Today is one of those days I'm truly grateful for.
Ron and I went to the doctor's this morning for my post-op follow up ... the appointment I was simultaneously anxiously waiting for and hating the idea of going to since the day I called to schedule it. I think I hated the idea of going because I was so afraid there would be no answers.
But that's not what happened.
There were answers. A few. Enough to make the pain even more bearable; enough to guide me through the oncoming waves of grief. I know they're coming ashore again. They're going to wash over me once all of this sinks in a little more.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Thursday, December 25, 2014
I am more than my miscarriages
Life changing news. I wrote about it because that's one of the best (maybe the only) ways I can get a grip on my emotions.
When I was younger, all this emotion and writing and pouring myself into an outlet was secret. There were notebooks and random stashes of folded up paper that lived in my back jeans' pockets that I would pull out and fill with angry, bitter poetry. A lot of anger. A lot of bitter.
This is where I come now. I try to make sure my thoughts are fairly well put together before I hit "publish." This is a space where I feel I can get out all my feelings - whether they're about stupid shit my kids are doing, the random places I find sippy cups, my love of cloth diapers, or my incessant need to finish writing the novel that should have been done months ago as soon as possible (because ASAP just makes more sense than an actual deadline when I have two small children) - but I also like to consider it a safe place for others to join some of these conversations.
Usually everyone just comments on the link I post on my Facebook page. That's fine.
Tonight, while I reflect on our loss - a child who won't get to spend Christmas with us next year - I also reflect on our gains throughout the year.
When I was younger, all this emotion and writing and pouring myself into an outlet was secret. There were notebooks and random stashes of folded up paper that lived in my back jeans' pockets that I would pull out and fill with angry, bitter poetry. A lot of anger. A lot of bitter.
This is where I come now. I try to make sure my thoughts are fairly well put together before I hit "publish." This is a space where I feel I can get out all my feelings - whether they're about stupid shit my kids are doing, the random places I find sippy cups, my love of cloth diapers, or my incessant need to finish writing the novel that should have been done months ago as soon as possible (because ASAP just makes more sense than an actual deadline when I have two small children) - but I also like to consider it a safe place for others to join some of these conversations.
Usually everyone just comments on the link I post on my Facebook page. That's fine.
Tonight, while I reflect on our loss - a child who won't get to spend Christmas with us next year - I also reflect on our gains throughout the year.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
The waves and stages of grief
We may never know what happened and I'm trying to make peace with that.
"This was an abnormal pregnancy."
"It's nothing you did. This isn't something you could have prevented."
"I saw what might be a couple small tumors."
"It's possible there was a molar pregnancy."
"I'll be doing a suction D&C to reduce the possibility of scarring on your uterus."
"We might not get any answers."
"This was an abnormal pregnancy."
"It's nothing you did. This isn't something you could have prevented."
"I saw what might be a couple small tumors."
"It's possible there was a molar pregnancy."
"I'll be doing a suction D&C to reduce the possibility of scarring on your uterus."
"We might not get any answers."
Thursday, December 11, 2014
Coping my way through
Out of habit, I'm a strong person. Like, strong enough that I'm able to hold my shit together during some of the most difficult times.
Except with death. I tend to go all in when it comes to death - cleaning, working, once (singular, one time) it was drinking ... and rarely since then have I mixed my white wines with my reds when consuming entire bottles on my own.
On Tuesday, I scrubbed the kitchen floor and did laundry and tried any way I could to not let my mind be idle because, as I said to one friend, and idle mind is the Devil's playground. I knew if I sat still long enough, the what ifs and what did I do wrongs would sneak in. The last thing the girls need from me right now is for depression to take hold. I can't let depression win in this because I've already lost enough, I'm already coping with enough. I don't need to forget how to get up in the morning or put on jeans or smile. I've still been able to smile through the pain because I was given the opportunity to carry this baby for however long I was supposed to. I can feel blessed knowing I served that purpose.
Except with death. I tend to go all in when it comes to death - cleaning, working, once (singular, one time) it was drinking ... and rarely since then have I mixed my white wines with my reds when consuming entire bottles on my own.
On Tuesday, I scrubbed the kitchen floor and did laundry and tried any way I could to not let my mind be idle because, as I said to one friend, and idle mind is the Devil's playground. I knew if I sat still long enough, the what ifs and what did I do wrongs would sneak in. The last thing the girls need from me right now is for depression to take hold. I can't let depression win in this because I've already lost enough, I'm already coping with enough. I don't need to forget how to get up in the morning or put on jeans or smile. I've still been able to smile through the pain because I was given the opportunity to carry this baby for however long I was supposed to. I can feel blessed knowing I served that purpose.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Let go and let God
These days my Facebook page reads less like the diary of an alcoholic writer and more ... domestic.
I mean, I've always been pretty domestic - baking and cooking and momming - but usually it's mixed in with a decent dose of hashtags about wine o'clock and Wine Wednesday and day drinking. There's been none of that recently.
Actually, when I wrote a majority of this post initially last week, I was pretty sure that once this entry was read through entirely, I would get comments like "Oh I totally knew ... because you weren't posting about drinking." To which I'm just going to respond right now - don't post shit like that to anyone ever. For starters, you make people sound like they really do have a drinking problem, which, for me, is the furthest thing from the truth. If I had a drinking problem, I wouldn't be posting about how much I drink or want to drink because when I'm dealing with a life problem (like depression ... because that has been an actual issue in my life) I don't say a thing about it on social media. The only reason anyone other than my husband, close family or really close friends know about me tackling the depression monster is because I finally opened up about it in this space; it's my space and I feel safe here.
But this isn't a post about that, how hard I work at being a mom, how much I despise car line and other Pre-K parents or funny stories about drinking wine and writing a novel.
This is the hardest post I think I'll ever write. This is therapy.
I mean, I've always been pretty domestic - baking and cooking and momming - but usually it's mixed in with a decent dose of hashtags about wine o'clock and Wine Wednesday and day drinking. There's been none of that recently.
Actually, when I wrote a majority of this post initially last week, I was pretty sure that once this entry was read through entirely, I would get comments like "Oh I totally knew ... because you weren't posting about drinking." To which I'm just going to respond right now - don't post shit like that to anyone ever. For starters, you make people sound like they really do have a drinking problem, which, for me, is the furthest thing from the truth. If I had a drinking problem, I wouldn't be posting about how much I drink or want to drink because when I'm dealing with a life problem (like depression ... because that has been an actual issue in my life) I don't say a thing about it on social media. The only reason anyone other than my husband, close family or really close friends know about me tackling the depression monster is because I finally opened up about it in this space; it's my space and I feel safe here.
But this isn't a post about that, how hard I work at being a mom, how much I despise car line and other Pre-K parents or funny stories about drinking wine and writing a novel.
This is the hardest post I think I'll ever write. This is therapy.
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
Car line parents are assholes
I am so bad at this lately.
Like, I must be the shittiest "blogger" out there. But I have an excuse.
Pre-K ate my life. Or at the very least, pre-K is mostly to blame.
For real, this afternoon class thing is not my favorite thing ever and I'm already hoping Charlotte is lucky enough to be in the morning class when she starts next year. I adore that Josie was fortunate enough to get into the UPK program in our district because the cost of private pre-school is kind of ridiculous and, quite frankly, not something we can afford.
It's just the afternoon part I don't care for and really it's for selfish reasons. The girls and I used to go to the gym at least three times a week in the morning, but considering we'd usually get there around 9:30 a.m. and head home by 10:45, it would leave very little time for "down time" before leaving for school at 12:05 p.m. ... so we haven't gone to the gym. Lord help my fluffy ass, we're going to figure this out and hopefully start going after school, but then that cuts into dinner making time and now with the time change it's dark by 5 p.m. and therefore I'm exhausted.
It's a major dilemma in my brain.
But not as big a dilemma as how to reign in my anger with car line.
Like, I must be the shittiest "blogger" out there. But I have an excuse.
Pre-K ate my life. Or at the very least, pre-K is mostly to blame.
For real, this afternoon class thing is not my favorite thing ever and I'm already hoping Charlotte is lucky enough to be in the morning class when she starts next year. I adore that Josie was fortunate enough to get into the UPK program in our district because the cost of private pre-school is kind of ridiculous and, quite frankly, not something we can afford.
It's just the afternoon part I don't care for and really it's for selfish reasons. The girls and I used to go to the gym at least three times a week in the morning, but considering we'd usually get there around 9:30 a.m. and head home by 10:45, it would leave very little time for "down time" before leaving for school at 12:05 p.m. ... so we haven't gone to the gym. Lord help my fluffy ass, we're going to figure this out and hopefully start going after school, but then that cuts into dinner making time and now with the time change it's dark by 5 p.m. and therefore I'm exhausted.
It's a major dilemma in my brain.
But not as big a dilemma as how to reign in my anger with car line.
Friday, September 12, 2014
Not everyone speaks your language
I was raised by a nurse and a laborer - Dad worked swing shift at Harrison Radiator before Dephi took it over.
I grew up hearing nursing terms and having the "general pick up" note marked with shorthand that I still to this day have no fucking clue what it means. I spent the greater part of my childhood sitting in the garage with my dad occasionally asking him to tell me about the parts of a car. If I wasn't there, I was in the pool or in the kitchen because that's where things happened with my family. We never really were "living room people." Life did not revolve around the television .
We have awesome conversations. But when it all comes down to it, we speak different languages within our professions.
