drink, dance and basically have a kick-ass time, and I'm there. But this wedding was especially lovely. This couple is unique. This bride and groom are about my age, and they truly played the waiting game to hold out for that perfect person.
You see, I was one of the first friends to meet "The Guy". It just so happened that it was on the night of my birthday, after consuming lots of red wine.
"The Guy" met us out at Number One Broadway in Los Gatos, on a Friday night, after a loooong work week. By the time he arrived, we were all at least 6 drinks ahead of him. "Well, lookey what we have here," I thought to myself. Let's see if "The Guy" passes my test.
Now keep in mind, my girlfriend and "The Guy" were not even officially dating yet. I mean, this was very fresh. Very new. Let's break him in, I thought. He hadn't even been in the club for more than 5 minutes, when I confidently stumbled up to him, made my introductions, and then said something to the effect of, "It's MY birthday, and YOU are going to dance with me." I'm sure it was about that same time, my girlfriend was asking why did she even come out that night.
But see, there was a method to my madness. My thought was simply this: if "The Guy" gets up, and dances with me without an excuse of "Oh no thank you, it's been a long week...let me just get a drink first", he's a KEEPER. He's unselfish. He's not arrogant. He doesn't care what he looks like next to a 6 foot tall glittered up birthday girl who shoulda been cut off about 2 hours ago. And a KEEPER he was. He got right up as I man-handled him to the dance floor, and grooved with me.
About a month later, I reported these extremely significant findings to my girlfriend. By that time, they were dating. I just kept saying, "He's a keeper, Jenn. He's a keeper," like I was some sort of Dating Expert. But after being single for THREE years, and holding out for Tom Walsh Super Genius, I like to think I sort of have an idea of what a Keeper looks, smells, and acts like.
A few weeks prior to the wedding, my girlfriend asked if I would mind making a few announcements during the reception. "Wow, what an honor. Of course!" I told her.
"Well," Jenn replied, "you were one of the first friends to meet Mark. We're not going to have a DJ, so I was thinking you could announce the Father-Daughter dance, the Mother-Son Dance, the bouquet and garter toss, and the cake cutting."
My first thought was, "Oh shit, a short dress and stilettos just isn't going to cut it for this. I hope I have a somewhat conservative dress and heels in my closet. And my second thought was, I can't get loaded. I need to be well-behaved." I mean, think about it: Drinking and then handing me a mic? Why did she think I was the right person for this job? Those 2 criteria alone, should have left her thinking that anyone would be a better pick.
But as the time approached, I tried not to worry too much about my part, because truth be told, the wedding day is ALL about the COUPLE. And as she walked down the aisle, I started sobbing like a baby. She was stunning. And I don't say that lightly....stunning! And he was angelic, sweet, and handsome. And as they embraced after seeing each other for the first time all gussied up, about to be wed, they truly looked at each other, as if saying, "Finally. I'm so glad I waited. I'm so blessed I found you. You are a keeper."
As they exchanged their vows, tears streamed down their cheeks, I was reminded that a wedding is such a concrete symbol of hope, faith, and opportunity to create a new life with another person. And being an attendee? Well, I felt like I got invited to watch a miracle take place.
Here's to Jenn and Mark! To a lifetime of love, forgiveness, being open to becoming humbled, learning, growing, and holding hands together. Ah yes... much love to you both!!
I had the amazing opportunity to attend a dear friend's wedding this past weekend. I can't even tell you the last time I went to such a blessed event. Thirteen years into my own marriage, it's like the sands of time have come and gone, and everyone that I know has already gotten hitched.
Give me an excuse to eat, drink, dance and basically have a kick-ass time, and I'm there. But this wedding was especially lovely. This couple is unique. This bride and groom are about my age, and they truly played the waiting game to hold out for that perfect person.
You see, I was one of the first friends to meet "The Guy". It just so happened that it was on the night of my birthday, after consuming lots of red wine.
"The Guy" met us out at Number One Broadway in Los Gatos, on a Friday night, after a loooong work week. By the time he arrived, we were all at least 6 drinks ahead of him. "Well, lookey what we have here," I thought to myself. Let's see if "The Guy" passes my test.
Now keep in mind, my girlfriend and "The Guy" were not even officially dating yet. I mean, this was very fresh. Very new. Let's break him in, I thought. He hadn't even been in the club for more than 5 minutes, when I confidently stumbled up to him, made my introductions, and then said something to the effect of, "It's MY birthday, and YOU are going to dance with me." I'm sure it was about that same time, my girlfriend was asking why did she even come out that night.
But see, there was a method to my madness. My thought was simply this: if "The Guy" gets up, and dances with me without an excuse of "Oh no thank you, it's been a long week...let me just get a drink first", he's a KEEPER. He's unselfish. He's not arrogant. He doesn't care what he looks like next to a 6 foot tall glittered up birthday girl who shoulda been cut off about 2 hours ago. And a KEEPER he was. He got right up as I man-handled him to the dance floor, and grooved with me.
About a month later, I reported these extremely significant findings to my girlfriend. By that time, they were dating. I just kept saying, "He's a keeper, Jenn. He's a keeper," like I was some sort of Dating Expert. But after being single for THREE years, and holding out for Tom Walsh Super Genius, I like to think I sort of have an idea of what a Keeper looks, smells, and acts like.
A few weeks prior to the wedding, my girlfriend asked if I would mind making a few announcements during the reception. "Wow, what an honor. Of course!" I told her.
"Well," Jenn replied, "you were one of the first friends to meet Mark. We're not going to have a DJ, so I was thinking you could announce the Father-Daughter dance, the Mother-Son Dance, the bouquet and garter toss, and the cake cutting."
My first thought was, "Oh shit, a short dress and stilettos just isn't going to cut it for this. I hope I have a somewhat conservative dress and heels in my closet. And my second thought was, I can't get loaded. I need to be well-behaved." I mean, think about it: Drinking and then handing me a mic? Why did she think I was the right person for this job? Those 2 criteria alone, should have left her thinking that anyone would be a better pick.
But as the time approached, I tried not to worry too much about my part, because truth be told, the wedding day is ALL about the COUPLE. And as she walked down the aisle, I started sobbing like a baby. She was stunning. And I don't say that lightly....stunning! And he was angelic, sweet, and handsome. And as they embraced after seeing each other for the first time all gussied up, about to be wed, they truly looked at each other, as if saying, "Finally. I'm so glad I waited. I'm so blessed I found you. You are a keeper."
As they exchanged their vows, tears streamed down their cheeks, I was reminded that a wedding is such a concrete symbol of hope, faith, and opportunity to create a new life with another person. And being an attendee? Well, I felt like I got invited to watch a miracle take place.
Here's to Jenn and Mark! To a lifetime of love, forgiveness, being open to becoming humbled, learning, growing, and holding hands together. Ah yes... much love to you both!!
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Lessons Learned
It seems as though on any given day, I learn a lesson of one sort or another. These are some of the little things that have actually "stuck" over the years.
Eating Jack in the Box after I've been drinking sounds like a good idea, but it REALLY isn't. The Ultimate Double Cheeseburger, with a large fry and a Diet Coke worked for me in my 20's, but not so much after 30. Now I just stumble to the fridge and eat, but try to make a sensible choice.
Understanding and accepting that my parenting skills will never work so miraculously that all 5 will be ZENNED out at the same time! I'm down with it. As long as all 5 don't go off and freak out simultaneously.
