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.

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.

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.

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.

"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 had four 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.