Thursday, November 10, 2011


I was told the other day that I am the sort of person you can anger or offend in the morning and joke around with by the afternoon.  I felt pretty good about hearing that.  I felt that it means I am a forgiving person.


I begin to wonder.  Maybe it's not about forgiveness.  It is true, I will probably have forgotten about your offense in a considerably short amount of time.  I won't often hold much against you.  But I wouldn't say that I am consciously choosing to forgive and forget.

I allow myself to be exploited.  I let people get away with things for which they really ought to apologize or make right.  This isn't just people who have no love or regard for me; sometimes, it might be close friends or family members.  I have problems telling people no, first of all.  I will bend over backwards and go to excessive lengths, even at my own cost, to help others, whether they are grateful or not.

It's not a personality strength.  It's a character flaw.

Sometimes, people treat me unimaginably bad.  I mean saying and doing the sort of things that might make you never want to speak to them again.  But it never matters.  Tomorrow, we can still be friends, or at least cordial.  I strive to make other people happy, so if you shows signs of caring for me again, I snatch it up and come running back like a stupid puppy, ready to be kicked again.

It infuriates me to think about it.

The problem with this endless scenario is that PEOPLE. NEVER. LEARN.  You teach them that it is okay to keep doing and saying those things because tomorrow you will still do and say as they ask.

If I had to pick the thing I hate most about myself, this flaw would be it.

And I've known and understood this for a while.  What makes me so angry is that I can't figure out how NOT to care, so that I can stand up for myself and actually mean it.  I worry too much about offending people.  And I shouldn't even care in the first place.

I wish I could end on a positive note, firmly putting my foot down and saying, NO MORE!

I really wish I could.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Just. Be. Happy.

Those of you who aren't religious may not follow this post so well, and that's okay.

I came to a realization.

Well, first, before I get ahead of myself, let me start at the beginning.

My car broke. (Piece of crap.) And then my husband's car broke. (Also a piece of crap.) And currently we are both home, unable to find a way in to work. It's a pretty crappy feeling. And to boot, I have been face-to-face fighting with postpartum depression for a good while.

Then I remembered something. It was only here recently that I admitted on my blog that I felt as if we were to be struck with some big, horrible, happening, I might crack and crumble and fall.

Well guess what.


I'm still standing. I didn't even cry or freak out when my husband's car broke. I didn't feel the need to. I just this overwhelming sense of calm. Like I knew everything was going to be okay. It's absolutely inexplicable. I had no real reason to believe everything would turn out fine. As of late, things are snowballing and worsening for us. So far, things haven't even totally started looking up yet.




I almost wonder if it was a challenge by the Devil. "Oh, really? This girl's about to snap? Ohhh, okay, let me see what I can do to help her along..."

Um, sorry, lame-o. Epic failure, there. I've got someone bigger on my side. And honestly, I think Jehovah is the only reason I didn't fall apart at this sudden turn of events. Car repairs cost money, and two car repairs? Well, it ain't cheap. And I just got back from maternity leave, and we have a newborn, and I'm still trying to straighten out and manage our finances - and then THIS. But that's just fine and dandy. I'm moving forward. And I'm CALM.

Me? Calm? Is that even physically possible? (Sometimes, I've wondered.)

Well, I'm here to tell you that it is. And then I had an epiphany.

I will never be happy if I depend on others for my happiness.

When I fall into my bad spells and begin to self-hate and wallow, I walk around in this murky fog just begging for someone to come to my rescue. (Which no one ever does. Not that I'm bitter about that. Okay, yes, I'm a bitter old hag. Sue me.) But it's no one's responsibility but my own to make sure that I am happy. Yeah, it'd be great to have some support, but since it's just not coming, I've got to keep it moving.

Finding happiness is like finding yourself. You don't find happiness, you make happiness. You choose happiness. -- David Leonhardt

All seasons are beautiful for the person who carries happiness within. -- Horace Friess

Being happy doesn't mean everything is perfect. It means you have decided to look beyond the imperfections. -- Author Unknown

My life in this world is never going to be great. That's fine. I have something so much better to look forward to.

All I have to do, for now, is survive today.

And then tomorrow will come. And I will survive tomorrow.

That's it. That's all I have to do. And since I'm going to be here anyway, I might as well...

Just. Be. Happy.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Mommy is funny.

Mommy is funny.

Especially when she's cleaning out the car at the car wash and misjudges the distance between her head and the ceiling. A swift crack to the skull, and hilarity ensues.

Mommy is funny.

Especially when she doesn't see the coloring book on the kitchen floor as she's hurrying across. Dowwwwn she goes. Has there ever been anything more hysterical?

Mommy is funny.

Especially when somebody cuts her off on the highway and she yells out nonsensical insults such as, "Ya dumb buzzard!" and follows up with a string of Reallys? and Seriouslys? Giggles just can't be helped in this instance.

Mommy is funny.

