My C Section Story

When I found out that I would have to have a c section due to my baby being breach, I honestly didn’t think too much about it. If anything, I thought how great it was that I wouldn’t have to attempt to push a baby out feet/butt first. I gave it no more consideration than I had my two previous vaginal births.

I should have thought about it more…

Two weeks ago I gave birth to our beautiful daughter, Madeline Sandra. She came on a Monday even though she was scheduled to arrive via c-section four days later and my original due date was 10 days away. She clearly had her own agenda.

At the hospital, I was prepped for the c-section as she still hadn’t turned. One hour and thirteen minutes after checking into the hospital, my daughter was born. To say it was completely different than my previous births would be a huge understatement.

I was nervous the week leading up to the c-section. Even though my doctor had walked me through the process, using as small of words as possible, and I had talked to other moms who had gone through the surgery before, I was panicking. All the research available could not (and did not) prepare me for the Madeline’s birth. I knew what to expect while being simultaneously clueless. Thankfully, when the time came, everyone was in such a hurry to deliver the baby that I didn’t have time to panic.

Everything went well and I delivered a healthy baby girl who weighed 6lbs 11 ounces and measured 21 inches long. After she was delivered, a huge wave of relief came over me. I had a beautiful, healthy baby girl. I no longer worried about the surgery (most of it was over) but, at the time, I did not grasp how fully unprepared I had been for my c section and recovery. SO here is a list for all of you out there who have not had a c section but may or for those of you who wish you knew more about them (for some weird reason).

Things I wish I had known about C Sections:

-They are considered major surgery

- (This from my husband) They will yank that baby right out of you. They want to get the baby out as fast as possible and will not be gentle about it. They won’t hurt the baby but there is a fair amount of yanking and pulling.

-Hope against hope that you won’t have to sneeze, cough, or laugh for at least two weeks after surgery

-You will bleed less but you’d gladly take the bleeding and the swollenness of a vaginal delivery over the pain in your lower abdomen that cripples you

-You won’t be able to take a bath for six weeks

-You won’t be able to sit up from a lying down position without feeling as if your stomach is ripping apart. This is a huge problem when you have to get up for night feedings.

-People will feel bad for you for having a c section as they believe you have somehow been cheated out of the birthing process; other people will judge you for having had a c section, thinking you somehow cheated the whole birthing process. Ignore these people. You had a baby taken out of you. You birthed it.

-You won’t be able to lift anything over 10 lbs for six months…this is impractical for those of us who have older kids. BUT you will unable to lift anything heavier than your newborn for at least the first week.

In all actuality, it was a beautiful birth, just like my other two children. I’m in my third week of recovery and doing great. My baby is doing great, the only difference being her head is perfectly shaped since she didn’t have to squeeze her way out of the birth canal.

If you are a c section mama, never let anyone tell you that you didn’t have a “real” birth. Ignore these people, or flip them off, either works. And if you are going to become a c section mama, invest in a postpartum belly band. Seriously. Life changer.

Parenting through the election

 While I prefer to avoid political posts, I feel I can make an exception given the latest Presidential election. I do not mean to offend anyone or “ruffle any feathers”.

I have come across articles on how to talk to our children about the election and its outcome. I have heard what Hillary Clinton had to say, Stephen Colbert and Samantha Bee among others. Now, it’s my turn.

Yes, Donald Trump is now the President-elect. Do I think he’s the best person for the job? No. Do I think he’s a decent human being? No. Do I think he will fail? No. This country was built with checks and balances to ensure that someone like Donald Trump will never have full control of the government, the people and the laws. I have enough confidence in our three branches of government and the structure our Founding Fathers built our nation on to believe, to know, that Donald Trump will not be the end of the United States. I find myself actually eagerly anticipating seeing how the next four years play out, just so that we can all witness exactly how checks and balances work.

So what did I tell my children about the election? Well, I told Lucy nothing. She’s 2 ½, for all she knows Elsa is the President of the US. Talan, on the other hand, believed Donald Trump to be a bully (as do I) and wanted “the girl” to win. I sat him down on Wednesday, told him the boy had one and asked him if he had any questions. He said, “Nope!” then ran off. Clearly, he was not bothered by it at all.

HAD he been bothered by it, I was fully prepared. I would tell him:

               Sometimes, Talan, the bad guys win. Sometimes, the bully is victorious. Sometimes people don’t see the bully for what he is because he isn’t a bully to them. We don’t always get what we want and we have to learn to deal with it and accept what we do get. Does this mean we stop fighting for what we know is right? Of course not. Does this mean we have to accept it when the bully bullies us or someone we love? Of course not. It just means that we have to keep fighting, fighting harder and fighting in different ways. There are lots of people out there who will help protect us from the bully. And hopefully, hopefully, the bully will change.

I would also want to tell him that sometimes winning isn’t nearly as important as losing and how we react to that loss. Yes, Hillary Clinton lost the election. Yes, a bully won. But there is nothing we can do about the presidential outcome. What we can do is react appropriately; we can continue to be kind to everyone, we can stand up for others, we can stand up to bullies and show love to everyone we encounter regardless of race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, gender identification, religion. We can show others love and hope they show us love in return. We can be kind to everyone and hope that others see and repeat our actions. We can do good and be good in a world that needs it now more than ever.

Here’s to hoping the next four years aren’t as bad as some think they will be. And here’s to hoping love will trump hate. 

Birthday Parties. UGH.

My parents were the best at throwing birthday parties. I always had games to play and awesome food to eat. Girls I grew up with still remember playing “Kick the Can” at night and “the marble game” at my parties. Each party was unique and memorable. Of course, I wanted nothing less for my own children.

What I never realized, what most kids never realize, is the amount of work parents put in to a kid’s birthday party. It wasn’t until I threw Talan his first non-family party that it dawned on me how much work they are and how bad they suck for adults.

Last year Talan turned 6 and was in Kindergarten. Seeing as how he had only been in school for a few weeks when his birthday arrive (October 16), we decided the best course of action was to invite all the boys in his class. This way, no one felt left out and Talan was saved the trouble of actually having to remember everyone’s names that he wanted to invite. None of this caused problems, in fact none of the actual planning of the party was a headache. We planned on ordering pizza for lunch, serving Gatorade and having cupcakes for dessert. We bought Talan a piñata and filled it with the usual goods. Simple, right? You would think so…

First off, why is it so difficult to RSVP to a children’s party? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised given the amount of people who didn’t RSVP to my wedding but still, it’s common courtesy. I failed to RSVP to a birthday party Talan was invited to…only because I found the invitation hidden in his backpack one month after the actual party. I did make a point of apologizing to the parents, however, and explaining why there was never a response. Out of the dozen or so kids invited to Talan’s party, only five RSVP’d and they were the five that were coming. Even those five didn’t RSVP by the requested date but rather kept me guessing until the last moment. On the actual invitation I had not only included my cell phone number but my email, giving the parents an out to just text or email me to avoid human interaction. I thought I had made it easy but apparently not easy enough.