I grew up hearing nursing terms and having the "general pick up" note marked with shorthand that I still to this day have no fucking clue what it means. I spent the greater part of my childhood sitting in the garage with my dad occasionally asking him to tell me about the parts of a car. If I wasn't there, I was in the pool or in the kitchen because that's where things happened with my family. We never really were "living room people." Life did not revolve around the television .
We have awesome conversations. But when it all comes down to it, we speak different languages within our professions.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
When autoimmune disease runs rampant
Three times now my blood work has come back and I've been told to stay on the same dose.
Three times I've gone in and been told my TSH was "elevated."
I'm exhausted. I'm cranky. I'm yawning halfway through my first cup of coffee and I know it isn't just because the caffeine hasn't kicked in yet, or rather *now* I know.
The problem with autoimmune disease and being blessed with two of them is, for me, sometimes not knowing if it's just a case of poor sleep that leaves me fighting to stay awake at 10 a.m. or if it's too much coffee at night (which I rarely drink at night) that keeps me from actually falling asleep.
Is it lack of sleep because I stayed up too late writing that causes me to go from 0 to RAGE in a matter of seconds over something as inane as my child asking me to turn the water on in the bathroom for her to wash her hands or should I really be that miserable and pissed off because she won't just do it herself? Am I just a shitty parent? Why isn't there a fluffy pillow and a box of tissues here right this second so I can have my miserable cry fest while questioning everything I know to be true about me?
This is the face of hypothyroidism. It's also the face of hyperthyroidism.
Three times I've gone in and been told my TSH was "elevated."
I'm exhausted. I'm cranky. I'm yawning halfway through my first cup of coffee and I know it isn't just because the caffeine hasn't kicked in yet, or rather *now* I know.
The problem with autoimmune disease and being blessed with two of them is, for me, sometimes not knowing if it's just a case of poor sleep that leaves me fighting to stay awake at 10 a.m. or if it's too much coffee at night (which I rarely drink at night) that keeps me from actually falling asleep.
Is it lack of sleep because I stayed up too late writing that causes me to go from 0 to RAGE in a matter of seconds over something as inane as my child asking me to turn the water on in the bathroom for her to wash her hands or should I really be that miserable and pissed off because she won't just do it herself? Am I just a shitty parent? Why isn't there a fluffy pillow and a box of tissues here right this second so I can have my miserable cry fest while questioning everything I know to be true about me?
This is the face of hypothyroidism. It's also the face of hyperthyroidism.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
"Back to School" scavenger hunt
It was never like this when I was growing up.
We'd walk into Ames and get our new backpacks and packs of loose leaf paper and paper folders. Then wander into the clothing department and find some acid wash jeans our mother refused to buy and some Garth Brooks looking shirt circa 1993. You know what I'm talking about:
I totally hadfour one similar to that. No shame.
The whole experience took maybe 45 minutes, longer if I was feeling extra miserable about the sneakers I wanted, and there were two of us to outfit. Two girls.
Fast forward to 2014 and shopping for my own kids: Want to know how long I spent in Wal-Mart searching for like five items on the Pre-K school supply list? Like two. Two mother effing hours. We didn't even buy new outfits and I couldn't find three of the items I needed. Who specifically requests "9x12 manila drawing paper"?
It prompted impulse purchases including a bottle of Vitamin D, a giant bag of peanut M&Ms (which were gone the next day because stress), two little boxes of Goldfish Crackers and new coloring books.
We'd walk into Ames and get our new backpacks and packs of loose leaf paper and paper folders. Then wander into the clothing department and find some acid wash jeans our mother refused to buy and some Garth Brooks looking shirt circa 1993. You know what I'm talking about:
I totally had
The whole experience took maybe 45 minutes, longer if I was feeling extra miserable about the sneakers I wanted, and there were two of us to outfit. Two girls.
Fast forward to 2014 and shopping for my own kids: Want to know how long I spent in Wal-Mart searching for like five items on the Pre-K school supply list? Like two. Two mother effing hours. We didn't even buy new outfits and I couldn't find three of the items I needed. Who specifically requests "9x12 manila drawing paper"?
It prompted impulse purchases including a bottle of Vitamin D, a giant bag of peanut M&Ms (which were gone the next day because stress), two little boxes of Goldfish Crackers and new coloring books.
Monday, July 28, 2014
I'd totally have that guy's love child
Words. So many words.
To give you an idea:
That's the book I'm working on. Is it amazing? No. What's taken me nearly six months to do other writers who get to do this full-time and have help with the kids or just have older kids who are a little more self sufficient could probably whip out 46,000 words in a month or two. I'm not going to fault myself for not being further into this story because I love it, I love my characters, I love my writing partner's ability to get me back on track and storyboard with me day or night from California.
To give you an idea:
That's the book I'm working on. Is it amazing? No. What's taken me nearly six months to do other writers who get to do this full-time and have help with the kids or just have older kids who are a little more self sufficient could probably whip out 46,000 words in a month or two. I'm not going to fault myself for not being further into this story because I love it, I love my characters, I love my writing partner's ability to get me back on track and storyboard with me day or night from California.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
'Mawage. Mawage is wot bwings us togeder tooday'
Marriage is amazing. My husband and I have been together a little more than 11 years, married for six, and there are a lot of days when we do everything together all in fluid motions. It's like a ballet of housework and yard work and parenting. Or we hardly see one another and I'm stuck dancing alone through the daily grind. Or I punk out entirely and don't go do things on my own because I'm a giant chickenshit and want to phone a friend in the game of Life, and he's the one I call. What do you mean I'm an adult? Psh.
Since we are individuals and, despite my sometimes neurotic tendencies, I like being an individual, there are some things I don't share with my husband, at least not always in their entirety. Not Earth shattering "I'm hiding bodies in the woods" kinds of secrets, but little tricks of the momming trade that help me get through the money/emotionally overwhelmed/too much going on struggle that I deal with constantly.
Like the fact I haven't used laundry detergent in any of the wash loads for three days. I wash a lot of laundry. Instead I've been tearing through the box of baking soda that I also use for cookies and on occasion in the kids' bath. Our clothes smell like cotton and the washer doesn't stink. I think that counts as a win. Unless he reads this, he's not going to have a clue!
 |
| June 21, 2008: Oh hey, we got hitched. |
Like the fact I haven't used laundry detergent in any of the wash loads for three days. I wash a lot of laundry. Instead I've been tearing through the box of baking soda that I also use for cookies and on occasion in the kids' bath. Our clothes smell like cotton and the washer doesn't stink. I think that counts as a win. Unless he reads this, he's not going to have a clue!
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Growing pains and change
My free moments have been few and far between lately. Interruptions, events, appointments, deliveries, more interruptions.
Father's Day weekend started with a dance recital and birthday celebration. I'm still trying to grasp the concept that Josie is officially a 4-year-old.
We did the Father's Day run around where we didn't actually do anything special, but it was special because we were together.
Then it was a week of doctor appointments, getting Josie registered for the Universal Pre-Kindergarten program offered by our school district (again, her being old enough to go to school is a concept I'm not fully grasping), actually celebrating Josie's birthday by taking her for her first hair cut, having the giant mattress delivered and our anniversary.
Our anniversary, which we did nothing special to celebrate other than bust ass to continue getting the house we need to sell ready for showings. After months and months and months of talking about how we needed to list it and all the things we need to do to get it ready, it's ready. Almost. As I sit here taking 15 minutes to pour my thoughts out on the interwebs, the Boy has taken a ladder and gone to paint the door frame on the back of the house and the supports on the front, maybe touch up the paint in the bathroom that I didn't get to and put the light cover back in the front light.
It's officially on the market and open for showing as of June 30.
Father's Day weekend started with a dance recital and birthday celebration. I'm still trying to grasp the concept that Josie is officially a 4-year-old.
We did the Father's Day run around where we didn't actually do anything special, but it was special because we were together.
 |
| Baby's First Haircut ... it still counts even if she's 4, right? |
Our anniversary, which we did nothing special to celebrate other than bust ass to continue getting the house we need to sell ready for showings. After months and months and months of talking about how we needed to list it and all the things we need to do to get it ready, it's ready. Almost. As I sit here taking 15 minutes to pour my thoughts out on the interwebs, the Boy has taken a ladder and gone to paint the door frame on the back of the house and the supports on the front, maybe touch up the paint in the bathroom that I didn't get to and put the light cover back in the front light.
It's officially on the market and open for showing as of June 30.
Monday, June 16, 2014
Hand picked perfect fathers
It's nearing midnight and I'm just getting around to this (and posting just after midnight because I suck) - not because I feel like I have to or am obligated to post something on Father's Day, but because I'm surrounded by some pretty amazing dads and I want them to know how loved they are.
Around Mother's Day I was all "oh my fucking Lord I just want a few hours to myself and please oh please can we just have one night where the kids aren't crawling into bed with us? Please?"
And, you know what? I deserve that.
But, so does he.
And neither one of us got it for our Hallmark holidays this year.
Around Mother's Day I was all "oh my fucking Lord I just want a few hours to myself and please oh please can we just have one night where the kids aren't crawling into bed with us? Please?"
And, you know what? I deserve that.
But, so does he.
And neither one of us got it for our Hallmark holidays this year.
Friday, June 13, 2014
Surround yourself with the tools that work for you
I had a dream early one recent morning.
I walked into my psychic's home, in tears. I said nothing. She looked at me and tsked at me.
She was unhappy. "You removed the water I surrounded you with? Why?"
