Keeping My Head Above Water

I have two days off a week. Weekends don't count as days off. A day without kids is a real day off. So I don't actually have two days off. I have, like, 12 hours off. And I'm always trying to pack too much into those 12 hours. Because what I mostly want to do is sit. on. my. ass. And watch stupid TV. And blog. But there are also a lot of things I should be doing. Like cleaning my bathrooms. And going to yoga. And cooking a yummy nutritious delicious local organic ecologically responsible dinner that my kids will actually eat. Hmmmm

So inevitably what happens, as I try to choose what to do, I opt for d) all of the above. 

I turn on ABC. Regis & Kelly he's annoying she's darn funny. Rachel Ray in hopes of an easy dinner recipe. The View I find hot topics pretty entertaining/aggravating.

I start sweeping and cleaning. I can clean and get a dose of brain mush tv cause I need more shit for brains. Did you know daytime tv causes mad cow disease?

So I sweep and scrub and think. Then I stop sweeping and scrubbing and sit down to the computer. And write and read and stand up and start scrubbing again.

Total ADD

No wonder it takes me weeks to get my bathrooms cleaned. Or the clothes folded. Or make it to yoga class. Or get that delicious home cooked meal on the table the way I'd hoped. 

Oh well.

I do hear crazy things as I clean, though. Not crazy like crazy voices in my head. Crazy things on the TV. During one of those 3 second Eyewitness News spots I hear... 

...death toll from tsunami rises into the hundreds how to win free tickets to Disney World...

????

Are you kidding me??

We live in a fucked up world.

Not... there was another tsunami folks, maybe this global warming thing has some merit let's all be a little more responsible just in case humans ARE having an impact on global weather patterns. Or... we're promoting Disney because ABC owns Disney or Disney owns ABC or someone owns us both or something.

I don't know. It all drifts into my brain and thank god these days it no longer puts me over the edge or paralyzes me or makes me cry. I can think about the insanity and it doesn't make me feel insane. 

OK. I have to go buy some shrimp and artichokes and hearts of palm to make a really good salad created by one of Oprah's ex-chefs. Probably mercury drenched shrimp from a tsunami pounded coast and artichokes from Spain and hearts of palm from Israel.

It's getting hot in here... the water's rising around my ankles.

P.S.

Just saw the pictures of this week's typhoon in Vietnam and tsunami/earthquake in the Philippines/Indonesia. Now my stomach hurts. I think I'll bag Oprah's shrimp salad and maybe just give the kids grass from the backyard. A low impact, small footprint, local, organic, vegetarian grass dinner. 

Whew... now I feel better.

But the water's still rising.

Ok, maybe I feel just a teeny weeny bit insane.

What he did for love

I was reading Ms. Moon today and remembered a funny story.

Now, I was ALL ABOUT natural births. I even started nursing to become a midwife. I read all about the Farm and Ina May. When B and I first started talking about having kids, I was all over a home birth. Or a water birth. Or at the VERY LEAST a birthing center birth.

It didn't happen that way.

So 5 pregnancies and 3 beautiful babies later, I have many a story to tell.

Many of them regarding super duper crazy techno interventions.

Here's one of our faves:

Our first pregnancy ended in miscarriage at 12 weeks. It was probably the most devastating single event of my life. We got through it, and 6 months later, I was pregnant again. 

Now, let me just say, that during the 2 pregnancies that ended in miscarriage, I was never able to see a baby at the end. I'm not sure how to explain it, but even though I had the nausea, and peeing, and tender boobies, I couldn't see a baby. From the beginning of my 3 successful pregnancies, there was the same nausea and peeing and tender boobies, but also a baby in my mind's eye. Even before ultrasounds to confirm viability. Somehow I just knew when we were gonna end up with a perfect baby and when we were not. And I was right every time.

So, when I was pregnant with Jack, our midwife Georgia wanted to do everything possible to support a successful pregnancy. I think we held a special place in her heart from the beginning, and she just wanted to be the one to put a newborn in my arms.

At 18 weeks I had an ultrasound. It's a boy. The tech also thought she saw a "web" in my uterus. Web? There's no web. I'd had several ultrasounds with the miscarriage, and one at 9 weeks with Jack, and this was the first anyone was seeing a web. there's no web. Well, a "web" can significantly increase the chance of miscarriage, preterm contractions, and prematurity. there's no web. Georgia scheduled me for a 3D ultrasound, and home contraction monitoring. What? Are you fucking kidding me? So I have this modem thing hooked up to our phone, and every morning and every night I have to strap on a big fetal/uterine monitoring contraption and lie in bed on my left side for half an hour. And not move. Because the stupid contraption cannot differentiate between mama moving and mama having a contraction. So I have to do this to monitor for contractions I know I'm not gonna have due to the web that I know is not in my uterus.