Picking up on how my anxiety over getting the laundry done, getting homework checked off, making dinner, or getting off to work on time, affects my kiddos. Just last week, I experienced an event TEN minutes before I was to be out the door for work. I was nowhere near being ready (didn't even have my make up on, and wasn't dressed yet), when Abby asked me for help with a Math word problem that had MULTIPLE steps. I was forced to take a deep breath, let shit go, and help my daughter, knowing that I would very well be late for work. BIG PICTURE, right?
3 drinks really IS just perfect for me. Consuming 4,5,or 6 alcoholic beverages is not going to make me feel more relaxed. Just hungover, tired, and crabby the next day. Oh, and drinking water between those drinks works for me too.
Giving myself permission to stop and walk during my run is an okay thing to do. Back in the day, I would have just powered through it, my internal monologue sounding like a Drill Sargent, "Stopping is for WIMPS! You're NOT tired. It's a figment of your imagination, WALSH!" Now I'm too tired and old to power through it. Taking a leisurely stroll followed by laying in the fetal position sounds much more appealing.
I'm convinced that I'm a better parent when I have ingested Vicodin. And I'm a stellar parent after I've taken a Vicodin AND a Vodka Cran. Okay, so I totally get how folks get hooked on prescription meds. And I'm pretty damn innocent when it comes to that kind of stuff. But if someone is gonna arm wrestle me for my Vicodin, I will cut you. I'm kidding. But not really.
Nothing could prepare me for teaching 6th grade in the East side. I can't believe that I thought that I had all the knowledge to dole out going into that profession. HARDEE HAR HAR. Those kids and their experiences humbled me daily.
Marriage is an interesting dance of recognizing and appreciating what Tom has to offer me, is what I lack, but what I need to grow.
Loving a grand baby has given me access to a piece of my heart I didn't even know existed . It's a deeper, different kind of love. I'm taking all that in right now.
When an elderly person corners me in the dairy section of Safeway, admiring Charlotte, and I may be rushed for time, I stop and recognize that it's a blessing. So what if I'm a running a bit late? It's the sweetest thing to watch.
Nothing life shattering. Just little lessons I've learned. Feel free to add your own!
Eating Jack in the Box after I've been drinking sounds like a good idea, but it REALLY isn't. The Ultimate Double Cheeseburger, with a large fry and a Diet Coke worked for me in my 20's, but not so much after 30. Now I just stumble to the fridge and eat, but try to make a sensible choice.
Understanding and accepting that my parenting skills will never work so miraculously that all 5 will be ZENNED out at the same time! I'm down with it. As long as all 5 don't go off and freak out simultaneously.
Picking up on how my anxiety over getting the laundry done, getting homework checked off, making dinner, or getting off to work on time, affects my kiddos. Just last week, I experienced an event TEN minutes before I was to be out the door for work. I was nowhere near being ready (didn't even have my make up on, and wasn't dressed yet), when Abby asked me for help with a Math word problem that had MULTIPLE steps. I was forced to take a deep breath, let shit go, and help my daughter, knowing that I would very well be late for work. BIG PICTURE, right?
3 drinks really IS just perfect for me. Consuming 4,5,or 6 alcoholic beverages is not going to make me feel more relaxed. Just hungover, tired, and crabby the next day. Oh, and drinking water between those drinks works for me too.
Giving myself permission to stop and walk during my run is an okay thing to do. Back in the day, I would have just powered through it, my internal monologue sounding like a Drill Sargent, "Stopping is for WIMPS! You're NOT tired. It's a figment of your imagination, WALSH!" Now I'm too tired and old to power through it. Taking a leisurely stroll followed by laying in the fetal position sounds much more appealing.
I'm convinced that I'm a better parent when I have ingested Vicodin. And I'm a stellar parent after I've taken a Vicodin AND a Vodka Cran. Okay, so I totally get how folks get hooked on prescription meds. And I'm pretty damn innocent when it comes to that kind of stuff. But if someone is gonna arm wrestle me for my Vicodin, I will cut you. I'm kidding. But not really.
Nothing could prepare me for teaching 6th grade in the East side. I can't believe that I thought that I had all the knowledge to dole out going into that profession. HARDEE HAR HAR. Those kids and their experiences humbled me daily.
Marriage is an interesting dance of recognizing and appreciating what Tom has to offer me, is what I lack, but what I need to grow.
Loving a grand baby has given me access to a piece of my heart I didn't even know existed . It's a deeper, different kind of love. I'm taking all that in right now.
When an elderly person corners me in the dairy section of Safeway, admiring Charlotte, and I may be rushed for time, I stop and recognize that it's a blessing. So what if I'm a running a bit late? It's the sweetest thing to watch.
Nothing life shattering. Just little lessons I've learned. Feel free to add your own!
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Rocken' it at the Booksin Ball
So I jacked up my knee again.
While out on a run?, you ask. I wish. Pushing my Baby Jogger up a hill? you inquire. Sadly, not. While participating in lunges?, to build my non-existent glutious maximus? Negative.
Did I re-injure my knee at The Booksin Ball after ingesting quite a lot of wine, and channeling my inner "Beyonce" while on the dance floor? Yes! Winner, winner, chicken dinner!
I guess getting parallel to the floor isn't so good for the old body. But let me tell you...I had a GREAT time. 'Til the next morning, when much to my detriment, I hobbled out of my bed like a 98 year old elderly woman.
Tom and I hadn't been out since the babe has been born, so I was more than ready to get glammed up and get my groove on. BTW, glam is code for: really short black dress, my Vegas heels, and painting glitter across my eyelids because I think I'm Ke$sha. Is that even how you spell her name?
I was a bit concerned though, when as we entered, and I saw some women wearing taffeta and sequined ball gowns, and some guys sporting tuxes, like at prom. WOW. Perhaps we are under-dressed, I thought.
But then, it happened. I turned around, and there before me, was a sight to behold: a 6 foot, 6 inch tall, kilt-wearing man, who was probably pushing 3 bills. If that dude could sport a skirt, I could most certainly wear my hooker gear. It was all good.
I loved that there was hair spray readily available in the bath rooms. I didn't love how there were bottles of wine on the table that we couldn't drink. Someone else had already purchased this wine. Well, here's my 2 cents: DON'T put alcohol on a table where inebriated people co-habitate, 'cause that's just asking for trouble. I loved the slide show. I didn't love that I saw the same pictures like 100 times while I was there. I loved that they had a DJ. I didn't love how the DJ only had vinyl. I was really looking forward to dancing to "Raise Your Glass". No can do. Dude had shit like, "Say You, Say Me," by Lionel Richie.
I'll be really honest. I didn't know what to expect that night. Booksin has a ton of parent volunteers. I'm talking a TON. We've got Cornerstone, and BESCA, and Walk-a-Thon peeps. We've got mama's who volunteer to be coaches, so my girls can participate in an after-school program called Girls on the Run. These people devote their lives so our school can be an amazing place.
And then there's me: the lady with all the kids, who just had ANOTHER baby, and makes her girls, gasp, walk across the grass to the car, so she doesn't have to get out.
I guess I was expecting folks to be sorta conservative, and mellow. But I'll tell you what...even the taffeta and sequined ladies got down on the dance floor. Come to think of it, so did Kilt-Man. In hindsight, it was very good that we said our good-byes before I pulled that dude out on the dance floor to swing me. 'Cause that's sorta where I was headed.
All in all, it was awesome night. It rocked. And I'm really glad that Tom and I left before I did something illegal.