I have no idea, and that's my thought about everything surrounding that dream - I have no idea what it means, why she'd say that to me, why she would have surrounded me with water in the first place. I am totally clueless.
Or, I was.
I walked into my psychic's home, in tears. I said nothing. She looked at me and tsked at me.
She was unhappy. "You removed the water I surrounded you with? Why?"
I have no idea, and that's my thought about everything surrounding that dream - I have no idea what it means, why she'd say that to me, why she would have surrounded me with water in the first place. I am totally clueless.
Or, I was.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Everyone is getting older
My
husband is a pretty straight laced guy - but when we met, he rode a motorcycle,
wore a leather jacket and smoked cloves on the weekend.
Then we grew up a little and he traded in riding the bike for driving a car the was safe and could fit car seats. Hung up the leather jacket for a Carhartt. And ended up with a wicked case of upper respiratory infection and quit smoking a few months before I found out I was pregnant with our first daughter.
He talked about getting the bike out now that the weather is getting consistently nice and I have to wonder how much longer we have to feel young.
I'm not afraid of getting older - my age isn't what scares me, isn't what makes my heart stop beating for a handful of seconds at a time - it's the fact that as I get older ... so does everyone else.
Then we grew up a little and he traded in riding the bike for driving a car the was safe and could fit car seats. Hung up the leather jacket for a Carhartt. And ended up with a wicked case of upper respiratory infection and quit smoking a few months before I found out I was pregnant with our first daughter.
He talked about getting the bike out now that the weather is getting consistently nice and I have to wonder how much longer we have to feel young.
I'm not afraid of getting older - my age isn't what scares me, isn't what makes my heart stop beating for a handful of seconds at a time - it's the fact that as I get older ... so does everyone else.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Not your traditional Mother's Day jargon
I really loved my last post.
Like, I loved it so much I read it multiple times after I posted it. And laughed hysterically at parts only I and a select few really understand.
That's not something I do regularly.
In fact, it's something I do so rarely I could probably count the number of entries I've loved that much on one hand.
My husband, though, admitted to me he didn't really "get" it and only skimmed.
Like, I loved it so much I read it multiple times after I posted it. And laughed hysterically at parts only I and a select few really understand.
That's not something I do regularly.
In fact, it's something I do so rarely I could probably count the number of entries I've loved that much on one hand.
My husband, though, admitted to me he didn't really "get" it and only skimmed.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Connections, connections, connections
I love my Internet mom friends. I love them to the moon and back because I can post shit like this in one of our online groups:
When my parents first got the Internet, I would greatly anticipate evenings after my homework was done when I could hear that squealing high pitched sound followed by a solid connection and the persistent blinking computer icon in the computer taskbar showing I was finally connected to the world outside of Lyndonville. It was scary standing there on the precipice of the technological revolution that was dial-up, particularly in a small town. It was scarier still that I was introducing myself to new people every day and was totally addicted to chatrooms and AIM by the time I left for college.
I'm sure all of us in my age group can recall the whole "a/s/l" and "What's your screen name?" phases of our lives. They were ... confusing. But for some, it was allowing us to find people whom we otherwise would never have met. I met some of my best friends online because of a common love for a single musician and was totally blown away when I realized last fall we've been friends for 10 years now and our lives are completely different than when we virtually met - I'm married and have kids, Christian is teaching in Korea, Kris and Xander are slowly going to achieve world domination through graduate studies and PhD programs, and Ryan is like the world's most amazing masseuse (I'm sure, though haven't had the pleasure of one of those massages).
Don't get ahead of me; this isn't going to turn into a piece on Internet safety, though I have enough experience meeting strangers from the web that I could definitely write a well informed article on the matter.
No, really, this one is purely about connecting, on some level, with others in my situation.
Sometimes I want to stab my husband for completely irrational reasons, like he hung his dress shirts up facing the wrong way. Feel free to unfriend the crazy girl. o_OAnd I'm met with stories so similar that I feel a little bit emotional over the connection I have with these other crazy chicks. *wipes eyes* It was my allergies. *sniff*
When my parents first got the Internet, I would greatly anticipate evenings after my homework was done when I could hear that squealing high pitched sound followed by a solid connection and the persistent blinking computer icon in the computer taskbar showing I was finally connected to the world outside of Lyndonville. It was scary standing there on the precipice of the technological revolution that was dial-up, particularly in a small town. It was scarier still that I was introducing myself to new people every day and was totally addicted to chatrooms and AIM by the time I left for college.
I'm sure all of us in my age group can recall the whole "a/s/l" and "What's your screen name?" phases of our lives. They were ... confusing. But for some, it was allowing us to find people whom we otherwise would never have met. I met some of my best friends online because of a common love for a single musician and was totally blown away when I realized last fall we've been friends for 10 years now and our lives are completely different than when we virtually met - I'm married and have kids, Christian is teaching in Korea, Kris and Xander are slowly going to achieve world domination through graduate studies and PhD programs, and Ryan is like the world's most amazing masseuse (I'm sure, though haven't had the pleasure of one of those massages).
Don't get ahead of me; this isn't going to turn into a piece on Internet safety, though I have enough experience meeting strangers from the web that I could definitely write a well informed article on the matter.
No, really, this one is purely about connecting, on some level, with others in my situation.
Friday, April 18, 2014
We desperately needed ink, really
There are times in Mommyhood that you just have to get away. I wrote all about the struggles of this *raises arms to sides to indicate my whole life* (I know you couldn't see me do that, but I totally did just to prove this point to myself) and how I knew the next time I got overwhelmed I was just going to run away for a while.
And I did. Last night.
It was one of those days where it looked beautiful outside, until I opened the door and it was just a really sunny 20 degree morning. It killed any motivation I had, and that's been the theme of winter since about mid-January. I opted not to go to the gym, and then because of that the TV was on all day, and the kids were obnoxious and whiny because we hadn't left the house. By the time 5 p.m. rolled around I was ready to escape and just needed the Boy to get home.
The "please eat your dinner" fight had happened at that point. The "I need a break" text had been sent. The "I'm just going to fling the fridge open and cry because my toddler life is ruined by your not having anything I want" was in full effect. Here, allow me to show you:
And I did. Last night.
It was one of those days where it looked beautiful outside, until I opened the door and it was just a really sunny 20 degree morning. It killed any motivation I had, and that's been the theme of winter since about mid-January. I opted not to go to the gym, and then because of that the TV was on all day, and the kids were obnoxious and whiny because we hadn't left the house. By the time 5 p.m. rolled around I was ready to escape and just needed the Boy to get home.
The "please eat your dinner" fight had happened at that point. The "I need a break" text had been sent. The "I'm just going to fling the fridge open and cry because my toddler life is ruined by your not having anything I want" was in full effect. Here, allow me to show you:
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Dear Mom at Aldi ...
Dear Mom at Aldi,
I ran into you this afternoon. Actually, it's more like I purposely was put in your path and you in mine. I watched you with your little boy as he struggled to get out of the cart as you and your husband looked at the prunes and other baking supplies. I didn't pay much attention at the time, but recognized the struggle - a defiant "I want don't want to sit down" toddler-in-training desperately seeking freedom from that shopping cart while you, also desperately, tried to hold a conversation and reign him in.
I didn't pay much attention until I was standing in the same aisle glancing at the spices and saw you and your children, sans husband, at the other end of the row. I didn't pay attention until I saw that defiant little boy with the fearlessness of an independent child topple from the cart. You'll never know the panic that hit my chest or how I had to mentally grab hold of myself so I didn't rush down the aisle to help you. You won't know, because I didn't tell you and you will likely never read this. Instead, I meandered. Instead of rushing to aid another mom, I watched from the corner of my eye as you gathered your son in your arms, pulled your daughter close to you, and you sat on the floor of Aldi beside a stack of sports drinks and other beverages.
I know I didn't shock you when I asked quietly, "Is he OK?" Because that's what at least a small population of people would do when they see a small child crying inconsolably in their mother's arms. A larger population would have given you a sad smile and thought something like, "Oh that poor woman."
And then there's me.
I ran into you this afternoon. Actually, it's more like I purposely was put in your path and you in mine. I watched you with your little boy as he struggled to get out of the cart as you and your husband looked at the prunes and other baking supplies. I didn't pay much attention at the time, but recognized the struggle - a defiant "I want don't want to sit down" toddler-in-training desperately seeking freedom from that shopping cart while you, also desperately, tried to hold a conversation and reign him in.
I didn't pay much attention until I was standing in the same aisle glancing at the spices and saw you and your children, sans husband, at the other end of the row. I didn't pay attention until I saw that defiant little boy with the fearlessness of an independent child topple from the cart. You'll never know the panic that hit my chest or how I had to mentally grab hold of myself so I didn't rush down the aisle to help you. You won't know, because I didn't tell you and you will likely never read this. Instead, I meandered. Instead of rushing to aid another mom, I watched from the corner of my eye as you gathered your son in your arms, pulled your daughter close to you, and you sat on the floor of Aldi beside a stack of sports drinks and other beverages.
I know I didn't shock you when I asked quietly, "Is he OK?" Because that's what at least a small population of people would do when they see a small child crying inconsolably in their mother's arms. A larger population would have given you a sad smile and thought something like, "Oh that poor woman."
And then there's me.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Everyday struggles: Make yourself a priority
I have multiple posts started that remain in draft form. The topics range from society thinking parents should love all sorts of things that I just don't love all the time to how sucky my Friday was to a giant rant about the crap said about the Mets' second baseman Daniel Murphy taking three whole days of paternity leave. O.M.G. Three days!? How dare he!