Especially when a certain little person crawls in her bed at 2 am and step on her legs, stomach, face, and basically any other easily accessible body part. The best part is that she knows she can't be mad or yell because she was little once, too. It is still very funny.

Mommy is funny.

Especially when she hasn't been sleeping for a consecutive amount of days (months) and walks around zombie-style forgetting her own name and putting coffee in her sugar. This dum-dum version of Mommy is a source of endless entertainment.

Mommy is very, very funny.

Especially when she sees a mouse and turns into a little girl all over again.

Don't believe it? Check out Mommy's guest post over at @story3girl's blog Hard to Mommy today. Oh yes, my first guest post. I'm rather excited.

Share your thoughts, cyberspace.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

An Objective View of PPD

I'm thinking about it a lot this week.

I've just had a bad few weeks. As I've said before, I've gotten super spectacular at hiding, suppressing, and ignoring many problems that plague me. They're snowballing and avalanching, however, and I can't seem to keep up.

That said, we'll say today is a decent day. As long as I don't think too hard about the recent chain of events that's sent my head reeling, I'm fine. (Do I want to talk about it? No. It's highly personal. Have I done anything wrong? No. Has anyone close to me done anything wrong? No. Some things have come to light that are threatening to completely shatter me if I let them. We'll leave it at that.)

Today, I am thinking objectively about PPD and why it is so hard to seek help.

1) It is SO hard to trust people. Especially for me. I already feel as though depression is a weakness. I despise crybabying and whining and moaning and griping. I never want to seem like that kind of person. EVER. You can say that part of the equation is nothing more than having too much pride. And you'd be right. Also, this world has gone downhill. We're so focused on technology and material things and getting things done NOW and getting what we want NOW that we as humans tend to be a bit self-absorbed. That being the case, it's hard to speak with people when we feel like a burden - a whiny, nutty, messy burden. Add to that the low self esteem that comes with depression, and we genuinely feel as if nobody cares to know.

2) We don't feel as if anything is REALLY wrong. Maybe this is also pride, maybe this is denial. Maybe this is just part of our human tendency to be unable to admit fault. If we admit we are depressed, we admit we have a problem - a problem we already feel is somehow our fault, even if it isn't. That can be a monumental task in and of itself.

3) We have experience with depressed persons. You know that one person who just seems to be a walking black hole? They drag everyone around them down into the abyss with them. Every waking moment for them is filled with heartache and tears and me-me-me, sad-sad-sad, die-die-die. It gets old. It gets annoying. We despise those traits. We decide we never want to BE that person. And then we become that person. And then we despise ourselves.

4) We feel as though being depressed equals being crazy. Or even lazy. I mean, who in their right mind would have such a constant, negative outlook? Well that's just it. You're NOT in your right mind. But you're not crazy. Depression, these days, is wayyyy too common. If you don't get down and overwhelmed and sad from time to time, then you might want to question your sanity. As far as laziness? Never that. Depression is a killer and a disease. It will rob you of your health, your happiness, and your energy. Depression does not equal laziness.

5) We understand that others close to us are depressed, too. When we know that someone else feels just as bad as we do, it can be next to impossible to willingly unload our burden upon that person as well.

6) Therapy carries SUCH a stigma. "You're taking off work? Oh, what for? Where you headed?" Nowhere, just to the nut-doctor so he can fix my head. Nobody wants to admit to that! We don't want the world to look at us like we're crazy, we're weak, we've lost our everlovin' mind. But that's hardly the case. It takes strength to ask for help, to reach out, and to work towards getting better. Letting yourself wallow takes no strength; yes, it saps you of your energy, but it doesn't require strength or persistence. Moving forward does. And sometimes, it hurts. It hurts like Hades. But that which does not kill you can only make you stronger.

7) There is a comfort in depression. Now THAT sounds odd to say. But it's true. After a while, it becomes what we know, and it gets comfortable. Is that a good thing? Hardly! When your scary thoughts stop scaring you, it is REALLY beyond time to get help!

8) We feel like nobody could really understand. This is not at all true. We know, deep down, it's not true. Other people have been through what we have been through. Others have suffered. It's so cliche, but others have it much worse. Depression makes it hard to be objective, however. Regardless, even, of the fact that those we love have never experienced the things we have, they love us enough (usually) to TRY. They can exercise empathy and put themselves in our shoes and work to see why we feel the way we feel. We just have to ask, and then we have to let them. And if that person lets you down, don't give up. Find someone else to listen. Persevere. And if YOU happen to be the one approached by a depressed person, just LISTEN. Just try. You might make a world of difference.

9) It's not depression; it's just anger. WRONG. Depression can manifest itself in anger, bitterness, and frustration. And sometimes, boyyyy is it overwhelming. Bad. We almost turn into a completely different person. Think: "Hulk SMASH!!" It's something like that. If you have an anger problem, you need to seek help and find out why before you hurt yourself or someone else.