I hated this thing. But I did it. Twice a day for 30 minutes. Every morning I'd send the info through the modem and within minutes a nurse would read the strip and call. And every few days they'd get in a tizzy because the stupid contraption was registering contractions.

Michelle, how are you feeling? 

Fine. 

Are you having any cramping or spotting? 

No. 

Are you drinking enough water? 

Yes. 

Because it looks like you had several contractions. 

Are you fucking kidding me??? I am NOT having contractions. I am fine. This baby is fine. My uterus is fine. There is no web.

Which, of course, is what the fancy 3D ultrasound showed at 21 weeks. No web. Perfect pregnancy. Perfect boy baby named Jack Wyatt

Whew... thank god no web, no more stupid contraption. Except that Georgia really wants me to continue the home monitoring because even though there's no web in my uterus, I've apparently been having contractions. I'm not having contractions. I now qualify as a high risk pregnancy. are you kidding me? She also would prefer if I stopped working and remained on bed rest. 

No. fucking. way. 

The whole thing made B really nervous. Even though he completely trusted me, he also was scared at the thought of something going wrong.

So, to make Georgia and B happy, I agree to continue the stupid contraption, but refuse to stop working. 24, 30, 34 weeks. I think I annoyed the hell out of those nurses who read the damn strips and kept insisting I was having contractions. Well, they annoyed the hell out of me, too. I'm not having contractions. 

Georgia had promised that at 36 weeks, I could stop. I think she really believed I was gonna have a premature delivery. I remember July 4th weekend marked 36 weeks. I had an appointment a few days later, but I was DONE DONE DONE with the monitoring, the questions, and the nurses treating me like I was a naughty child because dammit they knew I was having contractions. Cause that's what the stupid machine was saying.

Well, I must have been in some crazy pregnant hormonal blitz that weekend, because I was just besides myself at the thought of strapping that monitor on one more time. B said chica, just don't do it. But those damn nurses will yell at me, and reprimand me, and think I'm a bad mommy. 

Now, if there was ever something in B's power to make me happy, or alleviate my discomfort, or get me to stop crying, he would do it. Like taking me to McDonald's for french fries. So that July 4th, as I'm crying over my french fries he says 

I'll wear it

What?

Chica, I'll wear it, OK? Then you'll have a strip to send in, and they won't yell at you. OK?

So. After his super sized double quarter pounder with cheese meal, we lengthened the stupid contraption belt and strapped it on B. He even laid down on his left side for the required 30 minutes. Just so I would feel better.

The next morning, I sent in the strip. After talking with the nurses, I went to check on B. 

B? How are you feeling? 

Fine, chica. 

Are you having any cramping or spotting? 

Chica, what are you talking about? 

You had 4 really strong contractions last night.

That was the last time I used the stupid home monitoring contraption.

And we never did tell Georgia.

Sundays in My City

It's Sunday and it's time to travel the world visiting our bloggy friends.

Thanks to the super funny and super wise Unknown Mami for this genius creation.

Have fun visiting.

One of the many cool things about our little city is the abundant art. Not all of it is to my liking. Like the installation piece that mimicked a realtor's window and implied that Trader Joe's was coming to town was plain mean. And the contemporary art museum that, as Mia says, is full of piles of broken glass and long string and pieces of felt, well I just don't get that kind of art. 

It aggravates me. 

But this mural I find beautiful. And it's placed in a way that feels like a WELCOME when you turn onto Main St. It brightens our home

Thanks for stopping by.

Friday Fragments & Freewrites

It's time to freely frag again.

Thanks Mrs.4444

Thanks Sara Bonds

Things I love

I love when I vigorously wash my face cleanliness is next to godliness and my entire bottom-half jiggles like panna cotta. 

I love when I find enough shed pet hair between the couch cushions to build a whole 'nother dog or cat

I love justice

I love when Ty's cello teacher asks him what songs he'd like to learn how to play and he says Come Together and I Am The Walrus

I love feeling like the World's Best Mom simply because I did something for one of my kids that I said I'd do. Even when it's simply something simple. Because when I was a kid there was no follow through, and promises were rarely kept. Even the little ones.

I love hot yoga in a hot room. I love sweating out a gallon of toxic sweat. I love the feeling of dopey yoga head after 90 minutes of sweaty hot torture. 