While out on a run?, you ask. I wish. Pushing my Baby Jogger up a hill? you inquire. Sadly, not. While participating in lunges?, to build my non-existent glutious maximus? Negative.
Did I re-injure my knee at The Booksin Ball after ingesting quite a lot of wine, and channeling my inner "Beyonce" while on the dance floor? Yes! Winner, winner, chicken dinner!
I guess getting parallel to the floor isn't so good for the old body. But let me tell you...I had a GREAT time. 'Til the next morning, when much to my detriment, I hobbled out of my bed like a 98 year old elderly woman.
Tom and I hadn't been out since the babe has been born, so I was more than ready to get glammed up and get my groove on. BTW, glam is code for: really short black dress, my Vegas heels, and painting glitter across my eyelids because I think I'm Ke$sha. Is that even how you spell her name?
I was a bit concerned though, when as we entered, and I saw some women wearing taffeta and sequined ball gowns, and some guys sporting tuxes, like at prom. WOW. Perhaps we are under-dressed, I thought.
But then, it happened. I turned around, and there before me, was a sight to behold: a 6 foot, 6 inch tall, kilt-wearing man, who was probably pushing 3 bills. If that dude could sport a skirt, I could most certainly wear my hooker gear. It was all good.
I loved that there was hair spray readily available in the bath rooms. I didn't love how there were bottles of wine on the table that we couldn't drink. Someone else had already purchased this wine. Well, here's my 2 cents: DON'T put alcohol on a table where inebriated people co-habitate, 'cause that's just asking for trouble. I loved the slide show. I didn't love that I saw the same pictures like 100 times while I was there. I loved that they had a DJ. I didn't love how the DJ only had vinyl. I was really looking forward to dancing to "Raise Your Glass". No can do. Dude had shit like, "Say You, Say Me," by Lionel Richie.
I'll be really honest. I didn't know what to expect that night. Booksin has a ton of parent volunteers. I'm talking a TON. We've got Cornerstone, and BESCA, and Walk-a-Thon peeps. We've got mama's who volunteer to be coaches, so my girls can participate in an after-school program called Girls on the Run. These people devote their lives so our school can be an amazing place.
And then there's me: the lady with all the kids, who just had ANOTHER baby, and makes her girls, gasp, walk across the grass to the car, so she doesn't have to get out.
I guess I was expecting folks to be sorta conservative, and mellow. But I'll tell you what...even the taffeta and sequined ladies got down on the dance floor. Come to think of it, so did Kilt-Man. In hindsight, it was very good that we said our good-byes before I pulled that dude out on the dance floor to swing me. 'Cause that's sorta where I was headed.
All in all, it was awesome night. It rocked. And I'm really glad that Tom and I left before I did something illegal.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Forgotten
It seemed "ironic" to me that each and every time Isabella had a counseling appointment at Kaiser, her twin sister, Abigail, seized the opportunity to flip out in the waiting room.
The first time it happened as I was nursing Charlie, and was brought on by Emma chucking a block at her head, or something of that nature. The second time it happened, there was a direct correlation to frustration over homework. And the third time, well, the third time it happened, my eyes were finally opened and I noticed a pattern.
Hmmm, I thought, with all of my mommy intuition (that I seemed to be lacking), I think there may be something going on here with Abby. Maybe I should get her into the counselor also. And while we're at it, can Mommy have a mental health check too?
And so it was set. The next time Bella had an appointment, Abby would join her. Now the next time, it just so happened, was set to take place the same exact time that baby sister, Charlotte, was due for her 4 month check up and shots.
The great thing about Kaiser, is that everything is located in one place, more or less. So, I dropped the twins for counseling, while gathering the youngest 3 kiddos, and walked over to a different building for the babe's appointment.
I won't lie: I was filled with a bit of anxiety with this whole fandango, but I got everyone where they needed to be on time. After leaving Emma in the waiting room to finish her homework, and bringing Cosette with me, I realized that I shoulda switched kids. Cozy was in my face, in Charlotte's face, and in the Doc's face. As I looked at the clock, I realized I wasn't even close to happy hour yet. Damn, and we still have shots to knock out.
I don't know about you, but holding down my infant child, while she gets poked with needles is NOT my favorite past time. After Charlie became a human pin cushion, I felt like I barely had time to comfort her, because we had to quickly gather up our things, and walk over to retrieve the twins from their head check.
We made it back into the office just in time for me to nurse my fussy babe. Just as she latched, the counselor came out, and said, "Michelle, I'm ready for you to come on back."
I'm up for all sorts of challenges, and my main objective at that point, was making it back to her office without having the babe come off my breast. Don't fret: I donned the invincible nursing cape. While giving a "you better not chuck any blocks at each other, while I'm gone," glance in Cosette and Emma's direction in the waiting room, and a few steps later, I was sitting on her comfy couch.
Almost immediately, Linda asked Abby, "Would you like to share with your mom how you're feeling right now?"
This is the part, as a mom, you gear up to hear how you've failed your child. And I wasn't disappointed.
"Well Mom," Abby started, eyes rimmed red with tears, "I kind of feel forgotten."
Now I started my bawling session. After gathering my thoughts, I assured Abby, "Honey, I'm not crying because I'm mad or upset with you. In fact, I'm so proud that you are able to tell me how you feel. And I can see how you would feel that way."
It was just that here was a concrete example of yet, another thing, I needed to work on. Truth be told, out of all the girls, Abby is the one who holds it together, helping out, willingly, when needed at home. Whether it's changing a diaper, reading Cosette a story, or getting lunches organized for school. And I, in my own busyness, had taken her for granted.
"Abby, it sounds like your mom has really heard what you're saying," Linda said, glancing at me. Then seeing my distress, she continued, "Michelle, are you okay?"
"Yes," blubber, blubber, sniff, sniff, "I just feel like it's another thing to work on," Blubber, blubber, snotty nose wipe.
At this point, Charlotte had stopped nursing, and was looking up at me, concern filling her eyes. It was like my 4 month old was saying, "Mom, is your break down gonna last long? Because if it's going to affect your milk production, I sort of need to know..."
After Linda convinced me that I'm doing the best I can, which is what counseling is allll about (VALIDATION), Abby and I came up with a solution. She and I would play a game ALONE. No sisters. No interruptions. Just Abby and me.
And we did. For the first time in a decade, I played a game with my oldest daughter. And it was great. I loved having her all to myself. I loved not having to run interference with anyone else. I realized that I had been missing out big time. Most importantly, we just got to chill together.
What is it that Oprah says? When you know better, you do better. Well, this is a concept that I'm striving for, but have hardly perfected yet. But that's okay. 'Cause last night was Bella's game night with mom. And tonight is Emma's turn.
The first time it happened as I was nursing Charlie, and was brought on by Emma chucking a block at her head, or something of that nature. The second time it happened, there was a direct correlation to frustration over homework. And the third time, well, the third time it happened, my eyes were finally opened and I noticed a pattern.
Hmmm, I thought, with all of my mommy intuition (that I seemed to be lacking), I think there may be something going on here with Abby. Maybe I should get her into the counselor also. And while we're at it, can Mommy have a mental health check too?
And so it was set. The next time Bella had an appointment, Abby would join her. Now the next time, it just so happened, was set to take place the same exact time that baby sister, Charlotte, was due for her 4 month check up and shots.
The great thing about Kaiser, is that everything is located in one place, more or less. So, I dropped the twins for counseling, while gathering the youngest 3 kiddos, and walked over to a different building for the babe's appointment.