The party itself went off okay. No one fought with anyone; no one spilled anything that left a permanent stain; no one cried or got hurt. Overall, a success. Thankfully, most of the kids simply played downstairs, tearing apart our toy room and leaving messes everywhere. I was okay with this, they kept themselves entertained and didn’t break anything. I think the stress of trying to keep everyone happy and entertain, as well as safe, was what really got to me. I wanted to ensure that Talan had a good time but also that the other boys had a fun time as well. I also had to referee the toy sharing and had to make sure they were supervised in order to prevent any fights or tears. By the time the last kid left (an hour after the invite said the party would end), I was exhausted but my child was happy. Like I said, an overall success.

Apparently, when I went to plan Talan’s seventh party, I completely forgot about the stress of the whole thing because this year I not only let him invite every boy in his class but three additional friends for football. If everyone comes that will be a total of SEVENTEEN 7-8 year old boys. No one will this one go well. Today was the deadline for RSVP’ing yet I have only heard from four parents. I’m not sure if I should be planning food and drinks enough for 5 kids or 15. Again, I do not understand why it is so hard to let someone know your plans. *insert frustrated grunt here* Also, this year we are having the party at my in-laws, a problematic situation I failed to see coming. My mother-in-law graciously offered to host the party so we could have a bouncy house (something I thought we’d get for free from a friend of a friend but ended up costing us money) but now it’s become a stressful situation---she wants to know all the details when I haven’t figured out all the details and wants to help more than I am willing to let her. Just stressful. I had planned on ordering cupcakes but in order to save money, I am now making them. They are just from a box but it’s still something extra I hadn’t planned on. The party’s theme is Star Wars so I stupidly told Talan I would make light sabers out of pool noodles (an idea I saw on Pinterest). I’m six days out from the party and haven’t started yet as the whole craft seems too daunting.

The cost of the party, the stress of planning along with the stress of the unknown guest list…it’s all too much. Hopefully the actual party will go off without a hitch. Just someone remind me next year how awful this is so we can just take Talan and ONE friend to a movie and Chuck E. Cheese. That sounds much better.   

#standagainstbullying

From fifth grade until I graduate high school, I dealt with bullies. I had peers tease me because of my weight, because of my chest (I developed early), because of things I did or said. It was devastating. I used to think I deserved it, that I acted like a weirdo or said/did crazy things that deserved taunting. Now that I am thirty, I realize that no matter what I did or how I acted, I didn’t deserve that treatment. No one deserves that treatment.

Last year was Talan’s first year of school. Within the first two months of school, he encountered his first bully. He was walking home from school when two kids, brothers, chased after him and beat him up, repeatedly punching him in the stomach. Luckily, our neighbor kid (a freshmen in high school), broke it up. He also followed the boys home and told their father what they had done. When Talan came home, in tears, I immediately emailed his teacher (one of the kids was in his class) as well as the principal. The kids were “talked to” and we didn’t have any more problems that year.

Yesterday, Talan came home upset because of the same kids had said three “naughty” words to him. Thankfully this time there was no punching involved but that does not make it any better.

My son is six. SIX. I always had a fear that he would encounter bullies but that fear was reserved for junior high when puberty makes everyone crazy and mean. I also had a bigger fear of bullying for my daughter, knowing firsthand how awful girls can be at any age. I was not prepared to deal with bullies in Kindergarten and first grade. I did not know kids knew how to be young before they even knew how to read.

I truly believe that kids, humans, are not born with the capacity to hate or to hurt others. I think all children are born innocent and loving. If you hold a baby, you will see someone who is trusting and happy. Even toddlers do not possess the ability to be mean on purpose…at least not on their own. Biting, pinching, kicking, these are all learned behaviors. For those boys to be mean to my son, they had to have learned that behavior. I’m not accusing their parents of punching them as it is more likely that it was behavior learned from a television show or a movie. The naughty words? Those probably came from the same source…or a parent.

As a parent, my heart broke for my son. I could not believe anyone could be cruel to my sweet innocent boy. My first reaction was to go hunt those boys down, yell at them, threaten them, basically I wanted to make them feel as bad as Talan felt. Even yesterday, in the heat of the moment, I still wanted to go and give them my own version of a “talking to”. Thankfully, I did not react in the moment and was more concerned with Talan’s feelings.

As a parent, my heart broke for my son’s bullies. After working with children who were diagnosed with Emotional Behavior Disorders, I know that so many negative behaviors are learned. I learned that usually the kids who act the worst, are the ones treated the worst, and the ones who need love the most. Does it excuse their behavior? Of course not but it makes it easier to understand. I can understand why a child would lash out at mine---they do not know how to handle their emotions and they are simply doing what they have seen done. Additionally, they clearly do not have a role model in their lives to teach them right from wrong.

It’s hard to explain to a six year old why people are mean. It’s hard to make him understand that not everyone is nice, sadly. And it’s hard to tell him to ignore naughty words or to just report bad behavior. In his world, everyone should be friends with everyone. Unfortunately, the world does not work that way and it shatters my soul every time I have to explain to him that not everyone is nice and that some people are filled with anger (we use Anger from Pixar’s Inside Out as an example) and have no room for joy or love.

Sadly, I am positive this will not be the last time Talan deals with bullies. I also know that my daughter and my unborn daughter will likely deal with them at some point in their lives as well. The most I can do is be there for them, wipe their tears and bandage their knees. The best I can do is make sure they are never the bully. My children can be gay, trans, republican, democrat, atheist, hell even Chicago Bear fans, but the minute they are mean to others we will have a problem.

I am ordering a shirt through a wonderful website called Wire and Honey for Talan to proudly wear (and when he’s done it will be passed on to his sisters. *I am in no way being sponsored for this promotion from Wire and Honey. They have no fore knowledge of this blog post.* Wire and Honey has a line of kids’ clothes called #kidsforchange. Talan will be sporting their shirt “Stand Against Bullying” as soon as it arrives. I can make sure my child is not a bully and that he stands up for others. And hopefully, he can be a role model for others who do not have one.

(Find Wire and Honey products here: http://www.wireandhoney.com)

One bloody mess

Yesterday I had to go to the emergency room (or department, unsure what they are called now). I had been attempting to open a can of tomatoes, went to lift the lid with my left thumb only to find the lid wasn’t cut all the way around. My thumb went up but the lid did not. This resulted in a HUGE gash and lots of blood. I am proud to say, I kept my cool. Lucy? Well…Lucy freaked out to the nth degree.