10) We let ourselves imagine that if we wait a little while, give it more time, it will go away on its own. That's not exactly the case. Sometimes, it gets buried, and then it rots and festers and begins to eat away at your insides. It's only a matter of time before it bubbles up again, and this time, it's a nasty, snarling, human-eating beast. That's never a good scenario. It's good to seek help BEFORE the inner beast gets too big to tackle.

Writing helps. Total self-evaluation helps. At least for me. I know part of my problem is failure to rely fully on Jehovah. So I don't need to hear about how I should work on that. Thanks, but I'm aware. Even still, I probably need therapy to deal with some of these seemingly insurmountable issues. (Yeah, probably is pushing it. I DO - no ifs, ands, or butts. See? Still have problems admitting to it.)

My best advice, and my conclusion?

To the depressed, Just. Seek. Help. That's all you have to do. Get the ball rolling. It'll all fall together from there. Just stick with it and be persistent.

To those dealing with the depressed,  I beg you, Have. Patience. Try to understand. Keep your judgments and harsh comments to yourself. They DO. NOT. HELP. And they will only make that person NEVER want to come to you again. Do you really want that? Before you quickly say yes, think about it.

Sigh. What a piece of work. That took a lot out of me. Zombie mom is now off to do something that requires considerably less effort.

Til next time, cyberspace.

Friday, October 21, 2011

My Journey Back to Sanity

I am a writer. Heart, body, and soul. Nearly every part of me, nearly every aspect of my personality, has something to do with writing.

I'm a control freak. I love inventing stories, dictating the way a character's life plays out, planning and imagining every minute detail. Which brings me to my next character trait.

I'm slightly OCD. Detail, detail, detail. Perfection! I am my own worst critic. I like having things JUST SO, and when things are out of order, my whole BRAIN gets out of order, and it's impossible to function. This works out well when building a story that actually flows well and makes sense.

I am a hopeless romantic. Ahh, that wonderfully dreadful writer's trait. If it weren't for the romanticism of the writer, we wouldn't have such beautiful stories as The Notebook, eh?

I love to read. I can spend hours with my nose stuck in a book reading the imaginings of another human being. It is endlessly fascinating.

I use big words. Come on now. This is self explanatory.

I feel better after I write. Reading over my last blog post, I was a little shocked at the honesty and disgusted at the wallowing self pity. I already felt better just getting it out of my system. Today, I wrote a guest post for a fellow blogger and Twitter friend, and I'm nearly floating on the clouds. I feel really, REALLY good about what I wrote.

I need to do better.

I stopped writing. It's hard to do with two kids, a husband, and a full time job. I am a growed up now. I have the big R word: Responsibilities.

But I also have a responsibility to myself. And that is to maintain my sanity so I can maintain all of the above mentioned responsibilities.


I need to write more. Nothing exorcises inner demons better than the written word.

I'm ready to get better. I'm ready to BE better.

Sanity... here we come!!

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Honesty. Brutal honesty.

This is a post I started a while ago. It's been sitting because I think I'm half afraid to finish it.

I've had a lot of time for self-reflection, lately, driving back and forth to work. Psychology is a subject I very much enjoy. I feel like I need to know and understand WHY we do the things we do. It's fascinating to me.

Lately, however, I've been falling short. I haven't had time for self-reflection or I'm too tired or too frazzled or [insert a million other excuses here]. I avoid and deny. For a long time, I thought that meant living life one day at a time. I thought that meant being strong and pushing forward. Now, though, I'm not so sure.

Things come up. Things happen. It's like having little earthquakes, and suddenly a fracture appears. It's not necessarily due to the strength of the earthquake, but rather an underlying, hidden weakness. That's how I feel. I feel like it's going to take one more earthquake, and I'm going to fracture.

It's amazing to me. Things have happened in my life that I am STILL uncertain about how I got through. Sometimes I really wonder why the heck I am still standing. I know my family history. We tend to crack. There's a definite history of depression and anxiety... and maybe more than a few breakdowns. With a million small things and a handful of horrible I-wouldn't-wish-this-on-my-worst-enemy things piling up... why haven't I cracked? What's going to be the straw that breaks the camel's back? It's a nervous feeling. It's a terrible feeling because I know the last time I had a horrible earth-shaking, heart-stopping terrible life event, I was all but deserted. The people I thought cared were suddenly nowhere to be found. I can't say I've forgiven them - because I haven't. It's hard to forget. It's hard to trust people. I still care about those people. But would I go running to them again? HECK. To the. NO. That begs the question, Where do you go?

I know we're supposed to rely on Jehovah. In my head, I understand that. In my heart, I'm human, I'm fleshly, I'm weak. I withdraw from God in tough situations. I don't think it's because I blame him. I blame me. Self-hate presents a serious road block. I need help and encouragement and love from others. Is that right to demand? I don't know. But it's the simple truth.