And that's where those posts are going to die. Right there in the draft folder. Because I was passionate in that moment and now, even though I still care about those topics, I've simply lost steam where they are concerned. I may revisit the love/hate post, but right now it's at a standstill.
Instead, I asked my friend Kristin what she thought about the topics and what one I should go with for the next post, and aside from loving the idea of a post on Murphy's paternity leave she gave me this:
It's the everyday struggle to not forget yourself - we're mothers/fathers, husbands/wives, coworkers and for a lot of people trying to juggle all of that there's no time to just be. Be yourself, be alone, be content. If there isn't a sport or activity going on, there's laundry and dishes needing your attention, there's another paper to grade or another page to edit or another system study to look over. Me Time is a thing of the past for a lot of us and we've lost ourselves in the hustle and bustle of married life and parenting.
Who were you before all of this?
I was adventurous and independent and fun loving. I would spend way too many hours at the office and then too many beers at the Legion. I was careless and reckless and stubborn. I'm still stubborn. But I'm in need of adventures and so co-dependent it's alarming and I still love to have fun, but instead of drinking my friends under a table, I'm ecstatic to go meet up for a play date at the mall because fun is also watching my kids have fun. I spend too many hours in front of the computer because it seems a majority of my social life lives here and I never have enough beer to dull the ache of missing all those things that have changed. I'm careful to a fault now and reckless is staying up past 10 most nights. I take less risks, unless you count totally blowing this week's grocery budget because I just couldn't leave that top round roast at Wegmans ... it was reduced price for quick sale. Man, I'm a fucking rebel to spend $25 on a cut of meat that will make four or more meals for my family. Just call me James Dean.
I try really hard not to miss the old me. The me who was skinny and flirty and had no responsibility other than getting a paper out every night. But that's all I did. I worked. My recklessness was writing a story I was scared to death to publish because it would definitely piss someone off. My independence was because I didn't want someone to hold my hand, or hold me back.
I can look back at all of that - the pre-marriage and pre-babies me - and at the very least know I learned something about myself. I'm capable. I can do all that. I can be successful. Success like that now would come at a very steep price. I can't juggle all I used to do with all I do now. I have trouble keeping up with laundry and cleaning and I'm here most days in the thick of the suburban jungle wading through the muck and the mire of parenthood, toddler years, pre-K prep, wifery and ... I lose myself.
Me Time.
How do we find time for us? How, when so many people or things depend on us to do all that stuff too, do we take a few hours to go out to dinner with friends sans children or hit up a movie with our significant other (again, sans kids) or take time to read quietly?
The juggling is the struggling in this life, the life we're living now and when you throw so many balls up in the air at once you're bound to drop a few. Or more than a few. And if you're like me, sometimes you toss them all up in the air at once, step back and let them all fall. Unlike Humpty Dumpty, the pieces can all be glued back together, and you're stronger for it. Anyone who read my depression piece is aware of that. I fall apart and I scream and I cry and I hate and I pick up every last piece and glue me back together ... and remember myself in the process. That's what it is. A process.
Last Friday I needed a break. I needed the Me Time like I needed air and water and wine. I was pissy and moody and just plain tired of how shitty the day had been. I brushed my teeth at 7:30 p.m. along with the kids. I gave them kisses. I walked down the hall to my bedroom, walked in, shut the door and climbed into bed with a book. A real book with pages and the smell of ink and no "low battery" notification popping up in the middle of a chapter. I didn't intentionally make my husband put the kids to bed alone, but that's what happened. I'm a better mom for doing that.
I lost myself between the pages.
I needed to get lost in someone else's story.
This is the struggle in the suburban jungle. The fight to be better than everyone else isn't worth the things we lose in the process because the biggest thing we lose is who we are at the base level. We need others but we need ourselves more because once you lose that, once you forget who you are, there's nothing left to give the ones who want a piece of you and you can't be a social creature if you don't recharge your batteries once in a while.
Is this why so many women are in need of a spa day or anything other than grocery shopping alone? Is this why men want to go watch the game at a bar with their buddies or hit the links and golf a round with a close friend? I'm not even being sarcastic. I've wanted for so long to go do things like get my hair cut all by myself because I remember how I used to feel when I did that before marriage and kids. I haven't gone to get my hair cut professionally since I was pregnant with Josie (or maybe she was an infant? I might have been pregnant with Charlotte. That two years just sort of blended together in my head.). I've pretty much cut my own hair for four years now, and I don't even pamper myself leading up to the hack'n'whack - I take a shower, wash my hair, brush it, flip upside down and cut. I could at least buy myself dinner after a quickie like that, but no, I'm usually running out of the bathroom playing "What was that crashing noise!?" as I go.
My husband is an introvert, big time - in college he usually would go to the dining hall alone to eat; I couldn't leave my room for food unless I had at least one friend with me because eating alone was such a foreign concept to me - so he doesn't see why others have a need for time alone after being home all day doing the housewife/childrearer jobs or why some people want to be with someone but without responsibility (i.e. go out and have fun without worrying, or sit and watch a movie without having to get up to wipe a child's tush). He just doesn't see the problem that we face when we can't separate ourselves from the roles we're stuck in. I'm the mom and the wife, but I can't always just be the wife or just be the mom. I'm the mom and the writer, but while I've sat at the kitchen table writing this I've been interrupted to help someone brush her teeth and get dressed, make multiple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, search for a pacifier and put dinner in the slow cooker. I rarely get the chance to just be a writer. Unless the kids are in a really deep sleep, I'm never just the wife. I don't go out with friends. I'm never just someone's friend because all my other selves are part of that since my friends have kids and it's never just the adults doing something. The kids are always there. ALWAYS.
I adore my children, but there are times I want to remember who I am. That's where the guilt and exhaustion rear their ugly heads the most. When I take time for me, I feel such remorse for not taking that time with my kids because, as everyone likes to remind the parents of young children, they are only little once. Taking time for myself helps to alleviate that exhaustion, but that's the double-edged sword of it all: guilt cuts as deep as the exhaustion. It's the same when we wear our spouse hat. Then put the spouse hat on with the parent hat and the coworker hat and it's a combustible situation because of that guilt/exhaustion/who am I cycle.
Nuclear. Meltdown.
It doesn't matter which self we're trying to be, if we attempt to be one or all of them at once, we feel guilty because we aren't able to juggle it all. And then we're guilty because we've spent so much time being exhausted by trying to be too many people all at once that there is nothing left.
All the same, though, let yourself get exhausted once in a while. Step back and let the balls fall down around you. Pick up your purse, walk out the door and go get your hair done. Make plans with coworkers for a happy hour once a week to blow off steam. Give up bath time and bedtime one night a week to go grab coffee with a friend or sit in a quiet corner of a cafe to work on the novel you've started writing but never have time to work on. Remember who you are, because you're not doing your children, your husband, your wife, your coworkers any good by being too exhausted to give a shit anymore. It only makes you a liability to yourself and those around you.
Make time. Make Me Time. Make yourself a priority once in a while.
The struggle isn't going away, but figuring out how to step back once in a while and worry about yourself is the most important thing some of us can do. Last Friday it was the most important thing for me to do. And in a week I'm going to need a break like that again. It might come before then. It might take longer.
When it comes time, though, I plan to know what to do, even if it is just throwing my running shoes on and leaving the house for an hour (to hide in the car and write part of that novel using my phone as a computer).
And that's where those posts are going to die. Right there in the draft folder. Because I was passionate in that moment and now, even though I still care about those topics, I've simply lost steam where they are concerned. I may revisit the love/hate post, but right now it's at a standstill.
Instead, I asked my friend Kristin what she thought about the topics and what one I should go with for the next post, and aside from loving the idea of a post on Murphy's paternity leave she gave me this:
I'd love to see more on the marriage versus mommy perspective, because I feel like that all the time...the mommy versus working girl versus wife struggle is another that sends me over the edge from exhaustion and guilt, too. At the end of the day, I miss being social with friends...we haven't gone out in a long time and I wish I had a hobby I could balance with my life and hang out with people outside of work.Sorry to throw our conversation out there for the masses, Love, but sometimes you give me something that is way too good not to share, so I'm going to talk about the struggle.
It's the everyday struggle to not forget yourself - we're mothers/fathers, husbands/wives, coworkers and for a lot of people trying to juggle all of that there's no time to just be. Be yourself, be alone, be content. If there isn't a sport or activity going on, there's laundry and dishes needing your attention, there's another paper to grade or another page to edit or another system study to look over. Me Time is a thing of the past for a lot of us and we've lost ourselves in the hustle and bustle of married life and parenting.
Who were you before all of this?
I was adventurous and independent and fun loving. I would spend way too many hours at the office and then too many beers at the Legion. I was careless and reckless and stubborn. I'm still stubborn. But I'm in need of adventures and so co-dependent it's alarming and I still love to have fun, but instead of drinking my friends under a table, I'm ecstatic to go meet up for a play date at the mall because fun is also watching my kids have fun. I spend too many hours in front of the computer because it seems a majority of my social life lives here and I never have enough beer to dull the ache of missing all those things that have changed. I'm careful to a fault now and reckless is staying up past 10 most nights. I take less risks, unless you count totally blowing this week's grocery budget because I just couldn't leave that top round roast at Wegmans ... it was reduced price for quick sale. Man, I'm a fucking rebel to spend $25 on a cut of meat that will make four or more meals for my family. Just call me James Dean.