I have only had one other emergency situation and that was when I was in a car crash. Talan was with me at the time (thankfully neither of us was harmed) and he was only 18 months so was not cognizant of what was happening. Thus, I was not prepared for the level of hysteria my two year old reached. While I was trying desperately to get some gauze on my wound and figure out who could come watch her, she screamed her head off while bawling and following me around, pointing to all the blood. Eventually I was able to call my husband to tell him to meet us at the ER. I threw Lucy into her car seat sans shoes and jumped in.

The ER was roughly 15 minutes away, depending on how many red lights I’d hit and, of course, I hit every light. The entire drive I had my left hand held up above my heart and applied pressure to my wound with my other left fingers. As blood dripped down my wrist, my only concern as calming down Lucy. I could tell by her screams that she had gone from scared to panicked and was bordering on actual hysteria. She kept screaming about the blood (one drop had landed on her pants when I put her in the car) and how she wanted to go home. I tried to calmly tell her that I was fine but the doctor would need to fix my owie. She clearly didn’t believe me. I was worried she’d need a sedative if she didn’t calm down soon. Thankfully we reached the ER without her passing out from screaming and crying.

My husband was at the ER and Lucy calmed down immediately upon spying him. She was once again a happy go lucky kid, eager to tell her daddy about her morning at the library. I could not believe the complete change in her attitude. I had managed not to panic or even cry during the whole ordeal yet somehow I was unable to calm down my daughter. I do not know if she didn’t believe me or just wasn’t going to listen to what I had to say. Either way, I know had my husband not shown up, she would not have calmed down.

Lucy continued to be calm while the doctor checked my wound, gave me numbing shots, and stitched me up. She giggled with her daddy and had no worries. I was stunned; had I not witnessed her freaking out, I never would have believed it.

Hopefully, we will not have to go to the emergency room again or if we do it will be for something simple, like a fever after clinic hours. I don’t know if I could handle another bloody emergency with Lucy…and I’m pretty sure she couldn’t handle another one with me.

Mom Friends

Making mom friends is the worst. Seriously. The. Worst.

I am not good at making friends. When I was younger, I did not have this problem. I saw someone who was roughly my age, walked up to them and said, “I’m Jenna. We are now friends.” This worked well for me when I was six years old. This tactic does not work well for adults.

My three closest friends are wonderful and I love them dearly. However, none of them have children and none of them live close. Both are requirements for mom friends. When we moved to Minnesota, I knew I would have to make new friends and that at least fifty percent of these friendships would have to be parenting friendships. Over a year later and I have failed on friendships.

How am I supposed to go about making mom friends? Go to parks and strike up conversations with strangers? Knowing my luck I’d say something like, “Geez can you believe that one little asshole shoving the little kids down?” And it’d be his mom I’d say this too. Or I would find a friendly parent only to realize that while we are at the same park, we live 30 minutes apart. Again, this is not conducive for parenting friendships.

Of course, proximity isn’t the only requirement for finding a mom friend. I need her to have kids roughly the same age as mine so we can get together for play dates. Also, if our kids are peers it’s easier to relate, “Can you believe how hard potty training is? If diapers were cheaper I’d just let her wear them until she’s ten.” It also helps to have kids the same age so we can get our kids involved in the same activities, ensuring a backup plan in case we miss a practice or need a lift to a game.

I think the hardest part of finding mom friends, though, is the non-superficial things. Can I meet a mom and simply ask, “Do you believe in vaccinations? Do you have guns in your house? How do you discipline your kids?” All of these questions are important, extremely important, yet they aren’t something you ask complete strangers. For instance, Talan wanted to go play in our neighbor’s house yesterday and I told him no. They seem like a nice enough family but I have only met the mom once and I have no clue if there are guns/weapons in the house or how safe their house is or what kind of language is used around the children. Sometimes I feel as if I’m over protective or a helicopter mom, then I think what might happen if I am not vigilant. Is being over protective worth it if it saves my son from an accidental shooting? God yes. Is it worth it if I’m saving my family from a disease caused by a non-vaccinator? Hell yes. Still, it makes parenting and finding friends hard.

I had heard from moms in the past that finding mom friends was even harder than dating. I had no idea but they were right. Finding mom friends is even worse than dating. For one thing, you aren’t trying to find someone with just your interests but you’re trying to find someone who has your interests plus your kids’ interests. Additionally, you want someone who lives in your area and it’s a huge bonus if this person is zoned for the same schools are you.

It’s hard, harder than I ever imagined it would be. Yet still I keep trying and attempting to socialize (even though I’m horrible at it and find it painful at times) because we, as human beings, need each other. As mothers, we need each other even more. We cannot be isolated or our kids will surely drive us insane at an incredible rate. So here’s to mom friends, making them and keeping them. Good luck, it’s rough out there. 

Nightmares and Night Terrors

“HELP ME, MOMMY! HELP ME!” As my six year old son screamed this at me, hot tears streaming down his face, looking at me with helplessness on his face, my heart broke. I had never felt so utterly powerless as a mother. My son was experiencing his first night terror and I did not know what to do.

For some reason, I knew he was experiencing a night terror as opposed to a nightmare. Maybe it was three books on sleep training I had read when he was an infant or maybe I just remembered when my younger cousin had them (I had never seen her have one, only heard tales from my mom who heard from my cousin’s dad.)

The following morning, I took to Google to learn more. The website, WebMd.com offered the most useful information. According to WebMd, night terrors usually occur in children ages 3-12 (Talan is 6). The website went on to explain the different sleep stages and said that most night terrors typically occur 90 minutes after a child has fallen asleep. (This little tidbit has proven valuable as I now know to wait at least 90 minutes after Talan goes to sleep before I fall asleep since there’s no point in going to sleep only to be awoken by a screaming child.) WebMd also states that “night terrors are characterized by frequent recurrent episodes of intense crying and fear during sleep, with difficultly arousing the child. Unlike nightmares, most children do not recall a dream after a night terror episode, and they usually do not remember the episode the next morning”.

Everything I continued to read on the internet and from library books has proven that Talan did, indeed, have a night terror that first night and has continued to have them once, sometimes twice, a night. He never remembers having them or what scared him or even that he woke up. Every time he has one, he screams out for me, is crying hot tears and usually pointing on something only he can see, asking for help. A few times he has told me he “couldn’t get it” or mumbled distinct words that didn’t make sense, as if he was missing the nouns in his sentences. The end is always the same though; I walk him back to bed, tuck him in, and he rolls over to go right to sleep.

The whole episode cannot last longer than two minutes (much shorter now that we do not try to wake him or ask him what’s scaring him) and is more jarring and scarring for my husband and me than it is for him. I’m often left shaken, devastated that my son could be so terrified, and helpless, not only because I cannot help him but because I cannot stop them. According to kidshealth.org, a website devoted to children’s health, development and behaviors, a night terror is “a sleep disruption that seems similar to a nightmare, but with a far more dramatic presentation.” The website goes on to say “Though night terrors can be alarming for parents who witness them, they’re not usually cause for concern or a sign of a deeper medical issue.” Thankfully, this is, indeed, the case as Talan never remembers his night terrors. The only evidence of them is his crabbiness, which I can only assume is a result of his waking and disrupted sleep.