Things I don't really love so much

I don't really love becoming so dependant junked out on this computer stuff.  Over the past 3 weeks, my internet has gone out twice, and something sweet and sticky was spilled across my keyboard, rendering it useless. Not really loving the jones of not having access to blogland...

I don't really love hearing "there will be three less minutes of daylight today... fall begins at 5:18 this evening"

I don't really love having shit for brains. Like forgetting the 6 item grocery list at home, coming home with 5 items and having to go back out for one item scallions so that I can finish cooking dinner. 

I don't really love Christmas. Or Thanksgiving. Or Mother's Day.

But especially Christmas. Bah humbug

Things I don't want to admit to loving

I don't want to admit to loving season premiers

I don't want to admit to loving Weaver Hot Wings with Marie's Super Chunk Bleu Cheese Dressing

eaten in bed while watching season premiers

I don't want to admit to sometimes loving when the kids sleep in the bed with me

while I'm watching season premiers and eating hot wings

happy friday y'all

Like sands in the hourglass...

I'm feeling old. 

Not really. Let me rephrase that. I'm noticing that I'm getting old.

I can't see for shit anymore. I keep going to the ophthalmologist, and he keeps telling me you're just getting old... this is what happens after 40

Or the gynecologist who tells me that after 40, your periods get shorter and lighter, but it's not menopause until you start skipping months. 

Dammit. 

Or the partner at the office who tells me that finally, after 12 years, I don't look like a teenager anymore.

Is that supposed to be a compliment?

These days, I look pretty stressed out. Too skinny. Tired around the eyes. My hands look old. Positively weird facial hair that I have quite a time keeping up with. And what are all those blue spider veins doing on the backs of my legs?

So now I'm halfway to 50

is that possible?

Last weekend I was looking through old photos

kiss of death

I came across a packet taken exactly 12 years ago. Jack was just 2 weeks old.

Damn

I looked so happy 

And so... 

Soft

Full

Relaxed

Wrinkle-free

I sound like a fabric softener

Granted, I gained 56 lbs with that pregnancy. I looked absolutely madonna-ish. Curvy, dreamy. It was the most feminine I've ever felt. Or looked, I think.

That's the answer. I just need to gain weight, and I'll have that full babyface again. The soft curves. The wrinkles will fill in. The eyes won't look so pinched...

Oh. Right. Collagen

After 40, you start loosing collagen. Which explains why my elbows look the way they do when my arms are straight. If you add fat to a body that's loosing its elasticity you just get...

hanging fat

maybe gaining weight isn't the answer...

Back to the pictures

Pictures of me holding Jack... B holding Jack... Grandma Jane holding Jack... Grums holding Jack... John... shit we all look young

then

Susan, my daddy, B's dad, Rich

my eyes start to well up

Susan was my wonderful sister in law, who has been battling depression, OCD, and an eating disorder for years now... it destroyed her family

The grandpas have passed. Such amazingly sweet men. And awesome grandpas. So missed and so loved.

And Rich. Crazy and generous and infuriating. He and B were friends for years. Died assumedly from an overdose 3 years ago. 

A waste.

Flipping through the pictures past those loved ones who are gone...

They're all... gone.

And I realized that I'm entering into that time of my life

my body's changing

my life is changing 

soon I won't be able to say I have little kids

they're not so little anymore

middle age

how weird is that???

It's OK

It's just kinda strange

It's entirely possible that my life is only half over

So hard to imagine...

what will the next 45 years bring?

au natural

A few weeks ago, I was sitting on my completely overgrown patio, looking out on my completely overgrown back yard, watching the hummingbirds and butterflies and orioles enjoy the completely overgrown morning glories and cosmos. Now when I say overgrown, I mean overgrown. Like, you can't see the flagstone beneath the patio chairs which you can't see either because the sunflowers have taken over and the outdoor furniture looks like big mounds of green and yellow and brown. 

Which isn't the worst thing in the world because it attracts hummingbirds. 

So how can that be bad, right?

overgrown patio

flagstone? what flagstone?

So there I was, sitting, surrounded by rampant flowers and weeds, and my friend J comes by. 

Now J's yard is well kept without being anal. And she has a great eye. And she gently and without judgment offers advice only solicited to help me reign in my wild quarter acre. So I know when she sits down and looks at my backyard she's thinking holy shit, but she doesn't say it. She just laughs when I tell her the reason I'm not mowing and weeding and wacking is because the hummingbirds and butterflies and orioles prefer it this way. That they'd be scared off and leave if I manicured my space. I'm building a natural habitat, I say. To attract wildlife. I'm thinking maybe I'll plant some fruit and nut trees. Maybe a water feature.