I have been blocking too much. It has made me a mean and hateful and angry and bitter person. Maybe I never beat my PPD. Maybe I just buried it. Ignored it. Pretended it didn't exist. Hoped it would go away. None of that worked. It's like capping a volcano. Your efforts are futile, and it will only result in making a bigger mess.

Since I wrote those previous paragraphs, I feel like I have cracked. I have become an emotional, teary basketcase. I'm overwhelmed with an avalanche of emotions and shortcomings. And I hate myself for it. In my eyes, depression is a weakness. I am not a weak person. Well. I like to think I am not. And the fact that I feel the way I do makes me absolutely furious. Why can't I just make myself better? Why can't I get around this and be happy? Why aren't I trying harder? What the heck is the matter with me?!?!!

You can't imagine the self-loathing that comes along with this sort of breakdown.

I went to someone - a close friend - for help. Admittedly, I can be a very proud person. I despise asking for help. I loathe being seen as a weakling. I absolutely abhor crying in front of people. It makes me want to kick my own teeth in.

Well that person let me down. They got angry with me. Maybe I'm not good at saying what I'm trying to say or making sense of the jumbled mess in my head. I opened myself wayyyy up. That is something I very fervently hate to do because EVERY. SINGLE. PERSON. I have ever seriously loved has let me down. This is no exaggeration. I've been let down, dropped on my head, in some serious ways. All I needed was some caring, some love, some understanding. And this person couldn't provide. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I hate being left open. I hate exposing myself. But I did. And it backfired.

So now... I'm rather lost. I don't even know what it is that I need. I was told I just need therapy because this individual is unable - or unwilling - to help me with my "problems."

I don't think I'm crazy. Which is funny because I know that crazy people never realize that they are crazy. I feel like I'm failing. I've been trying SO freaking hard, and I still feel like I'm failing. It's a miserable feeling. And for the first time in a long time, I just don't feel like smiling. I don't feel like teasing or joking or being funny. And that is a very strange and foreign sensation for someone as goofy as me.

And I'm not looking for pity. Don't you dare pity me. Pity feeds the angry beast and turns her into a nightmarish horror. I just need to vent. To breathe a little. To expel some demons. To let go a little.

Maybe I need to know and understand that I'm not alone. Maybe I need someone to validate my feelings and just say, "YES. I understand. And it is okay to feel that way." I pretty much grew up being told my feelings don't matter. The pattern didn't change as I got older.

Mind over matter, I tell myself. You can get past anything if you just MAKE yourself do it, I say.

This week, that's just not working for me.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

I can't stand to hurt.

It surprised me that I managed to write my post about miscarrying with such a nonchalant air. I could easily say it's okay now, I got my baby. But it feels strange that I no longer mourn the loss of the other pregnancies as I once did. I mean, I felt and still feel as if that was a loss of life, a loss of opportunity. But when I speak about it, it's as if I'm telling someone else's story. Not mine. Thus it's very easy to be nonchalant.

That's a rather creepy thought.

I have a horrible defense mechanism. I stop caring.


People have done some pretty bad things to me. Ones I counted as my closest friends have turned their back on me in some bad ways. Where I was once attached at the hip to one person, I now feel nothing at all.


I cut my feelings off. I can really make believe that you simply DO NOT and never did exist. As for how I do it... I couldn't tell you.

It's rather bothersome, however. You can only run so long until things catch up to you. I guess my goal is to keep running right on into the new system. I don't ever want it to catch up to me. At this point, the things I've buried have become an avalanche, and I feel like it's right on my heels. I'm halfway afraid to look over my shoulder, for fear I may stumble, and it might catch me.

That's surely no way to live. But it's working so far.

People think I'm strong to have survived some of the things I've survived and still be moving. But I'm not. Not even. Far from it. I'm a flipping coward.

That's a humbling thought.

Enough self reflection. Gotta keep running. Any more deep thinking, and I might implode.


Monday, October 10, 2011

My Miscarriage Story

I am writing for Pregnancy and Baby Loss Remembrance Day, coming up October 15th, and as prompted by Sisters 'n Cloth.

I can't remember if I've ever written my story. But... here goes.

My daughter was born fall 2008. When she was about a year old, we decided it didn't seem like a terrible idea to have another baby. It wasn't long before we got pregnant in late November of 2009, and we weren't even actively "trying". I started getting bloated and nauseous very quickly. A lot of mothers keep the good news to themselves, but I was so certain nothing would go wrong that I happily paraded about announcing my pregnancy. By my calculations, I would have been due August 2010.

One Friday afternoon in December, I began to spot. My best friend was pregnant at the time, and at the beginning of her pregnancy, she'd had a good two weeks of heavy bleeding. We both agreed it was probably nothing. The next day, I went shopping with my cousin. The cramping was getting worse, but still I toted my one-year-old tot from store to store. You can tell me that letting her walk wouldn't have made a difference, but I can't help but wonder.

That evening, the bleeding worsened as well. I kept denying it in my head, telling myself that everything was okay, but that I should go to the hospital "just in case".