I am unsure how long these episodes will last. Apparently, he can keep this up for another 5 years, FIVE YEARS of fitful sleeping, on his part and mine. There’s no way I will survive, although the next year won’t be too difficult as I will be dealing with a newborn and nursing. And even though they only last for a couple of minutes now, WebMd states that some episodes can last for thirty minutes. For his sake, and mine, I hope they stay short and that he can outgrow them relatively soon. At least I can take comfort in the fact that he doesn’t know what’s going on and even though there is apparently no underlying concern or cause for them, it makes me wonder what is scaring him so badly.

I thought when he was bullied in kindergarten that I would never feel as helpless then he started having night terrors. I think it was easier to deal with the bullies as they had faces (and parents to talk to) and we could fight them together (with proper responses such as walking away, no physical altercations). Night terrors are invisible, they are a ghost that is haunting my son, and he cannot fight them and I cannot fight them for him. But the question remains, if he doesn’t remember them do they need to be fought? Do I just hold him, lead him back to bed and act as if nothing happened? Apparently, according to WebMd and the book Healthy Sleep Habits, Healthy Child by Marc Weissbluth, that is exactly what I should do. Apparently, as a mother, that’s the best thing I can do. If I didn’t feel helpless before, I sure do now. 

Becoming a SAHM

Without a doubt being a stay-at-home mom has made me a worse mom.

I was not always a SAHM. I used to work as a paraprofessional at a special needs school (meaning all of our students in the building were in need of special education). I loved my job. And I was good at my job. I felt like I was making a difference and I like to think that I was. Even though I was working with kids who tested my patience every five minutes, who made me want to scream in frustration or who literally physically harmed me, I loved going to work. And it made me a better mom.

I can say without a doubt that working where I was and with the other teachers and paras as well as the students not only made me a better mom but a better woman. Even though they tested my patience, they helped me keep my patience and learned to remain calm even when ignored for an hour or asked the same question all day long. They taught me how to see the world from a child’s perspective again and to smile at the little things and to take pleasure in every good moment because you do not know how frequent those moments will be.

I would come home from work exhausted, scratched, bitten, and, sometimes, in tears. But then I would see my kids, see their happy faces and be rejuvenated. I would play with them, laugh with them, and know that I was blessed to have these moments with them. I had been away from them all day and could not wait to hear every last detail of what they had done and accomplished while we were apart. We had a few precious hours together before they had to go to bed and we relished every second. I loved it and even though I felt a tiny bit of mother’s guilt for being away from them all day, I knew it was the best for me and for them.

Then I became a stay-at-home mom and everything changed.

If you are a parent, you know how ridiculously expensive daycare costs are, especially for newborns. Once I became pregnant, Matt and I knew that we would be unable to afford a newborn and a toddler in daycare. Unfortunately, I was unable to finish the remainder of the school year as a para as I had horrible morning sickness. May 1 began my adventure as a stay-at-home mom. And at first it was not that bad. The fact that I still did not feel well was a hindrance but I only had Lucy to take care and as far as two year olds go, she was easy (at least at that time). We would walk Talan to school every morning then pick him up at 2:45. It was great and I thought that I could easily adapt to being at home.

Then summer came and with it the end of patience. Having both kids at home, constantly, seven days a week has made me a horrible mother. I no longer cherish every moment together because I know that for the foreseeable future, every moment will be spent together. I no longer have patience for my children or their constant bickering or their constant questions or their loud voices or backtalk. Instead of running towards my kids to embrace, I’m (metaphorically) running away from them and hoping they turn towards their dad instead.

I’m sure not all stay-at-home moms are like me. I’m sure there are women (and men) out there who love staying home with their children. They love being there for every milestone and hiccup. They love being able to attend all of their kids’ activities and to volunteer whenever necessary. I, however, am not one of those parents.

I need to get out of the house every morning. I need adult interaction. I need to have conversations that revolve around politics, the environment and actual news as opposed to conversations dealing with Daniel Tiger and Sophia the First. I need a purpose other than changing my daughter’s diaper and listening to my son explain The Avengers to me.

Don’t get me wrong, I love and adore my children. I would do anything for them and I truly admire parents who chose to stay at home and care for them without going insane. The thing for me is, it was not a choice. I was forced into staying at home. I would love to be able to afford to stay at home and only work on a part-time basis or a volunteer basis but I would still send my kids to daycare. Lucy loved her daycare and still asks if she can go back. The interaction with her peers did wonders for her and her attitude. She learned more at her Montessori preschool then I have or will be able to teach her. She did well being away from me for eight hours every day. It was good for both of us as we each had more patience for the other.

Every time I hear myself yell at my kids or feel my sanity run away, I envy working parents. I envy them their chance to escape from imaginary play, boogers, “why”s, and the lot. I envy them their chance to be excited when they see their kids at the end of the day and have their kids be excited to see them.

My hope is that things will be better when Talan goes to first grade this Fall. That will give me roughly three and a half months with Lucy before the baby comes. Then, once again, all Hell will surely break loose. 

Why We Stayed Home

Why We Stayed Home

This morning my six year old son greeted me with the question, “Do we have to go anywhere today?” He asked matter-of-factly and with only a hint of a whine. It made me pause.

As a stay-at-home-mom with a 2 ½ year old daughter and a 6 year old son, I assume I need to have something planned for every day of the week. After all, my son is home all day, every day during the summer. I figured he needed to do something every day, get out of the house, interact with people who are not me. If I kept him and his sister home, wouldn’t they get bored? Wouldn’t they destroy my house? Wouldn’t they destroy each other? Wouldn’t they destroy my sanity?

At my son’s request, we did nothing yesterday. The only place we went was to visit my mother-in-law at her work because we had to drop something off. The kids didn’t even get out of the car. Talan, my son, didn’t even change out of his pajamas and I’m fairly certain he didn’t put shoes on at any point. After a late breakfast, we colored together. Then we headed outside where my daughter “watered” the plants, trees and sidewalk. My son and I made an entire city out of chalk for his Spider-Man figurines to use. We had a relaxing lunch followed by naps. When they woke up, we headed back outside for my chalk drawing. By the time my husband came home, we were covered in chalk and smiles. It was one of the best days we had had all summer long.

Was I wrong? Do I really need to have something planned for every day?