Yeah, right.

overgrown perennial bed

and more overgrown flagstone

The truth is, it's overgrown cause I just can't be bothered. I do like the natural look though. If I walk through the grass with my head down, I can pretend my land stretches for acres. That the tall grass and wildflowers cover rolling hills. I can ignore the ugly fences 10 paces to the left and 10 paces to the right. This is my land. My domain. It's wild and carefree. Nature doing it's thing.

Whatever.

Reality check. I'm lazy. I don't care all that much. It does look better when it's trimmed, though. Kinda like body hair. Which I've also ignored this summer.

overgrown wheelbarrow full of dirt

and overgrown weeds

if you squint, it looks like my right armpit

I broke down, and mowed. Kind of. Looks more like a hatchet job. There's crazy stuff growing all along the periphery that I can't possibly mow down. But at least it hides the ugly fence. Well, that's what happens when you ignore the yard for almost an entire summer. And let me tell you, the same thing happens when you ignore your body hair. That's the next place to mow. At least there's no wildlife there... yet... I don't think

oh look... flagstone

but still a little overgrowth

just to keep that wild feeling

And by the way, the wisteria my neighbor cut down earlier this summer... 

It's growing back like gang busters.

You can't keep a good wisteria down.

Friday Fragments & Freewrites

What's wrong with this picture?

Took my kids for their physicals last month. Today, got a bill from the doctors' office, outlining "patient responsibility" $15.86 per kid. Total of $47.58. Not bad for three physicals except:

**this is the first year 100% of annual physicals have not been covered so much for preventive care

**I pay over $600/mo through my employer for this insurance what's another $47.58?

**I AM EMPLOYED BY THIS VERY SAME PEDIATRIC OFFICE WHERE I PAY $600/MO FOR THIS HEALTH INSURANCE THAT'S NOT COVERING 100% OF THE ANNUAL PHYSICALS FOR MY THREE KIDS WHO ARE PATIENTS AT THE VERY SAME OFFICE

**I wonder what the response will be when I bring this to the attention of billing and human resources 

Bright side: I have 3 healthy kids

Not to say that I should be exempt from co-pays and deductibles just because I have been the nurse practitioner at this office for 12 years. Not to say that I deserve special treatment because I see 60 kids a day for physicals, baby check ups and sick visits. Not to say that I work my ass off, and in 12 years have never been "called in" to a meeting regarding the medical decisions I make, or the care I give my patients, or to address parental complaints. But the problem is our staff nurses, medical assistants and support staff cannot afford the health insurance offered by our practice. Most of them are single moms. And they work their asses off too. And needless to say, they don't make what I make. Most of them have managed Medicaid for their kids, and have minimal or no coverage for themselves. And they work in the largest pediatric office in our county. What's up with that?? 

Bright side: Obama???

9/11 We all remember where we were. We will always remember where we were. We remember what we saw. What we heard. Who was there.What was said. And we we sounds like a lot of people are still involved in a bullshit war(s) started by folks who used that terrible day as an excuse to further certain agendas.

Bright side: ????

Good time for a mood stabilizer

I've been reduced so to speak to buying my bras at the little girls' department at Target. I've always been small, and smaller still after never ending pregnancies and breast feeding. poor little boobies. I last purchased bras when said boobies were full and plump relatively and Mia was 6 months old. She's in second grade now. pathetic. So my friend J said "you're like me, you need a bra made for little girls". What??? So don't you know, little girl bras are padded with underwires. In like a 30AA. Why does a little girl need padding and underwires when her nipples still look like her 5yr old brother's? Maybe for the same reason sweet stuff or delicious is scripted across the pink fleece covering her prepubescent butt. Right Kori? We live in a sick and twisted world

Bright side: 36AA padded bras, no underwire, for $5.99.

The sky blue pill seems to be working. I'm actually able to laugh spontaneously, my teeth don't ache from clenching, and I made it through my PMS days rising to the surface rather than sinking to the depths.  I've also noticed that even though I haven't been to yoga all summer, I'm not achey. Hmmm... I guess there's something to the fibromyalgia/SSRI thing after all. Last week I was having some weird out of body, zoo-y feelings during the day, but that seems to be resolved by taking the pill at bedtime. Oh happy day! Now, if only it worked to eliminate unwanted facial hair.

Bright side: Neet

Fuck the climb. Fuck what's waiting on the other side. My knees hurt. I'm outta breath. What's wrong with coasting? How 'bout a little plateau once in a while. Or maybe even bonketty bonking down the bumpy hill on my butt. I guess if you're sixteen and perky there haven't been enough uphill battles to wear you out. But at 45? I'm ready for early retirement.