I won't lie: I was filled with a bit of anxiety with this whole fandango, but I got everyone where they needed to be on time. After leaving Emma in the waiting room to finish her homework, and bringing Cosette with me, I realized that I shoulda switched kids. Cozy was in my face, in Charlotte's face, and in the Doc's face. As I looked at the clock, I realized I wasn't even close to happy hour yet. Damn, and we still have shots to knock out.
I don't know about you, but holding down my infant child, while she gets poked with needles is NOT my favorite past time. After Charlie became a human pin cushion, I felt like I barely had time to comfort her, because we had to quickly gather up our things, and walk over to retrieve the twins from their head check.
We made it back into the office just in time for me to nurse my fussy babe. Just as she latched, the counselor came out, and said, "Michelle, I'm ready for you to come on back."
I'm up for all sorts of challenges, and my main objective at that point, was making it back to her office without having the babe come off my breast. Don't fret: I donned the invincible nursing cape. While giving a "you better not chuck any blocks at each other, while I'm gone," glance in Cosette and Emma's direction in the waiting room, and a few steps later, I was sitting on her comfy couch.
Almost immediately, Linda asked Abby, "Would you like to share with your mom how you're feeling right now?"
This is the part, as a mom, you gear up to hear how you've failed your child. And I wasn't disappointed.
"Well Mom," Abby started, eyes rimmed red with tears, "I kind of feel forgotten."
Now I started my bawling session. After gathering my thoughts, I assured Abby, "Honey, I'm not crying because I'm mad or upset with you. In fact, I'm so proud that you are able to tell me how you feel. And I can see how you would feel that way."
It was just that here was a concrete example of yet, another thing, I needed to work on. Truth be told, out of all the girls, Abby is the one who holds it together, helping out, willingly, when needed at home. Whether it's changing a diaper, reading Cosette a story, or getting lunches organized for school. And I, in my own busyness, had taken her for granted.
"Abby, it sounds like your mom has really heard what you're saying," Linda said, glancing at me. Then seeing my distress, she continued, "Michelle, are you okay?"
"Yes," blubber, blubber, sniff, sniff, "I just feel like it's another thing to work on," Blubber, blubber, snotty nose wipe.
At this point, Charlotte had stopped nursing, and was looking up at me, concern filling her eyes. It was like my 4 month old was saying, "Mom, is your break down gonna last long? Because if it's going to affect your milk production, I sort of need to know..."
After Linda convinced me that I'm doing the best I can, which is what counseling is allll about (VALIDATION), Abby and I came up with a solution. She and I would play a game ALONE. No sisters. No interruptions. Just Abby and me.
And we did. For the first time in a decade, I played a game with my oldest daughter. And it was great. I loved having her all to myself. I loved not having to run interference with anyone else. I realized that I had been missing out big time. Most importantly, we just got to chill together.
What is it that Oprah says? When you know better, you do better. Well, this is a concept that I'm striving for, but have hardly perfected yet. But that's okay. 'Cause last night was Bella's game night with mom. And tonight is Emma's turn.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Vay-Cay-Tion
We just took a family vacation to the snow this last week. I use the term "vacation" loosely, speaking as the mother figure in the household.
I think there should be some sort of reality show that involves packing up a family of 7 for a week, for a camping trip in the Alaskan wilderness during its sunny season, January or February. Only a four door vehicle could be used. No SUV's allowed. And none of those special packing holders that go on top of the car either...that would be considered cheating.
Okay, I changed my mind about the SUV thing. I could win a show like that. Or maybe I would go insane first. But if I make it to an asylum, aren't we all winners?
I swear, whenever we go on a family "vacation", I start the process of loading items into bags, a WEEK before we're actually on the road. And if for some reason we get stranded, or stuck, or my head spontaneously combusts, the entire family will have enough food, water, and clothes to last them a year, minimum.
Part of it is my own fault. I'm a psycho organizer, and I don't want to stop at the damn grocery store for something which I may have forgotten at home.
The only exception to this rule, is if we run out of alcohol. That, in and of itself, warrants a trip to the local grocery store to stock up. In fact, when the twins are old enough to drive, I have already made the executive decision that they can borrow my driver's license to go buy mama her potato juice. I do enough around here.
I especially love packing for snow trips. Everyone in the family needs the following to have "fun" in the snow:
1. A snow bib that actually fits, even if the kids have had a growth spurt, and the pants that you JUST bought last year, look like a pair of Capri's.
2. A water resistant winter coat, preferably with a hood. If some one's jacket doesn't have a hood, pack Saran Wrap and make your own hood. A plastic Target bag will also suffice.
3. Enough socks to warm a small nation of midgets.
4. Gloves that fit; they can't be too big, or too small. This all changes when their hands get wet, and the damn things won't go on over their paws anyways.
5. A snow hat. Cowboy hats and those of that sort, just won't cut it when you're trudging through 2 feet of fresh powder, with a 4 month old strapped to your midsection in a Baby Bjorn.
6. Snow boots that fit, or that you can at least shove their feet into.
When the Walsh family goes to the snow, that gear alone, takes up the entire back of our Yukon. I'm just gonna start strapping kids to the top of the truck with bungee cords, so I don't have to endure the never ending question of, "Are we there yet? How much longer?"
Note, each child asks this question with a different whiny intonation about a thousand times. And it's times like those, when I ask myself, why the hell I didn't pack a road soda. If you don't know what a road soda is, we can't be friends anymore.
And the timing with the baby is KEY. The car needs to be packed with all gear, including snacks and lunches, books and toys, with all occupants having emptied their bladders, as Charlotte comes off my breast. Because if THAT timing isn't right, we're all gonna be screwed. We have 3 hours people. 3 hours before little Charlie starts howling for more boobie. MOVE IT!
See what I mean? This really could be a reality show.
I may gripe and complain about the packing and all that, but you know what? This is what family memories are made of, God Damnit.
Nothing can compare to hearing your kids belt out at the top of their lungs, "It's SNOWING! It's SNOWING! Oh my gosh Mom. It's magic!"
Unless they're yelling that out at 5 am...which, has happened before. Cocktail hour comes especially early on those days.
Life in all of its simplicity I've found, is the key to happiness. We haven't introduced the girls to skiing yet. Why? Partly due to the cost. Partly because the one time I skied myself, I was too scared to get off of the lift. There was a hill, and I was a beginner, and I was on the top of a MOUNTAIN! But mainly, because the girls are just so darn happy playing in the snow. The girls are content with snowball fights, drinking hot cocoa, and sledding.
Until someone gets hit in the lip with a jagged icicle. That's happened before too. See, that's where having alcohol on hand is really important for sterilizing the wound. A little for me, a little for you.
Seriously, packing up, and making the trek to Arnold is the highlight for our girls. I know that they will remember these trips for the rest of their lives.
And you know what? I will too.
I think there should be some sort of reality show that involves packing up a family of 7 for a week, for a camping trip in the Alaskan wilderness during its sunny season, January or February. Only a four door vehicle could be used. No SUV's allowed. And none of those special packing holders that go on top of the car either...that would be considered cheating.
Okay, I changed my mind about the SUV thing. I could win a show like that. Or maybe I would go insane first. But if I make it to an asylum, aren't we all winners?
I swear, whenever we go on a family "vacation", I start the process of loading items into bags, a WEEK before we're actually on the road. And if for some reason we get stranded, or stuck, or my head spontaneously combusts, the entire family will have enough food, water, and clothes to last them a year, minimum.