When Matt and I moved our family to Minnesota, we were overjoyed at all the new opportunities our kids would have. Having previously lived in western North Dakota where the only excitement for kids was parks, we couldn’t wait to expose them to all kinds of new things---zoos, museums, concerts, festivals, etc. In my haste to make sure my kids experienced all the opportunities I didn’t, I forgot how awesome my own childhood was. While I may not have had splash pads to go to or lakes or museums, I had a wonderful time riding my bike around town with my friends. We loved to play backyard baseball or cops and robbers (a Ziploc baggie of Oreos was our treasure and my brother used to yell at me for eating them instead of protecting them from the “robbers”). We made our own fun and had a blast. Why couldn’t my kids do the same?

The answer is, of course my kids could. They proved they could when they asked to stay home. And my kids, just like myself, need breaks from time-to-time. Some days are best spent at home, doing nothing but relaxing and hanging out. However, I still believe that if we spent the majority of our days at home, my house would get destroyed and my two kids would not get along as well as they do now. Kids need to get outside, need interaction with each other, and, most importantly, need to be kept busy.

We will continue to visit the zoo once a week as well as the library and go to parks and splash pads. We will also make sure to spend time running errands so that they know the entire summer does not revolve around them. Some days we will spend at home playing or even cleaning the house.

Of course, all kids are different. What works for my family may not work for yours. But I think a blend of activities and imaginary play is just what this family needs. 

Mom-ing with Depression & Anxiety

Ever since I can remember, I have struggled with depression and anxiety. I was diagnosed with it at age 10 but I am positive I had them before then, maybe they were not as well developed or as acute but I am sure they were there.

As I matured and grew up, I handled my depression and anxiety on a variety of levels. I went through denying it, not taking my medicine to where I am now, compliant and accepting of my disease and doing everything in my power to handle it correctly. Still, living with depression and anxiety is hard, one of the hardest things I have ever done, and parenting with depression and anxiety is hands down the hardest thing I have ever done.

If you are not familiar with the diseases, let me break it down for you. I have chemical depression, meaning my depression is not or was not caused by an event (i.e. a death or tragedy) but rather by my brain's inability to make enough serotonin and to properly re-uptake the correct dosage of chemicals. Thankfully, modern medicine allows me to take a pill (the size of an elephant tranquilizer) that gives me enough serotonin to function on a daily level.  But here's a secret few people know...while the pills make me enough serotonin, they do not "cure" the mental illness. I take my pills religiously yet I still struggle with my depression and moods on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis. Add my anxiety to it and it is no wonder some days I do not want to get out of my bed.

Being a mom, I want the best for my kids and I want to be here for kids, for everything. Unfortunately, my mental illness makes that very difficult. Most days I can handle my diseases with the practice and ease of someone who has lived with them for 20 years. Other days, it cripples me. And on those days I feel as if I am not only failing as a woman but as a wife and mother.

My depression does not always come in the same form but at some point I will start crying over what I would normally view as silly things (such as a Johnson & Johnson commercial). I also take it to the other extreme and have zero tolerance for anything---like whining or back talk or not doing exactly what I want without me having said anything. But the worst is when I am not feeling anything. That's when I know the depression has really got it's talons in me. When I do not feel anything, I know it is bad. I know it is bad and I know that I am suffering from depression yet there is little I can do. I lie in bed, knowing I am being strangled by the mental illness, I know I am ignoring my children and husband, I know I have responsibilities I am shirking yet there I lie. The problem with having depression AND anxiety is that I do not simply lie in bed under a metaphorical grey cloud but rather I lie in bed having panic attacks over what I am ignoring.  Sometimes my crippling anxiety is a good thing as my anxiety over takes my depression, forcing me to get up and take care of myself and my family. Other times my depression wins and I am too exhausted-mentally, physically, emotionally-to do anything.

Being a parent is hard. Being a person with mental illness is hard. Put those two together and it makes daily life complicated, difficult, and very trying for everyone in my life. I always feel bad when I surface from my depression tsunami. My husband steps up and take cares of the kids along with the household chores for which I am grateful yet it does not relieve me of the guilt I feel for slipping down the slope of sadness. (Wow, that was a lot of alliteration.)

The only thing that matters when I get depressed is that I recover, that I pull myself out of it. I have to constantly remind myself that my life is not my life anymore, it is my husband's life, my son's life, my daughter's life. I cannot stay in bed all day. They need me and I sure as Hell need them. I can lie in bed for an extra hour or until noon on the bad days but I have to get out of bed. I have to quell the depression and anxiety because I have other people to care about.

It is hard. Every day is hard and some days are near impossible. But I still manage, some days I manage better than others but I still manage. I still get out of bed. And the days that I jump out of bed, the days that are beyond wonderful, those days keep me going. Those days keep me from staying in bed on the bad days. For other mothers and fathers out there struggling with mental illness, remember the good days. Remember this is not just your fight anymore. Remember that the bad days do not last. And remember that you are strong, you have made it this far and you will make it farther. Just get out of bed. Go hug your kids. And know you are not alone.

Why I Hate My Body

Every day there is an article somewhere criticizing some woman's body. And every day there is an article somewhere written by a celebrity defending her body and/or her post-partum body. Here's my take, I hate my body and without realizing it, my body image issues affect my children more than they affect me. Why? I'm so glad you asked...

I have had body issues since fourth grade. FOURTH GRADE, that puts me at nine years old. A nine year old (in 1994) should only be concerned with Lisa Frank merchandise and four square rules. She should NOT be concerned with her body. I thought I was fat (I was chubby but not obese). Kids are cruel, at all ages sadly. I remember being in fifth or sixth grade and a boy asking if the reason I wore jeans with an elastic waistband was so that they would still fit me after lunch. My brother was extremely skinny which didn't help matters because he, too, mocked me frequently. I don't blame him, he was my older brother and would have found some reason to mock me. At least he teased me for something I could control...teasing me about the size of my nose or personality would have been awful.

Obviously it didn't get better from there. Middle school saw me becoming bulimic and anorexic. I didn't care what it was doing to my teeth or how it would effect my body long term (yes I was knowledgeable), all I cared about was being thin.This problem went with me to high school and, of course, college. I gained the Freshman Fifteen, basically through a diet of beer and cereal, and really hated how I looked. I was no longer a nice size 8 but a size 12 and couldn't handle looking myself in the mirror.

The thing with my eating disorder was that it was strictly about eating. I wanted to be skinny but didn't want to work out. I hate working out. HATE IT. I watch people run and lift and think there must be something clinically wrong with them. How can a person enjoy running until they can't breathe? It baffled me then and it baffles me today. The only kind of exercise I have ever enjoyed is dance. I love to dance, like ballet and jazz. I also love to swim. Swimming I get because it's not hard on the body and for some reason, it never seems like exercise. Either way, if I'm ever chased by a bear, I will probably end up dying after running for five minutes.

So I ate unhealthy. When I was in rehab, I was a size 5/6 and eating less than 500 calories per day. That's per day. People have eaten entire meals worth more than 500 calories. My diet was 20 almonds and three pieces of cherry licorice. Clearly, I was not healthy. BUT I was skinny and that's all that mattered.