Bright side: buns o' steel

Friday Fragments hosted by 

Mrs. 4444 @ Half Past Kissin' Time

Friday Freewrites hosted by 

Sara @ Ordinary and Awesome

Have a great weekend

Fragments & Freewrites

Friday Fragments at Half-Past Kissin' Time

Friday Freewrites at Ordinary and Awesome

Fragmented... the way my brain has been feeling for a while now. Many ideas for posts, but not enough ooomph to get much written... and nothing's free... right?

Well, here goes...

There's so much wrong with our culture. Oh... where to begin? How 'bout... the music?? Listening to my kids' favorite station in the car... wait... what are they saying? and two and two and undress you and three and three and undress me and four and four let's freak some more meet me at the hotel motel holiday inn bring your boyfriends and girlfriends... what?? are they singing about orgies??? Even Ty was like eeeww that's gross...Where's Karen Carpenter rainy days and mondays and white lace and promises? Where's Bob Denver filling up my senses like a night in the forest? Where's the innocent sap keeping us innocent?

It took the entire summer, but I finally finished The Poisonwood Bible. I'd taken it out of the library on other occasions, but couldn't bring myself to read about a white missionary family in the Congo. sorry ladies. And Oprah's endorsement was the nail in the coffin as far as I was concerned. Well, my apologies to Ms Kingsolver for underestimating her talent. I loved her essay collection Small Wonders. And when Ms. Moon mentioned The Poisonwood Bible was one of her favorites, I went to the library and checked it out again. Amazing storytelling. I finished and immediately wanted to reread from the beginning, but I had already renewed it twice, and it was overdue by 5 days. I'll have to buy it. If by some miracle you haven't read it yet, you should. It's not a difficult read. It just took me so long because the only chance I get to read is... umm... 15 minutes... umm... every morning... in the bathroom... you know how it is.

On second thought, The Poisonwood Bible is an extremely difficult read. Especially if you're depressed. The funny ha fuckin ha thing about depression is that it completely colors every bit of information that enters your brain. Everything takes on a negative, overwhelming, disastrous, hopeless quality. Everything is futile, every act, no matter how innocent, becomes destructive. So my take home message after finishing this book is that we are all accomplices. We are all guilty. We are all responsible. No one is innocent and ignorance is not an excuse. A prescription for antibiotics for some kid's ear infection? I'm in bed with pharmaceutical thieves. Checking the air pressure in the minivan tires? I think of all the Congolese who had a hand chopped off because they didn't work fast enough on the Firestone Tire rubber plantations. McDonald's because it's just to overwhelming to think about cooking? Oh, don't get me started. All I can think of is the rampant destruction caused just because we want what we want. It's more than a little paralyzing. The more you read, the more you know...

Jack: Mom, it seems like your happy pill is starting to work

Me:  Maybe... I don't know if it's the pill or it's just time or maybe it's both

Jack: Maybe you just think it's the pill, and you let yourself think happier thoughts instead             of shoving them away and you feel... better

I raise an eyebrow at him

Jack:   Yeah, I'm smart that way

And why is it that so many of us are overwhelmed, sad, anxious? What the fucking fuck is up with brain chemistry? Is that really it? I can't NOT think about it cause that's just the way MY brain works. I like answers. I like explanations. If I have to live with that's just the way it is, take the pill and shut up, I will. But it's not easy for me to leave it at that. Is it culture? Is it our environment? Is it genetic? Is it merely that we collectively create our reality and now we have named certain feelings as *dysthymic* *bipolar* *premenstrual dysphoric disorder* *clinical depression* *rapid cycling* *anxiety disorder* *post traumatic stress disorder* *panic attacks*. And prozac paxil lexapro celexa remeron zyban effexor cymbalta luvox zoloft wellbutrin sarafem abilify risperdal zyprexa. Do we conjure them by our belief in their existence? Do the names bestow previously nonexistent POWER? It's hard to imagine it's always been like this, yet it's hard to believe this is a contemporary phenomenon. And it's NOT cross cultural. So what's up with that? 

WHERE'S MY FUCKING RED TENT? 

Well, on a lighter note...

A profound and heartfelt thank you for the comments and love from Ms. Moon, Kori, JAM, Unknown Mami, Nola, BJ Mama, Alicia, Anouk, and my sister Adrienne whose cheeks are softer than the cheeks of my own children. Solidarity is an awesome thing. And the relationships we form in this bloggy universe, assumedly strange and anonymous, are so intimate that we dream of each other and tell each other our dark and honest secret fears and feelings with the press of a button, and get back love and support and laughter and the knowledge that we are not alone. It's an amazing thing.