I try really hard not to miss the old me. The me who was skinny and flirty and had no responsibility other than getting a paper out every night. But that's all I did. I worked. My recklessness was writing a story I was scared to death to publish because it would definitely piss someone off. My independence was because I didn't want someone to hold my hand, or hold me back.
I can look back at all of that - the pre-marriage and pre-babies me - and at the very least know I learned something about myself. I'm capable. I can do all that. I can be successful. Success like that now would come at a very steep price. I can't juggle all I used to do with all I do now. I have trouble keeping up with laundry and cleaning and I'm here most days in the thick of the suburban jungle wading through the muck and the mire of parenthood, toddler years, pre-K prep, wifery and ... I lose myself.
Me Time.
How do we find time for us? How, when so many people or things depend on us to do all that stuff too, do we take a few hours to go out to dinner with friends sans children or hit up a movie with our significant other (again, sans kids) or take time to read quietly?
The juggling is the struggling in this life, the life we're living now and when you throw so many balls up in the air at once you're bound to drop a few. Or more than a few. And if you're like me, sometimes you toss them all up in the air at once, step back and let them all fall. Unlike Humpty Dumpty, the pieces can all be glued back together, and you're stronger for it. Anyone who read my depression piece is aware of that. I fall apart and I scream and I cry and I hate and I pick up every last piece and glue me back together ... and remember myself in the process. That's what it is. A process.
Last Friday I needed a break. I needed the Me Time like I needed air and water and wine. I was pissy and moody and just plain tired of how shitty the day had been. I brushed my teeth at 7:30 p.m. along with the kids. I gave them kisses. I walked down the hall to my bedroom, walked in, shut the door and climbed into bed with a book. A real book with pages and the smell of ink and no "low battery" notification popping up in the middle of a chapter. I didn't intentionally make my husband put the kids to bed alone, but that's what happened. I'm a better mom for doing that.
I lost myself between the pages.
I needed to get lost in someone else's story.
This is the struggle in the suburban jungle. The fight to be better than everyone else isn't worth the things we lose in the process because the biggest thing we lose is who we are at the base level. We need others but we need ourselves more because once you lose that, once you forget who you are, there's nothing left to give the ones who want a piece of you and you can't be a social creature if you don't recharge your batteries once in a while.
Is this why so many women are in need of a spa day or anything other than grocery shopping alone? Is this why men want to go watch the game at a bar with their buddies or hit the links and golf a round with a close friend? I'm not even being sarcastic. I've wanted for so long to go do things like get my hair cut all by myself because I remember how I used to feel when I did that before marriage and kids. I haven't gone to get my hair cut professionally since I was pregnant with Josie (or maybe she was an infant? I might have been pregnant with Charlotte. That two years just sort of blended together in my head.). I've pretty much cut my own hair for four years now, and I don't even pamper myself leading up to the hack'n'whack - I take a shower, wash my hair, brush it, flip upside down and cut. I could at least buy myself dinner after a quickie like that, but no, I'm usually running out of the bathroom playing "What was that crashing noise!?" as I go.
My husband is an introvert, big time - in college he usually would go to the dining hall alone to eat; I couldn't leave my room for food unless I had at least one friend with me because eating alone was such a foreign concept to me - so he doesn't see why others have a need for time alone after being home all day doing the housewife/childrearer jobs or why some people want to be with someone but without responsibility (i.e. go out and have fun without worrying, or sit and watch a movie without having to get up to wipe a child's tush). He just doesn't see the problem that we face when we can't separate ourselves from the roles we're stuck in. I'm the mom and the wife, but I can't always just be the wife or just be the mom. I'm the mom and the writer, but while I've sat at the kitchen table writing this I've been interrupted to help someone brush her teeth and get dressed, make multiple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, search for a pacifier and put dinner in the slow cooker. I rarely get the chance to just be a writer. Unless the kids are in a really deep sleep, I'm never just the wife. I don't go out with friends. I'm never just someone's friend because all my other selves are part of that since my friends have kids and it's never just the adults doing something. The kids are always there. ALWAYS.
I adore my children, but there are times I want to remember who I am. That's where the guilt and exhaustion rear their ugly heads the most. When I take time for me, I feel such remorse for not taking that time with my kids because, as everyone likes to remind the parents of young children, they are only little once. Taking time for myself helps to alleviate that exhaustion, but that's the double-edged sword of it all: guilt cuts as deep as the exhaustion. It's the same when we wear our spouse hat. Then put the spouse hat on with the parent hat and the coworker hat and it's a combustible situation because of that guilt/exhaustion/who am I cycle.
Nuclear. Meltdown.
It doesn't matter which self we're trying to be, if we attempt to be one or all of them at once, we feel guilty because we aren't able to juggle it all. And then we're guilty because we've spent so much time being exhausted by trying to be too many people all at once that there is nothing left.
All the same, though, let yourself get exhausted once in a while. Step back and let the balls fall down around you. Pick up your purse, walk out the door and go get your hair done. Make plans with coworkers for a happy hour once a week to blow off steam. Give up bath time and bedtime one night a week to go grab coffee with a friend or sit in a quiet corner of a cafe to work on the novel you've started writing but never have time to work on. Remember who you are, because you're not doing your children, your husband, your wife, your coworkers any good by being too exhausted to give a shit anymore. It only makes you a liability to yourself and those around you.
Make time. Make Me Time. Make yourself a priority once in a while.
The struggle isn't going away, but figuring out how to step back once in a while and worry about yourself is the most important thing some of us can do. Last Friday it was the most important thing for me to do. And in a week I'm going to need a break like that again. It might come before then. It might take longer.
When it comes time, though, I plan to know what to do, even if it is just throwing my running shoes on and leaving the house for an hour (to hide in the car and write part of that novel using my phone as a computer).
Saturday, March 29, 2014
How to not give a bath
My thoughts this evening have gone something like, "Jesus wouldn't really care too much if my kids went to church stinky tomorrow, right?" "Honestly, the son of God didn't have running water, so I'm sure he didn't always smell fresh as a daisy." "Clean hair is really overrated." "I could just put perfume on them. They'd feel super special."
Between some late nights I've had, Charlie having a cough and sinus issues, the Boy sneezing and pinching or pulling something in his neck and back this morning and now me with something funky happening with my left eye, I'm just not really in the mood to deal with a bath time fight.
I don't know if I could stand for them to not bathe, though. And a thorough wash up isn't going to cut it because my kids use their hair as napkins - I think there are tomato seeds, ice cream and chocolate milk in Charlotte's hair right now.
Between some late nights I've had, Charlie having a cough and sinus issues, the Boy sneezing and pinching or pulling something in his neck and back this morning and now me with something funky happening with my left eye, I'm just not really in the mood to deal with a bath time fight.
I don't know if I could stand for them to not bathe, though. And a thorough wash up isn't going to cut it because my kids use their hair as napkins - I think there are tomato seeds, ice cream and chocolate milk in Charlotte's hair right now.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Pancakes ... as big as your head
Did You Know: A grouping of maple trees is called a sugarbush?
The only reason I knew that was because I've written a few different news stories about Maple Weekend in the past and have retained that knowledge for the future. It comes in handy every year when March rolls around and Mother Nature allows a little warmth to shine down on the groves. Maple Weekend is a big thing in this region and I'm not just talking about New York, though *pops collar* our state tree is in fact the sugar maple.
I'll give you a second to be impressed.
The only reason I knew that was because I've written a few different news stories about Maple Weekend in the past and have retained that knowledge for the future. It comes in handy every year when March rolls around and Mother Nature allows a little warmth to shine down on the groves. Maple Weekend is a big thing in this region and I'm not just talking about New York, though *pops collar* our state tree is in fact the sugar maple.
I'll give you a second to be impressed.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Be kind; rewind (my life to better days)
Forgive me, Father readers, for I have sinned been in a slump.
My last confession was 13 days ago. I shared with you how disastrous I felt my house was. I even showed you a picture or two. And made some of you giggle with the "Let it Go" video. Thanks for validating me.
I don't expect to get a lot of uplifting remarks, nor is this a cry for help in any way. I am simply one of thousands who battle daily to find their place and be comfortable in it.
The other day I posted on my Facebook page asking for blog topics. A former columnist of mine popped in with the suggestion I write about "being kind to yourself." I was in the frame of mind yesterday where that post would have been completely uplifting - I'd started my morning by doing a guided meditation on a new Roku channel I found and had my half a pot of coffee and the kids were relatively calm. Yesterday was pretty decent on all fronts.
But that was yesterday. Today was a different story - I slept late, needed to grocery shop, we ran out of coffee and I thought that alone would kill me, the kids fought with each other, the kids fought with me, the dog keeps trying to dig under the back porch, the hustle and bustle of dance class during the dinner hour, realizing my kids were eating yogurt for dinner at almost 7 p.m. and then a near argument with the Boy over this very blog entry (because he doesn't understand it).
Today reminded me of all the reasons I'm not nice to myself. Why I'm bitter and pissed off a lot. Why I sometimes want to pack a bag and tell my husband it's all his responsibility for three days while I go hide in the woods somewhere. This is basically the antithesis of my friend's request for a post about "being kind to yourself." Sorry 'bout that.
My last confession was 13 days ago. I shared with you how disastrous I felt my house was. I even showed you a picture or two. And made some of you giggle with the "Let it Go" video. Thanks for validating me.