As I grew up with my disorder, I obviously never saw anything wrong with it. It's my body and I could do with it what I wanted. Now that I'm a mom, things have changed. Suddenly, my body issues aren't just MINE, they are my kids' as well. Every time I look in a mirror and make a disgusted face, my kids see that. When I turn sideways and try to suck in my gut, my kids see that. When I eat unhealthy, my kids see that. And what happens when kids see you doing something? They imitate you, good or bad, they don't care because they just want to be like you.

As a parent, you are never alone in anything. There is always someone watching you, learning from you. Kids truly learn from what you do, not what you say. No matter how often I tell my kids to love themselves, love their bodies, eat healthy and exercise, it won't mean a thing if I don't live what I preach.

My kids are the best thing that every happened to me for a variety of reasons. One of those reasons is their ability to show me how I truly am. Every time Lucy imitates me, I see myself through her eyes. I do not want my daughter or son to grow up with body issues and the main step I can take to prevent them from low self esteem is to have high self esteem for me. By loving myself, by accepting myself, I can show them how to love and accept themselves.

There are many things I still want to teach my kids. One thing, one priority is to teach them to love themselves, that they are wonderful just the way they are. I also want them to be healthy (doesn't every parent?). In order for them to be healthy, I need them to eat right and exercise. While my kids are picky eaters, my son more than my daughter, they still manage to eat healthy. They eat healthy because now I eat healthy. They exercise daily (mainly they do cardio as they run away from me when I'm telling them to brush their teeth and get dressed) and they see me exercise (not daily, I haven't changed that much and when I do exercise I sure as hell am not running). The best thing I can do to ensure my kids are healthy is to keep myself healthy. And now I'm doing that. But never by running. Ugh.

Life's Hardest Questions

Before I had kids, I used to ponder tough questions like: how can people be racist, how does a fax machine work, did OJ really kill Nicole, why is Congress being paid for doing nothing, can love exist without hate. You know, semi-intelligent thoughts. Since I now have two kids and stay at home, my intellectual level has dropped dramatically. The questions that I now ponder on a daily basis are, well, mind bending but not in an intellectual way. So here they are...the questions that plague parents such as myself.

Why do Daniel Tiger and his father wear sweaters and converse shoes but no pants?

How come Mickey's Clubhouse has to disappear? Are they worried about burglars? Where do they go when they aren't in the Clubhouse?

How dumb is the Man in the Yellow hat?

Why the trains on Sodor need engineers? Can't they steer themselves?

Why is Candance, Phineas and Ferb's sister, bald in the front?

Why does Dora's monkey, Boots, wear boots?

Why do the PJ Masks kids fight crime at night? When do they sleep? Aren't their parents checking on them, wondering where they are?

Now, are these questions important? Ah hell no. But when you are invaded by cartoons everyday, they start to make you think. Mainly, are the people who created these high?

Help. Basically help. I need more intellectual conversations or I may start finding answers to my questions above and when that happens, I'll know I have completely lost it.

How to Raise Children

When I was younger, I often played with dolls as did most kids my age. And by play with dolls I mean I changed their outfits, strolled them in my Fisher Price stroller then left them in the middle of the room for my parents to trip over. Clearly, I was training to be a spectacular mother.

The thing about parenting is you can never be prepared. You can take classes before your baby is born, you can take classes from "experts" on children's behavior while your kid is growing but none of it truly prepares you for being a parent. I talk with my friends who are parents, my aunts and mom and receive plenty of advice-some good some not-yet I still have no clue what I am doing as a mother.

Every day life is hard for kids. It's hard for everyone. I think it's harder for parents because we see our children struggle with daily life and we don't know how to explain it to them because we ourselves don't understand it. My oldest is six years old and still blissfully unaware of most of life's cruelty. I was spared trying to tell him about the Orlando shootings because it wasn't news on Nick Jr. or PBS. I was further more spared having to explain to him about the Dallas police shootings. But what happens when he does ask? What will I say? Or am I being a negligent mom because I haven't mentioned the previous news stories to him? What is the right way?

I dread the day my son asks me why people of other races are treated differently because other than telling him, "Well, some people are simply assholes." I don't know how to answer. In his eyes, everyone is the same, they are simply judged on whether or not they will play with him. It makes no difference what race someone is, their religious affiliation, their political affiliation, their income...really none of it matters as long as you want to play. He'll even teach you all about Star Wars and Ninja Turtles if you aren't fortunate enough to know EVERYTHING about them. I love his innocence and I think that that is what makes me hesitate to shatter is bubble.

As parents, none of us really know what we're doing. As a woman, I barely know what I'm doing. I'm trying to do my best. I love my kids, I teach my kids, I try to show them what is right and what is wrong. But I struggle to teach them about how others' view right and wrong. How can I tell them I know what's right or what is best when clearly these people who are shooting others and hating others believe that they are right and what they are doing is good?

One day, sooner than I would like, my son is going to come to me and ask why other people hate certain people or why someone got shot because of their race or why some other kid called someone a racial slur, and I won't have any good answer. All I will be able to tell him is that race doesn't matter to us and it shouldn't matter to anyone but unfortunately, some people are filled with hate and anger and they cannot control it. All I will be able to tell him is that I think those people are wrong and that no one should be judged by things they cannot control. All I will be able to tell him is that we should accept and celebrate other's differences. And, hopefully, I will be able to show him through my own actions that none of that matters; all that matters is how someone treats others and still, we should be kind to those people. I will hopefully be able to show him that love trumps hate and that what this world, now more than ever, needs is love. I will hopefully be able to show him that the only enemy we face is hate.

No, I do not know if my way is the best way but I do know that I am trying my best. I am trying to make my children into adults who will better the world. I'm going to mess up, I'm going to make mistakes but hopefully my children will know that I love them, that I try and that while I may not know everything, at least I know how to love and accept others.

The Stanford Rapist

If you haven't heard by now, The Stanford Rapist is infamously known in the US. In January 2015, he raped a young woman. This March he was found guilty of three different accounts of sexual assault. He faced a maximum of 14 years in prison. A judge, however, gave him 6 months in county jail with probation as he-the judge-feared a harsher sentence would have a severe impact on Brock Turner, the rapist. His father wrote a letter to the judge, detailing his son's accolades and, basically, how wonderful he thinks he is.

I haven't wanted to write about this. I haven't even wanted to read about it. I am not ashamed to admit that I gloss over anything that has a headline that includes rape or rapist or sexual assault. Is it because I like to deny the horrors of society? Is it because I can't face the truth? Is it because I think that the victims are crying "rape" just to get out of being called a slut? Nope. It's simply because if I have to read about a rape it just brings me back to the day I was raped and I can't face that easily.