Part of it is my own fault. I'm a psycho organizer, and I don't want to stop at the damn grocery store for something which I may have forgotten at home.
The only exception to this rule, is if we run out of alcohol. That, in and of itself, warrants a trip to the local grocery store to stock up. In fact, when the twins are old enough to drive, I have already made the executive decision that they can borrow my driver's license to go buy mama her potato juice. I do enough around here.
I especially love packing for snow trips. Everyone in the family needs the following to have "fun" in the snow:
1. A snow bib that actually fits, even if the kids have had a growth spurt, and the pants that you JUST bought last year, look like a pair of Capri's.
2. A water resistant winter coat, preferably with a hood. If some one's jacket doesn't have a hood, pack Saran Wrap and make your own hood. A plastic Target bag will also suffice.
3. Enough socks to warm a small nation of midgets.
4. Gloves that fit; they can't be too big, or too small. This all changes when their hands get wet, and the damn things won't go on over their paws anyways.
5. A snow hat. Cowboy hats and those of that sort, just won't cut it when you're trudging through 2 feet of fresh powder, with a 4 month old strapped to your midsection in a Baby Bjorn.
6. Snow boots that fit, or that you can at least shove their feet into.
When the Walsh family goes to the snow, that gear alone, takes up the entire back of our Yukon. I'm just gonna start strapping kids to the top of the truck with bungee cords, so I don't have to endure the never ending question of, "Are we there yet? How much longer?"
Note, each child asks this question with a different whiny intonation about a thousand times. And it's times like those, when I ask myself, why the hell I didn't pack a road soda. If you don't know what a road soda is, we can't be friends anymore.
And the timing with the baby is KEY. The car needs to be packed with all gear, including snacks and lunches, books and toys, with all occupants having emptied their bladders, as Charlotte comes off my breast. Because if THAT timing isn't right, we're all gonna be screwed. We have 3 hours people. 3 hours before little Charlie starts howling for more boobie. MOVE IT!
See what I mean? This really could be a reality show.
I may gripe and complain about the packing and all that, but you know what? This is what family memories are made of, God Damnit.
Nothing can compare to hearing your kids belt out at the top of their lungs, "It's SNOWING! It's SNOWING! Oh my gosh Mom. It's magic!"
Unless they're yelling that out at 5 am...which, has happened before. Cocktail hour comes especially early on those days.
Life in all of its simplicity I've found, is the key to happiness. We haven't introduced the girls to skiing yet. Why? Partly due to the cost. Partly because the one time I skied myself, I was too scared to get off of the lift. There was a hill, and I was a beginner, and I was on the top of a MOUNTAIN! But mainly, because the girls are just so darn happy playing in the snow. The girls are content with snowball fights, drinking hot cocoa, and sledding.
Until someone gets hit in the lip with a jagged icicle. That's happened before too. See, that's where having alcohol on hand is really important for sterilizing the wound. A little for me, a little for you.
Seriously, packing up, and making the trek to Arnold is the highlight for our girls. I know that they will remember these trips for the rest of their lives.
And you know what? I will too.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Love Thyself
So I've noticed that I'm looking a bit "crepe-y" lately. Not to be confused with "creepy". My under eye area is looking saggy, and dark, and well, TIRED. I've noticed the same thing about my neck...and my decolletage. Like, what the hell am I doing with age spots?! I'm only 38 years old God Dammit.
And so the negative voice comes alive good and loud within my head. It says, "Damn Michelle, you're looking spent. Old. Forghetta 'bout the make up, cause it's not doing anything for you. And your hair? It's dry and dull. Yikes...look at all that gray." I try to turn down the volume of that voice, but some days it just won't shut up, you know?
After I lost 90 pounds, I thought I would be happy! I mean, who wouldn't be happy, right? I really thought that if I got to my goal weight, love and sunshine and light would take over my life. How WRONG I was.
When I achieved my goal, that negative voice was louder than ever. And I was left with one thought: I need help. I better find a good counselor. There's something else going on here, cause this ain't about the bread basket.
Contrary to what we all think, whatever vice we are using to self-medicate, whether it's food, or alcohol, or shopping, NONE of that will fill the emptiness and void that is lurking within our hearts. NOTHING can fill that hole except for one thing: Loving thyself. Accepting thyself. Forgiving thyself.
Chocolate won't do it.
Wine...well, wine takes the edge off, but that won't do it either.
And shopping for some really cute shoes, that distracts us for about a minute.
But facing our own demons will. Staring them straight in the face and telling them to back the hell down, works rather well.
Think about it...when we mess up, what does our the internal dialogue say? "You can't do this. You messed up again. You're a failure. You're weak."
Would we EVER talk to our best friend that way? Absolutely not. Then why oh why, do we give ourselves permission to speak in such an unflattering and hateful way about ourselves?
Often times, in my WW meeting, my members will say, "I was really 'good' this week." Or "It's no wonder I didn't lose weight...I was 'bad'." We are not dogs. We are not 'good' or 'bad'. We learn from our experiences to become better people and make better choices.
So here's what I'm working on...recognizing that voice when it starts speaking. And turning the damn volume OFF.
Yes, I'm getting older. Yes, I'm looking a bit tired. But that's okay. I'm okay. I'm lovable, even though I'm looking old and tired.
"Change the voices in your head...learn to like you instead." Pink
And so the negative voice comes alive good and loud within my head. It says, "Damn Michelle, you're looking spent. Old. Forghetta 'bout the make up, cause it's not doing anything for you. And your hair? It's dry and dull. Yikes...look at all that gray." I try to turn down the volume of that voice, but some days it just won't shut up, you know?
After I lost 90 pounds, I thought I would be happy! I mean, who wouldn't be happy, right? I really thought that if I got to my goal weight, love and sunshine and light would take over my life. How WRONG I was.
When I achieved my goal, that negative voice was louder than ever. And I was left with one thought: I need help. I better find a good counselor. There's something else going on here, cause this ain't about the bread basket.
Contrary to what we all think, whatever vice we are using to self-medicate, whether it's food, or alcohol, or shopping, NONE of that will fill the emptiness and void that is lurking within our hearts. NOTHING can fill that hole except for one thing: Loving thyself. Accepting thyself. Forgiving thyself.
Chocolate won't do it.
Wine...well, wine takes the edge off, but that won't do it either.
And shopping for some really cute shoes, that distracts us for about a minute.
But facing our own demons will. Staring them straight in the face and telling them to back the hell down, works rather well.
Think about it...when we mess up, what does our the internal dialogue say? "You can't do this. You messed up again. You're a failure. You're weak."
Would we EVER talk to our best friend that way? Absolutely not. Then why oh why, do we give ourselves permission to speak in such an unflattering and hateful way about ourselves?
Often times, in my WW meeting, my members will say, "I was really 'good' this week." Or "It's no wonder I didn't lose weight...I was 'bad'." We are not dogs. We are not 'good' or 'bad'. We learn from our experiences to become better people and make better choices.
So here's what I'm working on...recognizing that voice when it starts speaking. And turning the damn volume OFF.
Yes, I'm getting older. Yes, I'm looking a bit tired. But that's okay. I'm okay. I'm lovable, even though I'm looking old and tired.
"Change the voices in your head...learn to like you instead." Pink
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
T.M.I. Stands for...
Do you often find yourself being the recipient of too much information? You know, people telling you ALL their business...like, even when you never asked. T.M.I. 'rs come in all forms: family, friends, or strangers, who may or may not be under the influence of hallucinogens, prescribed medications, alcohol, or their own delusional life.