I don't expect to get a lot of uplifting remarks, nor is this a cry for help in any way. I am simply one of thousands who battle daily to find their place and be comfortable in it.
The other day I posted on my Facebook page asking for blog topics. A former columnist of mine popped in with the suggestion I write about "being kind to yourself." I was in the frame of mind yesterday where that post would have been completely uplifting - I'd started my morning by doing a guided meditation on a new Roku channel I found and had my half a pot of coffee and the kids were relatively calm. Yesterday was pretty decent on all fronts.
But that was yesterday. Today was a different story - I slept late, needed to grocery shop, we ran out of coffee and I thought that alone would kill me, the kids fought with each other, the kids fought with me, the dog keeps trying to dig under the back porch, the hustle and bustle of dance class during the dinner hour, realizing my kids were eating yogurt for dinner at almost 7 p.m. and then a near argument with the Boy over this very blog entry (because he doesn't understand it).
Today reminded me of all the reasons I'm not nice to myself. Why I'm bitter and pissed off a lot. Why I sometimes want to pack a bag and tell my husband it's all his responsibility for three days while I go hide in the woods somewhere. This is basically the antithesis of my friend's request for a post about "being kind to yourself." Sorry 'bout that.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
#40bagsin40days: I'ma do this so hard
I'm going to do this. Just like two years ago when I was, for all intents and purposes, scary close to a nervous breakdown, this needs to be done.
A mommy friend posted the link to the blog "White House Black Shutters" on Facebook and I read the post and went "Huh. Interesting." I was in between yelling at one kid and pleading with another when I read the entry. Bad behavior ran amuck today. I let them eat the remaining 18 or so packs of fruit snacks from a box we bought Monday and promised to wake Charlie up if she fell asleep in the chair watching TV and then promised I was going to get my ass pre-birthday drunk because, damn it, I deserve all those drinks.
So. Today royally sucked.
And then, mid-tantrum (mine, not theirs), I looked at the living room, glanced at the front room and hit the roof when I looked at the kitchen counters.
Out came the notebook and pen:
And a list was born because, let's face it, my life is never organized enough and when I don't have a list everything is chaotic. My life. My kids. My house. My brain. Hell, even my hair doesn't know what to do when I let go and stop making lists.
Here's the list. It's time for my first ever #40bagsin40days challenge. The clutter will be overcome. I have my list. I won't lose my ambition. I may clean and declutter under the influence once in a while because this is Lent and God himself knows I won't give up my alcohol. I'll give up the mess and the chaos, but leave your holy hands off my wine.
Now that I've started I should forewarn my loved ones. It's happening. Boy, I'm sorry. I said I would hold onto your jeans from college and right after college because you were going to use our gym membership and fit into them again ... but you don't use our membership. You ran up and down the two flights of stairs in our house tonight and were thoroughly winded. We'll work on that. But first, I'm tired of cleaning around that box in the closet. The box I moved here last fall. The box I moved around in the closet at the old house. It's time to let it go.
Really, just ...
College Me, I know how much you LOVE some of those ratty T-shirts you just can't seem to part with. You're going to try for real this time. An honest to goodness try, Past Me. You may even get as far as putting them in a bag this time instead of just piling them up and eventually moving them to a different drawer. But it's OK to let them go. Really. I promise.
Mommy Me ... no we aren't getting rid of the baby clothes yet so you can stop that train right here.
I did start this challenge today and that's the biggest step. That's one thing all the parts of me can be certain of. I made that list and I looked at my house and cried because I'm tired - but more than the exhaustion of trying to keep up, staying up too late to get it all done and the being mentally worn out because of not being able to be Super Mom (we've talked about how much I am NOT her in the past), I'm tired of using those excuses to not fold up the blankets the kids have thrown on the floor again. I'm kind of tired of telling myself I'll get to something later and later coming MONTHS later. That's bullshit and I'm only psychologically bringing myself closer to another round of "Am I crazy or is that really a ghost standing in my living room." (Answer: It's usually a ghost. I'm very much not crazy in the traditional sense.)
Let me give you a glimpse into what I've been looking at for weeks, what's been eating away at the very center of my soul. Some of my friends would believe this is a totally normal condition or state for my home to be in, but in my head it's not. It can't be and I won't let it be.
Here, your glimpse:
Holy fuck. To a lot of people this isn't bad. But remember it's only one small counter top in the kitchen. I had four other areas that were (to me) just as cluttered. This picture gives me anxiety.
This one, however, makes me calm:
The pile on the left is my husband's pile of random shit he needs to go through and then move the hell off my counter. The pile on the right is actually the first part of a manuscript I'm editing, a stack of CDs I need to put in the car and Tara Sivec's "Watch Over Me," which I just started reading the other night. Tomorrow, that pile will disappear and travel with me to my mom and dad's very organized house where I will once again feel at peace with my shattered soul (because I'm not Super Mom).
I posted all my before and after photos from today on my Facebook page (personal, I don't have one associated with the blog ... but if there's demand for one, I'd do it) and between the first set of photos and the second, my attitude changed right along with the amount of shit cluttering my space. There's something truly uplifting about getting rid of things I don't need. At this point it's just been getting rid of recyclables and trash items that built up and took over my counters. In the next 39 days, I'll be giving bags of clothes (there's already one ready to go) and quite possibly toys to the Rescue Mission. Stuff will be taken to church (yeah, despite my cursing and imbibing I do in fact attend a real church) for the annual rummage sale. I'll be organizing this house like I've been wanting to since we decided to move here.
Honestly, I may even break my new "no credit card unless for gas" rule in order to really get a handle on things like the girls' play area(s) and the crafty/fabric stuff.
Now, since I already made this kitchen look gawd damn amazing, I'm just going to go put my feet up, drink this wine and celebrate the beginning of Lent and ... yay Jesus!
You know you want to say it, too. Go on. Say it. Yay Jesus!
A mommy friend posted the link to the blog "White House Black Shutters" on Facebook and I read the post and went "Huh. Interesting." I was in between yelling at one kid and pleading with another when I read the entry. Bad behavior ran amuck today. I let them eat the remaining 18 or so packs of fruit snacks from a box we bought Monday and promised to wake Charlie up if she fell asleep in the chair watching TV and then promised I was going to get my ass pre-birthday drunk because, damn it, I deserve all those drinks.
So. Today royally sucked.
And then, mid-tantrum (mine, not theirs), I looked at the living room, glanced at the front room and hit the roof when I looked at the kitchen counters.
Out came the notebook and pen:
 |
| Pen, meet notebook ... and glass and laptop. |
Here's the list. It's time for my first ever #40bagsin40days challenge. The clutter will be overcome. I have my list. I won't lose my ambition. I may clean and declutter under the influence once in a while because this is Lent and God himself knows I won't give up my alcohol. I'll give up the mess and the chaos, but leave your holy hands off my wine.
Now that I've started I should forewarn my loved ones. It's happening. Boy, I'm sorry. I said I would hold onto your jeans from college and right after college because you were going to use our gym membership and fit into them again ... but you don't use our membership. You ran up and down the two flights of stairs in our house tonight and were thoroughly winded. We'll work on that. But first, I'm tired of cleaning around that box in the closet. The box I moved here last fall. The box I moved around in the closet at the old house. It's time to let it go.
Really, just ...
College Me, I know how much you LOVE some of those ratty T-shirts you just can't seem to part with. You're going to try for real this time. An honest to goodness try, Past Me. You may even get as far as putting them in a bag this time instead of just piling them up and eventually moving them to a different drawer. But it's OK to let them go. Really. I promise.
Mommy Me ... no we aren't getting rid of the baby clothes yet so you can stop that train right here.
I did start this challenge today and that's the biggest step. That's one thing all the parts of me can be certain of. I made that list and I looked at my house and cried because I'm tired - but more than the exhaustion of trying to keep up, staying up too late to get it all done and the being mentally worn out because of not being able to be Super Mom (we've talked about how much I am NOT her in the past), I'm tired of using those excuses to not fold up the blankets the kids have thrown on the floor again. I'm kind of tired of telling myself I'll get to something later and later coming MONTHS later. That's bullshit and I'm only psychologically bringing myself closer to another round of "Am I crazy or is that really a ghost standing in my living room." (Answer: It's usually a ghost. I'm very much not crazy in the traditional sense.)
Let me give you a glimpse into what I've been looking at for weeks, what's been eating away at the very center of my soul. Some of my friends would believe this is a totally normal condition or state for my home to be in, but in my head it's not. It can't be and I won't let it be.
Here, your glimpse:
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| No office yet, so this is a dinner table/office/desk/bill-pay area. *barf* |
This one, however, makes me calm:
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| So.Much.Better. |
I posted all my before and after photos from today on my Facebook page (personal, I don't have one associated with the blog ... but if there's demand for one, I'd do it) and between the first set of photos and the second, my attitude changed right along with the amount of shit cluttering my space. There's something truly uplifting about getting rid of things I don't need. At this point it's just been getting rid of recyclables and trash items that built up and took over my counters. In the next 39 days, I'll be giving bags of clothes (there's already one ready to go) and quite possibly toys to the Rescue Mission. Stuff will be taken to church (yeah, despite my cursing and imbibing I do in fact attend a real church) for the annual rummage sale. I'll be organizing this house like I've been wanting to since we decided to move here.
Honestly, I may even break my new "no credit card unless for gas" rule in order to really get a handle on things like the girls' play area(s) and the crafty/fabric stuff.