The cats. That's what I remember. I remember the cats on my bedspread. My parents had bought me the bedspread and sheets when I was in 7th grade. I desperately wanted a kitten so instead of buying me a cat they got me bedding with pink and purple cats on it. Those cats are what I remember most clearly about my rape. Isn't that strange? Once meant to be comforting and cute, that comforter is what first comes to mind when I recall my rape.

It's strange that I remember those cats because I wasn't raped in my own bed. I was raped at his house, in his bed. So why do I remember the cats?

On March 27, my ex-boyfriend was in town. I was 19 years old and thought that this ex was the moon and stars in my world. We had broken up months before and I had tried to get over him, all while realizing he was drunk 99% of our relationship, sleeping with numerous women, and was basically mind controlling me. Regardless, he was in town and I wanted to see him. We were at a friend's house, day drinking (it was a Saturday). By the time nighttime rolled around, he was drunk (or drunker) and I was more than a little intoxicated. We started fooling around when I realized that I was not going to get back together with him. I told him no, we couldn't do this, that he was bad for me, that I was over him. He took it well (I'm sure he had someone else lined up to take over when I left). I had to get out of the house. But the problem was I was drunk, couldn't drive the five miles to my house and too embarrassed to call my parents for a ride plus it was nearing midnight. I made, what would turn out to be, the wrong call. I text a guy I had been flirting with, asking if I could come over to escape the drama of the current house I was at. He only lived a block away, I felt that I could drive that block.So that's what I did.

I don't remember driving over there or going into his house. I remember him pouring me a drink but I don't know what it was. I remember Scooby Doo was on tv, funny how the little things stick with you when something traumatic happens but how big things, like how my clothes came off or how he put himself inside of me, escapes my memory.

I remember the pain. I remember trying to shove him off but feeling as if I couldn't even move my arms. Honestly, I don't know if I feebly shoved him or if I only thought about shoving him, I was so drunk (and possibly drugged). The next thing I remember was waking up, him telling me to leave. Confused, I drove home, unsure of what had happened.

When I got home, I immediately went to my bedroom and sat down, on the cat bedspread. I'm not sure how long I sat there, could have been five minutes or could have been two hours. I just sat there, trying to piece together what had happened, tracing those cats on the bedspread. I traced the pink one, the lavender one, the slightly blue one. Over and over I traced those cats. At some point, my then best friend came over. Apparently, I had called her. She came over, listened to me sputter out my story. I know I didn't look at her, already ashamed of myself. I looked at the cats, I traced the cats, I did that over and over again while I told her what had happened. Quickly, she told me to report it, to tell my mom. She didn't judge, just took control while I remained catatonic.

I called my mom but it was eventually my brother's girlfriend that took me to the ER. My parents would later join us. I had a rape kit done and a detective came in to talk with me. I was given a Plan B pill along with a huge shot to hopefully prevent any STD he might have given me.

What happened next? Well, somehow I was convinced not to press charges. Why? Because like almost all rape cases, it would be a he said/she said case. The case would not be about the rape but rather my behavior (not his, mine) and my character would come into question, again mine, not his. Could I handle that? No, absolutely not. I was already ashamed of myself and my behavior, convinced that no one would believe me. No, I would not and could not press charges.

The detective, bless his heart, went and had a nice little chat with my rapist, warning him to stay away from me and where I lived. The problem was we both went to the same college, a TINY college where it was impossible for me to avoid him. A guy, a GREAT guy, who I had been seeing off and on since I was 18, comforted me (literally just held me in his arms) for the two months following. He also went with a few of his friends to, um, sternly talk with my rapist, warning him away from me. None of the warnings worked, or they did but our town was too small to successfully avoid one another. The day he came into the restaurant where I was a waitress, I went into such a severe panic attack I had to leave. I never filed for a restraining order, the next semester I went to a college 10 hours away and became panicked any time anyone was too close to me physically. I drowned myself in beer, gin and vodka. I slept around more than an average college sophomore, convincing myself that if I put little respect into the act of sex, if I belittled it, then I could easily minimize what had happened to me. Raped? Psh, that's nothing! Sex is nothing! Having someone violate me in the most intimate way possible meant nothing because sex meant nothing. At least, that's what I tried to convince myself.

I later found out that my rapist left town with a message from the Chief of Police to never return (I wasn't his only victim, I was not his first, either). Years later, he would apply for a job in that town only to once again be unwelcomed by the Chief. I have never seen him again, not since that day at the restaurant. I have jumped at numerous shadows, seen him in numerous strangers.

My rapist got away with half-veiled threats. What did I get away with? Cats. I got the cats and the trauma that fueled my alcoholism for years. I've come across a lot of difficult things in my short 30 years---addiction, abusive relationships, failure on numerous levels, childbirth, being a single parent, severe depression and PTSD (thanks to the rape)---but nothing, nothing, is more difficult than trying to forgive someone who never apologized.

My ex boyfriend, the one I fled from the night, never found out what happened to me after I left him. Honestly, it didn't concern him. He wasn't the one who raped me after all. He did, however, make amends to me (he was busy climbing his 12 steps) for how he treated me during our relationship. That forgiveness came easy, probably because I understood alcoholism better than any one sober person.

The rapist, though? I don't know how to forgive him. I know it will bring me peace and it will benefit me more than him. For all I know he doesn't think he did anything wrong, like Brock Turner or Brock Turner's father. I still cannot find it in myself to forgive him. Or to stop fearing him.

I don't know how the trial would have played out if I had pressed charges but I know that if he had been found guilty and let off with a 6 month county jail and probation sentence, I would have either drunk myself to death or ended up institutionalized. I would have looked at the judge and thought, "Oh, apparently ungranted access to my vagina is only worth 6 months and probation." A sentence that light would have devalued me, devalued my rights's as a human being, I would have felt worthless and rightly so.

Women are out there fighting for equal pay, the right to our own bodies, the right to been seen equal to men. It's hard to believe that while a woman can now be a CEO or hold any position a man can but only be paid a fraction of what a man makes. It is hard to believe that while a woman can now be the DNC nominee for president, entry into her vagina only costs 6 months in a county jail.

I don't know what will happen to the young woman Brock Turner raped. I hope she gets help. I hope she goes to therapy and learns to heal. I hope she can one day find it in her heart to forgive him, his father, and that judge.

But what I really hope is that society wakes up. I hope that women and men everywhere become outraged at the sentencing. I hope that women and men everywhere see how lightly Brock Turner got off and become angry on behalf of women everywhere. I hope that something, anything, good comes from this. Because if not? If society just says, "Hey, he's white and privileged, she was drunk, that's what happens." then women everywhere become victims.

Stand up. Be heard. Fight for your right to your body because the right to enter your vagina, to become part of you, to have someone join with you, that shouldn't cost anything, let alone a mere 6 months in county jail. It should be invaluable, priceless. Why? Because you are invaluable. You are priceless. Never forget that and never forget that no matter your age, your race, your social status, or sexual preference, no one has the right to assault you no matter if you're drunk, sober, sexually active, or, what society calls, a tease. It is your body. It is your right. No one else's.