If you're nodding your head "yes", and referring to my blog, I totally hear you. I, myself, feel like sometimes I walk that fine line between being really honest, and scaring the hell out of people with my info.
Sometimes though, I believe you can't have ENOUGH info. Like for example, when your husband has had a vasectomy, and you just had your fifth kid, and you want to see the 3 month sperm count statistics before....well, you know, BEFORE. Just wanted to make sure you're still with me.
Often, I feel like I'm that friend, who people can trust with anything, It's a compliment that folks trust me, but sometimes I feel like I could have gone my entire life without that info being disclosed to me...to keep in secret...until I rot in the ground.
It's a responsibility I don't take lightly. Let's just hypothetically say, that friend "A" shares some dirt about friend "B". You know what I do? I pretend like I had NEVER heard that before, even though I just got off the phone with friend "B".
I'm like Switzerland, okay? I don't want to take sides. I don't think I should have to. And so, I just play dumb. Not hard.
Now, I'm a curious person. I love asking "What's the craziest thing that's ever happened to you?" to anyone. My doctor, my dentist, my kid's teacher. No one is off limits. And in this case, I'm just asking for people to tell me too much information. But the stories always end up being memorable.
For some reason I thought this was an appropriate question to ask the taxi driver on the way home from Boswell's on Saturday night.
"Have women ever tried to pay you, but don't have the money?" Wink. Wink.
He replied, "Yes, and I rather like it."
To which I quickly responded, "I live riiiiiight here, and I have CASH."
If you're nodding your head "yes", and referring to my blog, I totally hear you. I, myself, feel like sometimes I walk that fine line between being really honest, and scaring the hell out of people with my info.
Sometimes though, I believe you can't have ENOUGH info. Like for example, when your husband has had a vasectomy, and you just had your fifth kid, and you want to see the 3 month sperm count statistics before....well, you know, BEFORE. Just wanted to make sure you're still with me.
Often, I feel like I'm that friend, who people can trust with anything, It's a compliment that folks trust me, but sometimes I feel like I could have gone my entire life without that info being disclosed to me...to keep in secret...until I rot in the ground.
It's a responsibility I don't take lightly. Let's just hypothetically say, that friend "A" shares some dirt about friend "B". You know what I do? I pretend like I had NEVER heard that before, even though I just got off the phone with friend "B".
I'm like Switzerland, okay? I don't want to take sides. I don't think I should have to. And so, I just play dumb. Not hard.
Now, I'm a curious person. I love asking "What's the craziest thing that's ever happened to you?" to anyone. My doctor, my dentist, my kid's teacher. No one is off limits. And in this case, I'm just asking for people to tell me too much information. But the stories always end up being memorable.
For some reason I thought this was an appropriate question to ask the taxi driver on the way home from Boswell's on Saturday night.
"Have women ever tried to pay you, but don't have the money?" Wink. Wink.
He replied, "Yes, and I rather like it."
To which I quickly responded, "I live riiiiiight here, and I have CASH."
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
My Simple Little Life
There are some days that I just wake up really happy to be alive. It doesn't happen 100% of the time, but when it does, I am so grateful that God gave me another day to be with family.
I love it when Cosette stumbles into our bedroom in the morning, sleepy eyed, and wobbly from rest. As usual, she is the first one to rise in our home (not including Charlotte). Daddy hears her, and welcomes her by lifting our down comforter up, and saying, "Good morning lovergirl. There's room for you right here," as I lay dozing next to them, while nursing the babe.
I love it when all I have to do is talk in a high pitched "mama" voice, to get a smiley reaction from Charlie. I love kissing her face, and her ears, and her chubby thighs. I even love smooching on her stinky neck cheese. It's like the best thing in the world. Period.
I love walking home from school with the girlies on a 70 degree January afternoon. Everything looks fresh, and clean, and bright, and hopeful. I love watching their backpacks sway back and forth on their shoulders. My big girls.
I love it when Emma asks a big sis for help turning the shower head, and they help her willingly. The simple fact being, they are tall enough, and she's not yet.
I love leaving for work on a Tuesday at 5 o'clock, knowing that I have a husband who supports me in that endeavor. A husband who works hard during the day, so he can be "on" to watch 5 kids ages 10 and under, so I can do something that I love. How lucky am I? And the car ride TO and FROM work, with no kids, isn't that bad either.
And I especially love how the day comes to an end. Typically, the last thing I hear before I doze off, exhausted from the days demands, is my husband's voice. He stands over Charlotte's bassinet, saying prayers of love, and blessings, and protection.
Yes indeed, today I appreciate my simple little life. And I have the same wish for you!
I love it when Cosette stumbles into our bedroom in the morning, sleepy eyed, and wobbly from rest. As usual, she is the first one to rise in our home (not including Charlotte). Daddy hears her, and welcomes her by lifting our down comforter up, and saying, "Good morning lovergirl. There's room for you right here," as I lay dozing next to them, while nursing the babe.
I love it when all I have to do is talk in a high pitched "mama" voice, to get a smiley reaction from Charlie. I love kissing her face, and her ears, and her chubby thighs. I even love smooching on her stinky neck cheese. It's like the best thing in the world. Period.
I love walking home from school with the girlies on a 70 degree January afternoon. Everything looks fresh, and clean, and bright, and hopeful. I love watching their backpacks sway back and forth on their shoulders. My big girls.
I love it when Emma asks a big sis for help turning the shower head, and they help her willingly. The simple fact being, they are tall enough, and she's not yet.
I love leaving for work on a Tuesday at 5 o'clock, knowing that I have a husband who supports me in that endeavor. A husband who works hard during the day, so he can be "on" to watch 5 kids ages 10 and under, so I can do something that I love. How lucky am I? And the car ride TO and FROM work, with no kids, isn't that bad either.
And I especially love how the day comes to an end. Typically, the last thing I hear before I doze off, exhausted from the days demands, is my husband's voice. He stands over Charlotte's bassinet, saying prayers of love, and blessings, and protection.
Yes indeed, today I appreciate my simple little life. And I have the same wish for you!
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Mizunderstood
I'm a bit of a control freak. And yes, I have a BIG mouth. But I also know when, and how, to keep it shut, to get what I want. See, if you didn't already know this about me, then obviously we haven't been "busted" together for anything...yet. But I'm passive aggressive.
Wow, I just feel so free now that my secret is out.
If someone tells me how to act, or not act, I will deliberately, but quietly, do the opposite. Tell me what to wear or not to wear, and I may just show up with no clothes at all. Tell me to be quiet, and well, we all know how that will end.
I can't help myself. It's like life is a game, and I would like to see what I can get away with...not in a malicious or even devious way. But just to push the limits a bit.
Which sometimes leads to getting kicked out of concerts. Or pissing off my boss. Or saying things that leave my friends, who haven't ingested as much alcohol as I have, like they want to crawl under the table. I have this tendency to make "rule followers" feel really uncomfortable.
As I tasted wine recently with good friends, and then proceeded to refill my own glass, (which is totally taboo), my girlfriend nailed it. She said, "Michelle, the reason you get away with so much, is because most of the time, people just don't know what to do with you."
Case in point, y'all know who I work for. LOVE IT. Don't love all the bureaucratic BS, but LOVE my members! They are the reason I go to work.
Every year, there is a meeting where there is some sort of "cruise ship" theme, and the employees are supposed to dress up. Like in a cocktail dress. To be with other women. Eating salad. On a Sunday afternoon.