Now, since I already made this kitchen look gawd damn amazing, I'm just going to go put my feet up, drink this wine and celebrate the beginning of Lent and ... yay Jesus!
You know you want to say it, too. Go on. Say it. Yay Jesus!
Monday, March 3, 2014
Educational experiences unlike any other
Jump back in time with me for just a sec.
It's 1998 and all my friends are doing it. It's the cool thing. They love hanging out doing this stuff and I'm just like, eh I dunno if it's really my thing. I'm a smart kid, I think, but this is kind of out there even for me.
Academic Decathlon. It's basically the most awesome form of nerdery to go down for high school kids if you don't have a chess or glee club.
Oh, you don't know what AcaDec is? Let me enlighten you. It's several months of studying subjects outside the regular school curriculum. Eventually, through the course of studying, a few schools in the state get together in one location and take multiple exams - Regional Competition. Then from those winning schools a handful from the entire state get together for a weekend and nerd it up for two days - State Competition.
The second day starts at the asscrack of dawn with (at least for us New Yorkers) the math exam. Yeah, calculus at 8:45 a.m.
Admit it right now, you'd die if you had to do math that early these days. I hardly remember my name at that time of the morning let alone can do whatever the hell math I learned in high school. My husband is a robot, so we won't include him in this story because he does math for fun. Weirdo.
It's 1998 and all my friends are doing it. It's the cool thing. They love hanging out doing this stuff and I'm just like, eh I dunno if it's really my thing. I'm a smart kid, I think, but this is kind of out there even for me.
Academic Decathlon. It's basically the most awesome form of nerdery to go down for high school kids if you don't have a chess or glee club.
Oh, you don't know what AcaDec is? Let me enlighten you. It's several months of studying subjects outside the regular school curriculum. Eventually, through the course of studying, a few schools in the state get together in one location and take multiple exams - Regional Competition. Then from those winning schools a handful from the entire state get together for a weekend and nerd it up for two days - State Competition.
The second day starts at the asscrack of dawn with (at least for us New Yorkers) the math exam. Yeah, calculus at 8:45 a.m.
Admit it right now, you'd die if you had to do math that early these days. I hardly remember my name at that time of the morning let alone can do whatever the hell math I learned in high school. My husband is a robot, so we won't include him in this story because he does math for fun. Weirdo.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Netflix, I love you
The decision has been made. Between the cost of "services" going up at Time Warner and the simple fact we watch one channel in this house, cable will be cut from my list of bills.
We have something like 700 channels and we watch channel 58. All.Day.Long. Or we did until I got wise and moved the bigger TV and ROKU upstairs to the living room. Thank you, Netflix, for having things like BabyFirst and Veggie Tales at the ready. They're educational and captivating and when I need a break or don't have the patience to sit down and educate, you've been my rock. Netflix, you're like another member of the family. And since we pay so littler for you each month, I'm keeping you. You're special to me and are one of the bigger factors to the "cancel cable" decision.
But, for now, let's talk about children's television programming instead of how stoked I am to save money.
Unless it's rated TV-Y or on PBS, kid's TV makes me slightly angry.
OK, it doesn't make me angry. It gets me down right pissed off sometimes.
I'm not talking about Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and cute little shows with some educational value like Sofia the First or Little Einsteins or even Phineas and Ferb (I love those guys!). Hell, I can even handle Secret Agent Oso on repeat on Netflix. What I have a problem with are some of the shows played during the day that my kids have come to love but I am beginning to hate with passion.
A.N.T. Farm. Jessie. Dog With a Blog. Those are just a few.
We have something like 700 channels and we watch channel 58. All.Day.Long. Or we did until I got wise and moved the bigger TV and ROKU upstairs to the living room. Thank you, Netflix, for having things like BabyFirst and Veggie Tales at the ready. They're educational and captivating and when I need a break or don't have the patience to sit down and educate, you've been my rock. Netflix, you're like another member of the family. And since we pay so littler for you each month, I'm keeping you. You're special to me and are one of the bigger factors to the "cancel cable" decision.
But, for now, let's talk about children's television programming instead of how stoked I am to save money.
Unless it's rated TV-Y or on PBS, kid's TV makes me slightly angry.
OK, it doesn't make me angry. It gets me down right pissed off sometimes.
I'm not talking about Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and cute little shows with some educational value like Sofia the First or Little Einsteins or even Phineas and Ferb (I love those guys!). Hell, I can even handle Secret Agent Oso on repeat on Netflix. What I have a problem with are some of the shows played during the day that my kids have come to love but I am beginning to hate with passion.
A.N.T. Farm. Jessie. Dog With a Blog. Those are just a few.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
20 minutes in a normal day
Parents everywhere understand that having two youngsters at home and trying to do anything productive really aren't conducive to one another. Either you're paying attention to your kids or you're paying attention to the thing that will make you feel productive. The kids are upstairs doing God knows what right now, so I wanted to share with you a snippet of a day in our house.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Lend me your ears! Show me your placentas!
Birth is sacred. It is an emotional experience unlike any other.
Breastfeeding is sacred. It is a bonding experience that goes beyond snuggling.
Placentas are amazing powerhouses that maintain a tiny little ecosystem mothers carry around inside them for 10 months. Let's forget they exist. Please, whatever you do, do not feel empowered in your birth or like this "thing" matters one bit. Let's just not talk about it.
Actually, on second thought, I want to see pictures of them. I want to hear stories of placenta encapsulation. I want to know if you had a print made with your placenta after your child was born. Lotus birth is going a little too far for me, but if you did it - more power to you.
Where am I going with all this? I guess you could say I'm jumping up on my mother freakin' soapbox - the very same one my mother would probably like me to come down off from during a majority of our conversations. I'm heated.
Breastfeeding is sacred. It is a bonding experience that goes beyond snuggling.
Placentas are amazing powerhouses that maintain a tiny little ecosystem mothers carry around inside them for 10 months. Let's forget they exist. Please, whatever you do, do not feel empowered in your birth or like this "thing" matters one bit. Let's just not talk about it.
Actually, on second thought, I want to see pictures of them. I want to hear stories of placenta encapsulation. I want to know if you had a print made with your placenta after your child was born. Lotus birth is going a little too far for me, but if you did it - more power to you.
Where am I going with all this? I guess you could say I'm jumping up on my mother freakin' soapbox - the very same one my mother would probably like me to come down off from during a majority of our conversations. I'm heated.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Am I really gonna miss this?
There are some pretty ridiculous things that get me riled up. The kids mixing Play-Doh colors, people putting ketchup on good steak ... and then the giant population of parents who forgot just how much it sucks to have at least two headstrong little people under their care. The last one is a doozy and it's been on my mind for a while. This post has been coming for weeks. This has been milling around in my brain since before I wrote this. And this one, too.
I hear way too often how much I'm going to miss it, or some version of that statement ... and honestly? Am I going to miss the screaming and fighting? The screeching for no reason? Scolding them for sitting too close to the TV? Fighting at bedtime because they don't want to sleep?
No.
Not at all.
In fact, I want people to stop making parents of young children believe these are things that will be missed by making overarching statements like, "It's hard right now, but one day you'll look back and really miss these moments." I'll miss it like that migraine I had in college that landed me in my bed for 24 hours, dry heaving and unable to peek out from under the covers.
I hear way too often how much I'm going to miss it, or some version of that statement ... and honestly? Am I going to miss the screaming and fighting? The screeching for no reason? Scolding them for sitting too close to the TV? Fighting at bedtime because they don't want to sleep?
No.
Not at all.
In fact, I want people to stop making parents of young children believe these are things that will be missed by making overarching statements like, "It's hard right now, but one day you'll look back and really miss these moments." I'll miss it like that migraine I had in college that landed me in my bed for 24 hours, dry heaving and unable to peek out from under the covers.
Friday, February 7, 2014
It's so Pintrest (un)worthy
Yesterday was the furthest thing from what our society deems "Pintrest Worthy," despite how awesome my ham broccoli braid looked before and after it was baked.
It's like the moment my feet hit the floor the Goob had it out for me. I went to shower and get ready to go to the gym (yeah, I shower prior to getting sweated up) only to come downstairs and smell ... something. Definitely a smell from my primary school years. So familiar I could almost taste it.
Rubber cement. Only not. Vinyl patch glue. More like it.
All over her hands. On the carpet. On the kitchen floor.
I was more mad than anything because I was afraid, at first glance - she had her hands in a prayer pose - that it was super glue and it flashed through my mind that 1) I have no idea the quickest way to the hospital from here and 2) there's no way I would have gotten her safely in the carseat if her hands were glued together.
You've never seen someone have a full on conniption fit until you've witnessed a raving 31-year-old mother dealing with a glue covered child who thinks she's just "washing" her hands with some stinky soap.
It's like the moment my feet hit the floor the Goob had it out for me. I went to shower and get ready to go to the gym (yeah, I shower prior to getting sweated up) only to come downstairs and smell ... something. Definitely a smell from my primary school years. So familiar I could almost taste it.
Rubber cement. Only not. Vinyl patch glue. More like it.
All over her hands. On the carpet. On the kitchen floor.
I was more mad than anything because I was afraid, at first glance - she had her hands in a prayer pose - that it was super glue and it flashed through my mind that 1) I have no idea the quickest way to the hospital from here and 2) there's no way I would have gotten her safely in the carseat if her hands were glued together.