When I got to the hospital and began changing into the gown, I was greeted with a massive clot, the sort of size I'd never seen in my life. And that's when I knew. Though I still denied it.

They did the ultrasound and couldn't find a heartbeat, of course, but I still insisted that, even though I was close to 7 weeks, it was probably impossible to find anyway and that the baby might be okay. They sent me home with a diagnosis of "threatened miscarriage," told me to rest, and advised me to set up an appointment with my OB/Gyn the next week after having labwork.

The worst part of a miscarriage might possibly be the waiting. Waiting for labwork, waiting for something to happen, just waiting. Sunday, however, when the cramps became as severe as labor pains, I couldn't deny or pretend anymore. It was REALLY happening. To me. I had my hubby pull out the sleeper sofa, and I laid curled up on the thin mattress alllllllll. day. long. It hurt. Inside, outside, all over. Someone told me it's like being in labor without the baby. That is exactly how I felt. There's no escaping it. The entire day was a constant reminder that all the plans I'd made and the whole life I had imagined were gone, would never exist.

I was out of work for a week. I just stayed home and... well, hid. When I went to the follow-up, I didn't really need to hear the doctor say my hcg levels had dropped. Of course I knew. I didn't really want to hear that it wasn't my fault. I didn't want to hear that the baby probably wasn't developing correctly or maybe was never even there. To me, I had lost a baby. Real or not, broken or not, a baby.

I was told to wait three months by one doctor, six months by another. We found out we were pregnant again in the beginning of April, 2010. This baby would have been due in December 2010. I remember being so eager to find out if I was pregnant, buying the test and rushing home to take it. It was positive - a faint positive, but definitely positive.

Immediately, an overwhelming sense of dread came crashing down on me. It was almost suffocating. It was a strange mix of terrible fear and a sense of foreboding. This time, it wasn't even a week before I started bleeding.

I think, by this time, I was numb. I just wanted to get past it. I didn't want sympathy or hugs. I wanted to pretend it'd never happened. How could I possibly acknowledge that my failure of a body had killed two consecutive babies, babies that were perfectly healthy in my mind, no matter what science says? I was only out of work for two days.

Months passed. We were finally ready again. Or something like that. This time, I told no one, not even my husband. On a Monday in late October 2010, I bought a Dollar Tree test on lunch the first day of my missed period. It was a negative. I shrugged, tossed the test in my pocket, and tried not to feel crushed. I was careful not to throw it in the trash because I didn't want coworkers seeing it. The next day and a half were spent waiting for my period - which, by the way, did not come.

Fast forward to Tuesday night. I was sorting laundry and emptying my scrub pockets. (Because of course I always take pens home with me.) Lo and behold, this little Dollar Tree test had grown a second pink line overnight! I felt strange and anxious - but not necessarily a bad anxious. I couldn't wait to get my hands on a "real" pregnancy test the next morning.

The next test was, of course, positive. This time, I don't know what I felt. Maybe I was a little excited. Apprehensive. Nervous. Uncertain.

The "danger" weeks passed at a snail's pace. I was convinced something was going to go wrong. It made it hard to feel settled, even after I got past that elusive seventh week I hadn't managed to see through previously. The first ultrasound at thirteen weeks made it finally seem REAL. There was a real baby in there, and it looked like the baby might really be born!

This is not to say that my happy ending came here. I had a rough, painful pregnancy with sciatica from four months on. At times, I could hardly walk. I had contractions for most of my third trimester. I was worn out and resentful. I think part of me was afraid to get attached because I was convinced, even still, that something was going to go wrong.

My son was born at the end of June. A big 8 lb. 7 oz. 21 in. chub of healthy baby.

I didn't like him at first.

Sure, he was adorable. Sure, he was pleasant and sweet and precious. But I could NOT get attached. I think part of me was still terrified, still in disbelief that something this amazing could happen to us.

And then it happened. He began to kick, and coo, and smile, and then laugh. And I fell head over heels in love with this little man. As a matter of fact, we now have an agreement. He is only going to love his mommy - and nobody else! - for the rest of forever. (We'll see how long that lasts.)

I guess the moral of the story is that happy endings DO exist. I would never blame God for the tragedy of the miscarriages I experienced, but I certainly thank him for the wonderful and miraculous blessing He gave me in my son - AND daughter.

That being said, I'm done! I'm so done with pregnancy and childbirth! One boy, one girl, and our little family is complete. Thank you for allowing me to share my story, which I firmly believe is a big part of the healing process. And the only advice I can offer to someone through a miscarriage is to just let yourself hurt. Let yourself grieve, let yourself heal, and lean on your loved ones. And maybe one day - by childbirth or adoption - you will finally hold a baby in your arms and feel that unimaginably potent love that only a mother knows.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

It's NOT that serious.

People are so quick to take offense. Moms especially. (That is the particular subject of this blog.)

Any little thing is a reason to spring into hysterical mommy mania. Not every mother is like this at all. But there are some I refer to as... well, fanatics.