You know what? The first year, I followed the rules. But when I found out there were NO cocktails, NO open bar, and NO disco ball, I'm like, WTH?
So, the following year, KNOWING full well, that I would be presented with an award on stage, I showed up in a tank top, jeans, and a pair of my best flip flops. My team cringed, as I strolled up to the podium to receive my award in front of hundreds of other "cruise ship" dressed employees, by my boss, who donned her best Sears outfit, complete with sparkly blazer, and shiny pumps.
So it's really no surprise that I got kicked out of the PINK concert. There I was, minding my own business, when 2 of my girlfriends and I spotted some family members sitting about 20 rows closer to the stage. A drunken field trip is what ensued, with my ass sitting in the aisle, as my girlfriends sat upon the laps of my aunt and cousin.
By golly, what do you think happened next?
BINGO! An usher came and escorted my 2 girlfriends up and out. They got up, and went willingly. I, on the other hand, was in the market to buy some time. I just kept saying the same thing to him over and over. "This is my family. This is my family. This is my family," as I thought to myself, I would like to see this 4 foot 9 inch leprechaun, move my 5 foot 11 inch drunk ass, up and outta here in my mini skirt and stilettos.. I certainly wasn't compliant, but I also wasn't an out right beeyatch. I just sat, immobile, mumbling, quite possibly resembling someone with severe learning challenges who was dressed like a hooker.
Finally, I made my way back to my seat with some "help". Shortly thereafter, the cops showed up and proceeded to show me the door.
This wasn't my first run-in with the POlice, nor am I sure, will it be my last. I recall a few years ago on my birthday an incident involving glitter. As I stumbled down Los Gatos Boulevard on my way to the Blackwatch, I noticed two of LG's finest out in front of Mountain Charley's. I stopped, and said, "It's my birthday, would you like me to glitter you?" as I held out a powder puff full of sparkles.
"No thank you," they replied in unison. You know what I did? I ran that powder puff down their forearms as I dashed away. And I do believe that I was once again, wearing a short dress and stilettos.
Hmmm, I'm noticing a pattern here. Something about my clothing choice and having issues with the police. Gosh, I can't wait for my next event when I get to dress up!
Wow, I just feel so free now that my secret is out.
If someone tells me how to act, or not act, I will deliberately, but quietly, do the opposite. Tell me what to wear or not to wear, and I may just show up with no clothes at all. Tell me to be quiet, and well, we all know how that will end.
I can't help myself. It's like life is a game, and I would like to see what I can get away with...not in a malicious or even devious way. But just to push the limits a bit.
Which sometimes leads to getting kicked out of concerts. Or pissing off my boss. Or saying things that leave my friends, who haven't ingested as much alcohol as I have, like they want to crawl under the table. I have this tendency to make "rule followers" feel really uncomfortable.
As I tasted wine recently with good friends, and then proceeded to refill my own glass, (which is totally taboo), my girlfriend nailed it. She said, "Michelle, the reason you get away with so much, is because most of the time, people just don't know what to do with you."
Case in point, y'all know who I work for. LOVE IT. Don't love all the bureaucratic BS, but LOVE my members! They are the reason I go to work.
Every year, there is a meeting where there is some sort of "cruise ship" theme, and the employees are supposed to dress up. Like in a cocktail dress. To be with other women. Eating salad. On a Sunday afternoon.
You know what? The first year, I followed the rules. But when I found out there were NO cocktails, NO open bar, and NO disco ball, I'm like, WTH?
So, the following year, KNOWING full well, that I would be presented with an award on stage, I showed up in a tank top, jeans, and a pair of my best flip flops. My team cringed, as I strolled up to the podium to receive my award in front of hundreds of other "cruise ship" dressed employees, by my boss, who donned her best Sears outfit, complete with sparkly blazer, and shiny pumps.
So it's really no surprise that I got kicked out of the PINK concert. There I was, minding my own business, when 2 of my girlfriends and I spotted some family members sitting about 20 rows closer to the stage. A drunken field trip is what ensued, with my ass sitting in the aisle, as my girlfriends sat upon the laps of my aunt and cousin.
By golly, what do you think happened next?
BINGO! An usher came and escorted my 2 girlfriends up and out. They got up, and went willingly. I, on the other hand, was in the market to buy some time. I just kept saying the same thing to him over and over. "This is my family. This is my family. This is my family," as I thought to myself, I would like to see this 4 foot 9 inch leprechaun, move my 5 foot 11 inch drunk ass, up and outta here in my mini skirt and stilettos.. I certainly wasn't compliant, but I also wasn't an out right beeyatch. I just sat, immobile, mumbling, quite possibly resembling someone with severe learning challenges who was dressed like a hooker.
Finally, I made my way back to my seat with some "help". Shortly thereafter, the cops showed up and proceeded to show me the door.
This wasn't my first run-in with the POlice, nor am I sure, will it be my last. I recall a few years ago on my birthday an incident involving glitter. As I stumbled down Los Gatos Boulevard on my way to the Blackwatch, I noticed two of LG's finest out in front of Mountain Charley's. I stopped, and said, "It's my birthday, would you like me to glitter you?" as I held out a powder puff full of sparkles.
"No thank you," they replied in unison. You know what I did? I ran that powder puff down their forearms as I dashed away. And I do believe that I was once again, wearing a short dress and stilettos.
Hmmm, I'm noticing a pattern here. Something about my clothing choice and having issues with the police. Gosh, I can't wait for my next event when I get to dress up!
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
People Are People
Enter De Peche Mode keyboard playing in the background for full effect...
Boy, I'll tell you what. I continue to be humbled by my journey here. From the birth of Charlotte, which didn't exactly go as I envisioned. She was sunny side up, my placenta got stuck which led me to the O.R., I lost a tremendous amount of blood, etc. To my post partum depression and issues surrounding nursing. Or lack there of. And now, my knee is jacked up, leaving me with limited work out options.
The message God is sending me is clear: Slow down. Be in the moment. Pay attention. What worked for you in the past, will not work for you this time. It's so frustrating. But humbling.
I think it's comical how I continue to think I'm in control of my life. I just keep getting broken down. I feel like I'm the Six Million Dollar Man...without any strength. Or maybe I'm the Bionic Woman...without the cool sound effects, and kick ass jumping ability. But one thing is for sure: I'm being rebuilt. Emotionally, physically, and spiritually.
So I had this big light bulb moment today. People are people. Everyone has a story, and all of our threads intertwine in some way. But it's up to us to make this united tapestry beautiful. The only way we can do that, is if we stop being caught up in US, and instead, pay attention to others, and what they may need in that moment.
So, I'm in line at Trader Joe's and the woman in front of me starts asking about Charlotte. You know, all the typical Q and A...how old is she, what's her name, is she your first child (that's my favorite question, by the way). I just love to see people's reaction. It's like money every time.
Anyways, so she and I are talking, and all of a sudden, she looks at my dead on, and says, "Is your name Michelle?"
I usually get sorta nervous when people ask me that, cause I start racking my brain, thinking, "Oh dear God, what illegal act did this innocent bystander watch me commit?"
She continues, "I played basketball against you in high school. I went to Mitty."
Talk about a small world. I mean, we played basketball against each other, TWENTY years ago. But not much has changed. Here I was, in line at TJ's, without any makeup, hair up in a pony, donning my workout gear. I was shocked she recognized me and knew me by name! So our threads are still connected.