You've never seen someone have a full on conniption fit until you've witnessed a raving 31-year-old mother dealing with a glue covered child who thinks she's just "washing" her hands with some stinky soap.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
If I stopped for just a moment
If I stopped what I was doing and actually listened to my children as they played
I wouldn't hear a child coloring outside the lines;
I would experience a child creating a masterpiece.
If I stopped moving around so much and actually held my child when she got frustrated
I wouldn't be angry at her lack of understanding;
I would learn that my arms are a comfort to her.
If I stopped criticizing how my children mix the Play-Doh colors
I wouldn't see a giant mess;
I would understand that life isn't black and white ... it's purple mixed with green and rolled in teal.
If I stopped being so unhappy because of my responsibilities
I wouldn't raise my voice as often,
I wouldn't scold so easily,
I wouldn't so readily wish I was one of those supposed SuperMoms
And I wouldn't give a fuck if the toys never got put away;
I would simply enjoy the ease of being a child.
I wouldn't hear a child coloring outside the lines;
I would experience a child creating a masterpiece.
If I stopped moving around so much and actually held my child when she got frustrated
I wouldn't be angry at her lack of understanding;
I would learn that my arms are a comfort to her.
If I stopped criticizing how my children mix the Play-Doh colors
I wouldn't see a giant mess;
I would understand that life isn't black and white ... it's purple mixed with green and rolled in teal.
If I stopped being so unhappy because of my responsibilities
I wouldn't raise my voice as often,
I wouldn't scold so easily,
I wouldn't so readily wish I was one of those supposed SuperMoms
And I wouldn't give a fuck if the toys never got put away;
I would simply enjoy the ease of being a child.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Finding the outlet
I've had a lot of trouble with my creativity lately. I shut it away. I've grieved and released the emotions.
But creativity still won't flow. I keep trying to tell myself the only way to work through writer's block is to write through it - work it right out of my system with some crappy posts before genius strikes again. That's what I've done in the past. It's what I should have done this time; maybe that's what I'm doing now. I have no idea, because that's how my writer's block works ... I write and write and write until the words finally make sense and the sun peeks through the clouds.
Instead of doing that for the last two weeks, I've been moody - actually, if I'm being honest with you, I've been a miserable, short tempered bitch.
But creativity still won't flow. I keep trying to tell myself the only way to work through writer's block is to write through it - work it right out of my system with some crappy posts before genius strikes again. That's what I've done in the past. It's what I should have done this time; maybe that's what I'm doing now. I have no idea, because that's how my writer's block works ... I write and write and write until the words finally make sense and the sun peeks through the clouds.
Instead of doing that for the last two weeks, I've been moody - actually, if I'm being honest with you, I've been a miserable, short tempered bitch.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Everything happens with purpose
There are times when I feel like I've failed.
This failure, though, is not a Mommy Fail or even from the "I didn't bother to vacuum and the dog is shedding" aspect of my life.
This is about failing to listen to instinct, pushing aside the nagging sixth sense and then wondering why the hell I did because it's made it harder to handle the punch to the gut reaction when the bad news filters in. It's also about knowing there's nothing I could have done, because when your time here is up and you've been called home, the only thing left to do is pray you arrive safely where you're supposed to go and are held tightly until your soul is selected to come back here again. I guess, in all, the failure to listen is also the success of accepting those things I cannot change. But it still hurts.
Let me just speak plainly, the way you all have come to know I will: It fucking sucks.
I talked quite some time ago about getting these "feelings" and my whole breakdown with hearing people talking and not seeing anyone ... or seeing people walk past the doors and windows in my house and there being no one there.
This failure, though, is not a Mommy Fail or even from the "I didn't bother to vacuum and the dog is shedding" aspect of my life.
This is about failing to listen to instinct, pushing aside the nagging sixth sense and then wondering why the hell I did because it's made it harder to handle the punch to the gut reaction when the bad news filters in. It's also about knowing there's nothing I could have done, because when your time here is up and you've been called home, the only thing left to do is pray you arrive safely where you're supposed to go and are held tightly until your soul is selected to come back here again. I guess, in all, the failure to listen is also the success of accepting those things I cannot change. But it still hurts.
Let me just speak plainly, the way you all have come to know I will: It fucking sucks.
I talked quite some time ago about getting these "feelings" and my whole breakdown with hearing people talking and not seeing anyone ... or seeing people walk past the doors and windows in my house and there being no one there.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Bring on the pyromania
If it had been a telemarketer, I likely would have let loose some naughty words. But when the telephone rings at 7:30 a.m. and it's the guy who's going to come fix your chimney?
Here, let me wipe the sleep out of my eyes and refrain from yawning while I verbally kiss the ground beneath your feet.
And I totally would have if it weren't for the fact he then said, "And you might want to bump the heat up and let it run for a while, 'cause the guys are gonna have to shut the furnace down."
Here, let me wipe the sleep out of my eyes and refrain from yawning while I verbally kiss the ground beneath your feet.
And I totally would have if it weren't for the fact he then said, "And you might want to bump the heat up and let it run for a while, 'cause the guys are gonna have to shut the furnace down."
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Commence the 2014 Realty Experiment
Third week into the new year and I'm already falling behind on this writing thing. What is your problem, Miranda!?
Overload. Complete and total overload.
It really started back before Thanksgiving with a pie fundraiser I helped with at our church, and then rolled right into Christmas and trying to settle into 2014 without resolutions I knew I wouldn't keep. Oh, and I tied into some hardcore menu planning and budgeting strategy - things I have only mildly attempted in the past.
All of that combined with the thought and energy that went into my last post kind of left me empty. And the weather has been shitty so I haven't done anything extraordinary with the kids, who are usually the fodder for this space on the Interwebs.
Let's all rejoice with a collective *sigh*.
Overload. Complete and total overload.
It really started back before Thanksgiving with a pie fundraiser I helped with at our church, and then rolled right into Christmas and trying to settle into 2014 without resolutions I knew I wouldn't keep. Oh, and I tied into some hardcore menu planning and budgeting strategy - things I have only mildly attempted in the past.
All of that combined with the thought and energy that went into my last post kind of left me empty. And the weather has been shitty so I haven't done anything extraordinary with the kids, who are usually the fodder for this space on the Interwebs.
Let's all rejoice with a collective *sigh*.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Giving credit to the daddy movement
Dads. At home. Stay-at-home dads.
I'm pretty sure I've seen some of them at the gym. They're like a mythical creature to me - I believe in my heart of hearts they do exist, but I've yet to have the opportunity to walk up and introduce myself to one. No, that's not true. I'm fairly certain I know at least one.
That's one more than I knew last year.
When my friend Matt asked me about my thoughts on this whole gender role shift phenomenon I decided I needed to do a little reading because despite how awesome I think the SAHD deal is, I know little about it. With the exception of a Facebook group I'm in, there are relatively few dads I know of who are home full-time with their children, whether that means they work nights, are laid off, have made the conscious decision not to work because of finances doesn't matter.
What matters? They made a decision that was the best decision for their family. They're taking on an active role with their kids. No, this isn't something new by any means, nor am I attempting to make it sound like it's a virgin concept that fathers spend quality time with their children. Dads the world over have taken notice of their children or opted to spend more time with them for years, decades, maybe even centuries. We really don't know. The idea this is a trending concept is a little misleading ... it's only trending because the media has shone its spotlight on the concept and that is mostly just in the last 12 months, or so I gather from my handy dandy Google search.
Let me get to the heart of this: The Atlantic piece I read about this very topic thorough irritated me and is not worth the Internet it's printed on; all hail Chris Routly & Co. (I don't know and haven't read stuff by all daddy bloggers or met a lot of SAHDs, so I'm lumping you all together just like us SAHMs usually are).
I'm pretty sure I've seen some of them at the gym. They're like a mythical creature to me - I believe in my heart of hearts they do exist, but I've yet to have the opportunity to walk up and introduce myself to one. No, that's not true. I'm fairly certain I know at least one.
That's one more than I knew last year.
When my friend Matt asked me about my thoughts on this whole gender role shift phenomenon I decided I needed to do a little reading because despite how awesome I think the SAHD deal is, I know little about it. With the exception of a Facebook group I'm in, there are relatively few dads I know of who are home full-time with their children, whether that means they work nights, are laid off, have made the conscious decision not to work because of finances doesn't matter.
What matters? They made a decision that was the best decision for their family. They're taking on an active role with their kids. No, this isn't something new by any means, nor am I attempting to make it sound like it's a virgin concept that fathers spend quality time with their children. Dads the world over have taken notice of their children or opted to spend more time with them for years, decades, maybe even centuries. We really don't know. The idea this is a trending concept is a little misleading ... it's only trending because the media has shone its spotlight on the concept and that is mostly just in the last 12 months, or so I gather from my handy dandy Google search.
Let me get to the heart of this: The Atlantic piece I read about this very topic thorough irritated me and is not worth the Internet it's printed on; all hail Chris Routly & Co. (I don't know and haven't read stuff by all daddy bloggers or met a lot of SAHDs, so I'm lumping you all together just like us SAHMs usually are).
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
A toast to you ... and me
Welcome, 2014. I guarantee I have some good things in store for you this year.
Less nervous breakdown, more deep breaths.
Less self hatred, more devotion - to myself, my children, my husband.
Less grieving things I cannot change, more grasping what the future holds.
2014, you better man up because I'm about to rock your world.
Less nervous breakdown, more deep breaths.
Less self hatred, more devotion - to myself, my children, my husband.
Less grieving things I cannot change, more grasping what the future holds.
2014, you better man up because I'm about to rock your world.
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