I love to breastfeed my son. I think it's the greatest thing in the world. And despite all the cracking, bleeding, infections, and pumping, I stubbornly persevere because I think it is one of the best things I will ever do for my child. But do I strongly believe that others should feel the way I do? No.

Boob-happy moms are oblivious to one simple fact. You hate people who force formula and bad-mouth bewb juice. Let me ask you something. WHAT MAKES YOU ANY BETTER????

The moms who get MOST offended and QUICKLY offended are more often than not the moms who bash formula just as badly. Can we just live and let live? You are bringing NO ONE to your cause that way. Can we accept the fact that we are blessed with free will and trust that loving mothers know what is best for their child? I'll admit, sometimes I doubt some mothers and their level of love and committment, but I have presence of mind to keep it to myself - IF the baby is suffering no harm.


You catch my drift? Loosen up. I'll NEVER feed my child in public without sufficient cover. Uncomfortable people make me uncomfortable. And I highly doubt I'll be nursing my child at two. There is NOTHING wrong with either. Some moms feel like they're expected to reach for this ridiculously high standard and so don't even bother to try! And I think that's very sad. Accept the fact that the world is not comfortable with breastfeeding. The media shoves boobs in everybody's face as a sex object. THAT IS WHAT WE ARE BRED TO BELIEVE. How can you tell people they are wrong for what they've been told their whole life?

Moms are meant to be compassionate and understanding. Not judgmental and overbearing. Can we all calm down?? Just a tad? Please??

Sigh. Time to get back to work. I shall vent more later.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Back to Work, You!!

Woahhh there! High time for another post! It's been a month, you say? Impossible!!!

Well. A lot's happened in a month. I'm back to work (hoo-flippity-hah) and am actually writing whilst pumping in The Pump Room. This is the little hole where they send all the horrible and disgusting little mothers who choose to nourish their children in the best way possible.

Okay, that was sarcasm. My bosses are fine with the pumping thing. It was never really a problem. But of course there are people in this world that would have you feel horrible for trying to do the right thing. As if that's something that I'm not already used to. I've been picked on and mocked my entire life for being one of Jehovah's Witnesses. Even when I quit attending meetings and threw myself at the world, I was always the weird kid in the crowd.

Man I subject hop like a [insert funny similie here]. I'm so brain dead I've lost my funny. Yet another side effect of new motherhood.

But I try to take it one day at a time. He's two months old now and a little handful. I'm sure I'll look back at this one day and laugh. But really I'm overwhelmed sometimes. There's a lot to do to keep the house going, but it's hard to do when there's this angry little person demanding constantly to be held and nursed and loved. Not that I resent him. Never that. But sure enough there are plenty of days that I just don't even like him. Oh yes, I'm a terrible mother. Stuff a sock in it.

That's partially why I'm so glad to be back at work. Let someone else handle the little people while I find a distraction, something useful to do. I like my job and finding extra things because I like to feel as if I'm helping to keep things running smoothly. (The sort of fulfillment I just can't EVER seem to find at home.)

So here I sit. Pumping. (Moooooo!!! Yes I feel like a dairy cow.) Thank heaven for technology cuz what else on earth would I do for the 20 minutes I spend in my little hole each time I feel near explosion?

Le sigh.

I'm going to work on that funny thing. Next post. Promise.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Shutterfly Photo Card (:

Little Lamb Blue Baby Announcements
Graduation invitations and announcements by Shutterfly.
View the entire collection of cards.

I officially just placed my order for birth announcements. Isn't he lovely? (:

Monday, July 18, 2011

Today I feel blah.

Today I feel blah.

I feel listless and hollow like I'm going through all the motions.

Such is the beauty of postpartum depression.

Most of the time I do a fairly decent job of ignoring it. I stay busy. I sleep. I take care of the kids. I watch tv. I read a book. I play on Facebook. I play with my daughter.

Today, it's not working. So I feel listless and hollow.

It's a weird, bothersome feeling. It makes me feel like I should go lay down... but I can't. Two kids have a lot of needs, needs that come before my own. I'm not bitter about that. It's sometimes nice having two people that depend on me. It keeps me going and gives me purpose.

Still. There are days like today when those two little people needing me doesn't feel like enough to keep me sane. I feel loose and liquid like I could slip through my own fingers. For a control freak like myself, that's a very unsettling feeling. I need, have, to be in control at all times. Don't ask me why because I'm not even sure myself, and today I don't have the energy to psychoanalyze myself to death as I usually would.

Depression feels like a weakness. It's a weakness I've battled for as long as I can remember. Literally. There's been times that it's gotten so bad, I've felt as if I were at the bottom of a dark, deep pit with no visible way out. That's a terrible feeling. Over the years, I've become particularly adept at ignoring things that bother me. I bottle, bundle, shove it under the bed, and pretend it doesn't exist. Maybe that's not healthy, but it gets me by from day to day, which is sometimes just enough. I despise depression. I hate admitting to it. I don't want people to look at me and think, She's not in control. Because the truth is - when you're depressed, you're not in control.