Right before Christmas, the girls went to the shelter with my aunt to hand out candy, and basically, blow some Christmas sunshine up you know where. I accompanied with the baby in the sling, not really knowing what to expect.
Here's what I saw: people that looked the same as you and me. A mother and daughter who were dressed well. Another woman who had just gotten a job at Target. A young black man with clean clothes, and big guns...and I'm not talking about weapons. Dude looked like he just got done working out at the gym.
As I walked by the folks in line, waiting for dinner, many inquired about Charlotte. Babies are just so darn approachable. And think about it. No matter who we are now, we were all as small and helpless as Charlotte at one time. Their eyes lit up as I walked past them.
But the highlight was watching the girls do their "work" joyfully. You know how you wonder how your kids behave when they leave you? Well, they forgot I was there, and just went about their bizness. And it was such a pleasure for me to watch them LOVE helping out. Again, an example of the threads being held together.
As I waited at Kaiser to have my knee X-rayed, I realized I had never been surrounded by so many folks that were injured. One guy said out loud, "Just give me the cortisone shot." He didn't WANT to know how bad off the damage was in his knee, and I could totally relate. Another woman, who sat across from Abby and I, had broken BOTH wrists when she fell off a balance ball at the gym. Think about that scenario...both hands. She was left not being able to feed herself, wipe herself, or clean herself.
I won't lie. I had myself a little pity party when the doc showed me the list of activities that I couldn't do: NO running, NO lunging or squats, NO hills, and absolutely NO dancing on any kind of bar while intoxicated. But I had a choice in that moment: focus on what I couldn't do, or focus on what I COULD do. I chose the later, because seeing those folks who were more severely injured than me, put it in perspective.
While out on my WG jaunt today, I encountered Lou, a woman who's home I have passed for the last 10 years. Her kids are grown, and she's just a positive, loving lady. I asked, "How was Christmas?" She answered, "We've had better. My daughter was held up at gunpoint at her work on Christmas Eve." We stood there entranced, as she explained the details, assuring me that her daughter is "okay, but changed, from the experience." Lou said, "Gee, aren't you sorry you asked how my holiday was?" I said, "Not at all!"
Because truth be told, if I was running today, Lou and I wouldn't have had that conversation. Sure, we would have waved at each other, and hollered hello, but that would have been about it.
So I'm glad that I was forced to slow down today.
Because we all have a story. More often than not, we just want someone to listen to it.
I wish you could experience what I am hearing first hand as I blog this very moment. My loudly, snoring husband in the bed beside me. And Charlotte whistling through her gums like an old drunk lady, in her bassinet while she sleeps. Am I being in the moment if I watch them while they slumber? How my baby is the color of porcelain? And how my husband has his fingers clutched over his chest as it rises and falls.
Life is good. Even if I can't run right now.
Boy, I'll tell you what. I continue to be humbled by my journey here. From the birth of Charlotte, which didn't exactly go as I envisioned. She was sunny side up, my placenta got stuck which led me to the O.R., I lost a tremendous amount of blood, etc. To my post partum depression and issues surrounding nursing. Or lack there of. And now, my knee is jacked up, leaving me with limited work out options.
The message God is sending me is clear: Slow down. Be in the moment. Pay attention. What worked for you in the past, will not work for you this time. It's so frustrating. But humbling.
I think it's comical how I continue to think I'm in control of my life. I just keep getting broken down. I feel like I'm the Six Million Dollar Man...without any strength. Or maybe I'm the Bionic Woman...without the cool sound effects, and kick ass jumping ability. But one thing is for sure: I'm being rebuilt. Emotionally, physically, and spiritually.
So I had this big light bulb moment today. People are people. Everyone has a story, and all of our threads intertwine in some way. But it's up to us to make this united tapestry beautiful. The only way we can do that, is if we stop being caught up in US, and instead, pay attention to others, and what they may need in that moment.
So, I'm in line at Trader Joe's and the woman in front of me starts asking about Charlotte. You know, all the typical Q and A...how old is she, what's her name, is she your first child (that's my favorite question, by the way). I just love to see people's reaction. It's like money every time.
Anyways, so she and I are talking, and all of a sudden, she looks at my dead on, and says, "Is your name Michelle?"
I usually get sorta nervous when people ask me that, cause I start racking my brain, thinking, "Oh dear God, what illegal act did this innocent bystander watch me commit?"
She continues, "I played basketball against you in high school. I went to Mitty."
Talk about a small world. I mean, we played basketball against each other, TWENTY years ago. But not much has changed. Here I was, in line at TJ's, without any makeup, hair up in a pony, donning my workout gear. I was shocked she recognized me and knew me by name! So our threads are still connected.
Right before Christmas, the girls went to the shelter with my aunt to hand out candy, and basically, blow some Christmas sunshine up you know where. I accompanied with the baby in the sling, not really knowing what to expect.
Here's what I saw: people that looked the same as you and me. A mother and daughter who were dressed well. Another woman who had just gotten a job at Target. A young black man with clean clothes, and big guns...and I'm not talking about weapons. Dude looked like he just got done working out at the gym.
As I walked by the folks in line, waiting for dinner, many inquired about Charlotte. Babies are just so darn approachable. And think about it. No matter who we are now, we were all as small and helpless as Charlotte at one time. Their eyes lit up as I walked past them.
But the highlight was watching the girls do their "work" joyfully. You know how you wonder how your kids behave when they leave you? Well, they forgot I was there, and just went about their bizness. And it was such a pleasure for me to watch them LOVE helping out. Again, an example of the threads being held together.
As I waited at Kaiser to have my knee X-rayed, I realized I had never been surrounded by so many folks that were injured. One guy said out loud, "Just give me the cortisone shot." He didn't WANT to know how bad off the damage was in his knee, and I could totally relate. Another woman, who sat across from Abby and I, had broken BOTH wrists when she fell off a balance ball at the gym. Think about that scenario...both hands. She was left not being able to feed herself, wipe herself, or clean herself.
I won't lie. I had myself a little pity party when the doc showed me the list of activities that I couldn't do: NO running, NO lunging or squats, NO hills, and absolutely NO dancing on any kind of bar while intoxicated. But I had a choice in that moment: focus on what I couldn't do, or focus on what I COULD do. I chose the later, because seeing those folks who were more severely injured than me, put it in perspective.
While out on my WG jaunt today, I encountered Lou, a woman who's home I have passed for the last 10 years. Her kids are grown, and she's just a positive, loving lady. I asked, "How was Christmas?" She answered, "We've had better. My daughter was held up at gunpoint at her work on Christmas Eve." We stood there entranced, as she explained the details, assuring me that her daughter is "okay, but changed, from the experience." Lou said, "Gee, aren't you sorry you asked how my holiday was?" I said, "Not at all!"
Because truth be told, if I was running today, Lou and I wouldn't have had that conversation. Sure, we would have waved at each other, and hollered hello, but that would have been about it.
So I'm glad that I was forced to slow down today.
Because we all have a story. More often than not, we just want someone to listen to it.
I wish you could experience what I am hearing first hand as I blog this very moment. My loudly, snoring husband in the bed beside me. And Charlotte whistling through her gums like an old drunk lady, in her bassinet while she sleeps. Am I being in the moment if I watch them while they slumber? How my baby is the color of porcelain? And how my husband has his fingers clutched over his chest as it rises and falls.
Life is good. Even if I can't run right now.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Tradition: Stringing Popcorn and Sugar Bombs
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)