That said, I don't look at others who are depressed as if they are weak. Yes, I know. A double standard. We are our own worst critics.

So today I feel blah. I feel a little better writing about it, though. It's good to have an outlet, even if you're talking to a bunch of people online that you don't even know at all.

And now I'm signing off because the toddler is up and around and wanting to touch my laptop screen and asking a bazillion questions and generally just being... a toddler.

Ahhh, the joys of mommyhood.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Labor, aka My Near-Death Experience

I went in to be induced Tuesday, June 28, 2011. The midwife told me not to expect to have my baby for sure that day because inductions often take quite some time.

I was 2 cm, 60% before Pitocin at 9.30 am. However, Pitocin didn't really serve to stimulate good contractions. (They were just like the contractions I'd be having for FIVE weeks.) At 11.30, the midwife came in to check me. I was 3 cm, 70% so she broke my water.

Contractions started IMMEDIATELY. And boyyy were they intense.

I'd already decided against an epidural so they brought me a birthing ball. After an hour or so of deep breathing through contractions while hubby rubbed my back, I had finally had enough. I asked for Nubain. They told me I had to get off the birthing ball because it would cause fatigue.

Into the bed I went! My contractions were coming HARD and FAST. My mom, hubby, and sister all hovered around my bedside, and whoever happened to be closest was the one who got caught in my deadly vice grip as I continued to breathe through contractions. The Nubain (and Phenergan they gave me for nausea) made me all kinds of loopy - as in I was having trouble finishing sentences because I'd lose my train of thought as soon as I opened my mouth. And it didn't even help with the pain. =/

At about 3 pm (three and a half hours of hard labor), I practically begged for the epidural. I was in tears because all I could think was that I was going to have to do this for HOURS! The midwife came in and checked me and said, "Oh, no, you're eight centimeters. He'll probably be here at around four. I really don't think you'll push for more than 15 minutes. You're doing great; you don't need the epidural."

I wasn't hearin' NONE of it. I wanted the epidural!!!

I didn't get the epidural.

She told me to start bearing down during contractions, but not pushing. I can't describe the pain I felt. It was beyond what I'd expected. Breathing deep and focusing on the END of the contraction was the only thing that got me through.

At about 3.30, they set me up to start pushing. The midwife told me, "Know how I told you 15 minutes? I don't even think it'll be that long. He's ready to come out."

They told me to hold my breath and push as hard as I could but to try not to yell or scream. Which in itself is a funny thought when a woman is pushing a watermelon out of her vajayjay. But I digress.

I only shouted once. I was a very good girl and did as I was told. And then, after about two good, hard pushes, they told me to stop pushing! Stop pushing?!?! Had she really lost her mind now?!!!!

Too late, he was ready to come, and out he came, all glorious, slimy 8 lbs. 7 oz. and 21 inches of him.

You know, watching labor stories, I always feel like the mom is crying because it's such a beautiful moment, and she's so happy to meet this little person.

Yeahhhhh I was definitely crying because it HURT and I was EXHAUSTED!!!

:D But all in all, it was totally worth it.

Ladies and gentleman, I'd like you to meet Mr. Christopher James, my new heartthrob.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

36 weeks and counting down...

Today, I am 36 weeks pregnant.


I can't believe how quickly time has flown by. Even as I type, I should be working on the baby room, but any distraction is a welcome distraction right now. My belly hurts, my ribs hurt, and of course my back hurts. He's running out of room in there and therefore taking it out on me. Hah.

It really hit me the other day that we're about to have ANOTHER person who will join our family and never go away. I mean obviously, when you're pregnant, the end goal is a baby, but sometimes in all the flurry of baby baking, you kinda forget that part. My little one's life is about to be turned upside down by a baby brother. For two and a half years, she's thoroughly enjoyed being an only child. And, of course, here we are to mess that up for her. ';)

I wonder as much as any mother does... What will he look like? What will be his temperament? Will he be quiet and sweet as baby Pookie was, or will he be a loud, angry colicky baby? Will he grow up to love sports as much as his father wants him to? Will he be a mama's boy or totally independent? Are he and his sister going to become best friends or worst enemies? Is he, too, going to be eager to learn about and serve Jehovah?

I know a lot of these things are in our hands... You can do a lot to shape and mold your kids. The problem is, you only get one shot. No take-backs, no do-overs. So you do the best you can the first time around and pray to God it's good enough.

Pheww. What a thought. O_O

All in all, I do have to say that I am very excited. I've been planning for this little guy for nine months. (Really, more like a year and a half if you count the two miscarriages.) And now he's almost here, and the only thing I truly hope for is a happy, healthy baby - GERD or no GERD, colic or no colic, poopy diapers or no poopy diapers. That's my ultimate goal.

I want both of my children to be happy.

Man. A mother's love is overwhelming, sometimes.

Enough self-reflection. Back to business! Bean will be here soon! (And yes, we are STILL debating on what to name the poor child. Le sigh.)


Thursday, April 21, 2011


I'm not sure when it ends. All I know is that when I look back at the person I was a year ago, I barely recognize her. And when I consider who I was even four years ago - when I was eighteen - I just can't believe it. I'd call fifteen-to-seventeen-year-old-me young and naive. And I'd probably like to punch many of my old me's in the face.

I guess that's the point of living, isn't it? Learning. We grow up... we change... we (hopefully) become better people.

Though I can't be sure. Sometimes I feel like I'm backtracking, instead of moving forward. I'm a sour old goat sometimes. I'm mean. I'm petty. I'm jealous. I'm selfish. I'm awkward. I'm a control freak. Then I try and I try and I try and I really have a sense of improvement... but eventually I get discouraged and fall into my sour old habits.

I'm not a fan of change, anyway. Call me a nerd, but I think what I loved about Anakin Skywalker most (during my crazy-obsessive Star Wars phase) was the fact that he was just. like. me. He hated - abhorred - change. I feel the same way. That's probably just part of my inner control freak.

I was watching these people ride down the highway on a motorcycle the other day and had to think about the one and only time I've ridden on a motorcycle.

I. Was. Terrified.

But I wasn't driving. And I seriously questioned the driving skills and responsibility of the operator of said motorcycle. I was rather convinced I was going to die.

At the same time, I want a motorcycle. I wanna drive one - I wanna see what it feels like to rip down the highway weaving in and out of traffic. Because then, I will be in control. Is it more that I'm a control freak or that I have serious trust issues? It goes back to the old adage, If you want something done right, do it yourself... That's pretty much how I feel, I guess. I feel like I have to do everything myself. I grew up like that, pretty much taking care of myself.

I really, truly trust no one - not completely.

But enough self reflection for tonight. It's starting to make my brain boil. And that's never safe, is it?

Good night, all.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Way Away From Here...

I'm kinda feeling like it'd be great to just not be here right now.

I have a two year old hollering at/for me from the other room because she apparently doesn't believe that sleep is conducive to healthy growth. Well, what the hey, kid, stay up all night! Don't forget to drink your coffee to give you that boost! You're gonna want it. Oh and I heard Adult Swim has good programming.

Le sigh. I'm all out of sarcasm.

SO. The last time I updated this, I was very, very early pregnant. And I don't think I was telling people at that point. Mostly for fear of another miscarriage. (Two in one year kinda makes you leery.) BUT as it turns out, we are still incubating a very healthy and big boy who is due to make his appearance July 2, 2011. (As if he really cares what date my OB has picked out.) As I type, I am seven months pregnant. And wow.

Seven months pregnant. I have two months left to go until he is considered fully baked and could pop out at any minute.

Things are not quite in order. We're rearranging bedrooms. First of all, Pookie will have the bigger room (formerly a junk room) - once we get around to cleaning it out, that is. She also has our old full size bed because we came to realize that, with a toddler in the house, a full size bed is just suddenly NOT big enough. Hence, our lovely queen size mattress. Which means that Bean (our affectionate nickname for the new booger) will have Pookie's old crib and changing table set. I'm undecided about her dresser, though... It all matches, and her dresser also matches the bookshelf my uncle made for her... Ahhh but I digress.

I've decided how to decorate the nursery, at the very least! Mr. and Mrs. Pond Nursery-to-Go Set (: It's a 10-piece set that comes with the bedding, wall hangings, a valance, and a diaper stacker. And I happen to think it's adorable. I've seen various prices online; so far the cheapest (of course) is Wal-Mart. Which is convenient cuz that's where I've set up my registry. I don't wanna be greedy and ask for a lot of big expensive things so, just like last time, I picked out a bunch of inexpensive gifts - but I did throw on the co sleeper and travel set... ya know. Just in case ;) I get the feeling, though, that the registry will not be used... just like last time. I spose we shall see.

AND we have also found Pookie's new bedroom set... we think. We've picked InStyle Candi Bed in a Bag. The good thing about it is that we can throw Dora pillows and posters up to match, and when she outgrows Dora, we'll take it out and turn it into an older girls' room... withOUT buying all new bedding! Thanks to one of my coworkers for THAT idea!

I'm pretty excited about all these changes and redecorating. It's a good distraction from the fact that in just a few months, our lives are going to be all turned upside down... again. Except this time it'll be Pooker's life too. I'm excited... and a bit anxious. Honestly, I know I've done all this before, but I feel like I'm starting ALL over. I don't know what to expect!

Sigh. As one of my friends posted as her Facebook status this evening... Que sera sera.

Whatever will be will be.

Signing off, loved ones. Hope I can keep updating more often. It's a good outlet.

(P.S. I think Pookmonster is down for the count! Hurrah!!)