The Problem with Sobriety

I love being sober. I wake up feeling great, I always know what I did the night before and I am never hungover. It's fantastic. Except for one thing.

You know what ruins sobriety? Drunk people.

When you are drunk, you love drunk people. Hell, when you're drunk you love EVERYONE (or hate everyone, it really depends on what type of drunk you are). When you are sober...you have NO tolerance for drunk people.

Drunk people are, to put it simply, the worst. I cannot stand drunk people. Perhaps it's my penance for being drunk so often around others that now I am forced to deal with drunk people while being sober. I'm sure some of you can relate, whether you've been pregnant and forced to be sober or the DD, if you've been around drunk people and haven't been drinking, you can empathize with me.

Why are drunks the worst? For one, they are loud. Obnoxious. They have zero filter and while they are busy being 110% brutally honest with you, you are trying desperately to cling to social decorum and biting your tongue because while they can seemingly get away with saying whatever (due to the booze) you can't. It's the definition of unfair.

I've been told that my intolerance to drunk people is ridiculous. After all, almost everyone gets drunk. My question is why? I understand why college kids do, its the social norm, you're experimenting, you're partying, it's peer pressure. But why do 30 year olds need to get drunk? Why does anyone over the age of 25? I'm not talking about getting tipsy, I'm talking about drunk. Why are you not capable of pacing yourself accordingly? Why do you need to drink two bottles of wine at a party? Why do you feel the need to drink so many beers you vomit? How is that fun? How is having a hangover (at any age) fun?

I'm an alcoholic, I drank to the point of blacking out every time I drank. Because I"m an alcoholic. I have no control over my drinking. But for those of you who aren't alcoholics, why drink that much? Even on occasion? Why get so drunk that you feel sick that night or the next day? What is the point?

Drunk people are annoying beyond measure. I have met one person who is pleasant drunk...a friend of my husband who has an unnatural talent of being able to drink 12 whiskeys and act the exact same way as when he hadn't had anything to drink. Now him drunk, I don't mind. Everyone else in the universe, yes I have a problem with.

Drunk people are annoying because they are either crying over their problems, talking within a centimeter of your face, talking too loudly, repeatedly asking you the same question, offended by everything you say, talking about you literally behind your back...it's the worst. Perhaps the reason I have zero tolerance for drunk people is because, well, they suck. Maybe I am being ridiculous but I don't think it's unreasonable to expect people to act their age. I find it incredibly juvenile and immature when people get drunk. It is obviously not their first time drinking and it's obviously not their first time drinking THAT MUCH, do why are you doing it? To have an excuse to act a fool? To have an excuse to say whatever the heck you want? To have an excuse to act however you want?

Drunk people baffle me, infuriate me, and I cannot stand them. Thank God I am no longer one of them.

The Perfect Cookie

When I was pregnant with my oldest, I made a momentous decision. I decided that I was going to be "That Mom", as in the Mom that always had baked goods and wonderful food in the house. I wanted my house to be THE house to go to, that way I would always know who my kids were hanging out with, where they were, and what they were up to. There was one slight glitch with my genius idea----I didn't know how to bake OR cook.

Now, some people say they can't cook but they are being modest. Kind of like the people who say, "Oh I'm sorry the house is such a mess" when in reality they've spent the past three days cleaning. I was not being modest. I once tried to bake Special K bars but ruined it because the recipe said to "double boil" the chocolate chips so I boiled water then dumped in the chocolate chips. FYI, that is not how you double boil something. I also tried to make homemade spaghetti and meatballs once and my uncle and cousins still talk about how awful it was sixteen years later. So while I desperately wanted to be That Mom, I had a long ways to go.

Thankfully, at that wonderful moment, God or the Gods or the Old Gods and the New or Fate or SOMETHING, brought Christa Weber into my life. We quickly became friends, based on lack of options and later because we loved each other's company. Now Christa Weber is a modern, young, beautiful, felony-free version of Martha Stewart. She grew up on a farm, her mother home schooled her so the lessons include learning to churn your own butter. Christa is a savant: she cooks, she bakes, she sews, she WELDS, she can basically do anything that you see on HGTV. And thankfully, this incredible woman took me under her wing.

Christa taught me how to cook and bake. (She's still a much better chef than me but at least I can cook and bake without embarrassing myself or making anyone sick). Now I love to cook and bake and feel relatively at east in a kitchen. For instance, last night I made rosemary pork chops with mashed potatoes and broccolini. I also am able to bake things like carrot cake (Christa has the best recipe), banana bread, pumpkin scones and rhubarb crisp. Basically, I rock.

Except for one thing. I spent all of my maternity leave with my second one to find the perfect chocolate chip cookie recipe. And I found it. I had spent hours on Pinterest trying out different recipes but I didn't need to exhaust myself so much. The perfect recipe is on the back of Crisco shortening bars. I think the secret is using shortening instead of butter (and you don't have to attempt to remember to put the butter out to soften). I additionally discovered that the kind/brand of Vanilla Extract you use makes a HUGE difference. Lucky for me, we have a Penzy's Spice nearby which is where I buy all of my extracts. They are powerful so you only need half as much. If you aren't lucky enough to be close to a Penzy's, I'd recommend Watson's. They are pretty great, too. So I found the perfect chocolate chip cookie recipe. Now I have a new challenge...the elusive sugar cookie cut-out.

Every Christmas, my mom would make sugar cookie cut outs. I remember them with fond hatred. I never could roll out the dough nicely and every time I would cut the cookie, it would stick no matter how much flour I used. Usually, my mom would take over and I'd end up on Spritz duty which suited me just fine. My mother-in-law makes decent sugar cookie cut outs, the only problem being she more than quadruples the vanilla and almond extract amounts, turning them into basically booze cookies (yes, there's alcohol in both of the extracts, check it out). I have tried numerous recipes so far and none of them are Perfect. My latest one, courtesy of Pinterest, was fantastic as a dough but failed as an actual cookie. So now I'm on the hunt for the PERFECT sugar cookie-cut. Wish me luck.

Yes, this is what my life has come to. Searching for the perfect cookie recipe. Oy.

Stay at Home Mom...???

Today is day nine of being a stay at home mom...but without the kids. That's right, I am currently a Stay at Home Mom but my kids aren't here with me. It's nothing ridiculously stupid like that woman who wants maternity leave but without the kids (I think she called it "me-ternity"; I call it a vacation). What is actually happening with me is this: I resigned from my job due to health concerns but we had already paid for daycare for Lucy until the end of this Friday and my oldest is in Kindergarten. SO I am enjoying two full weeks of being a Stay At Home Mom without the kids.

It really isn't as nice as it seems. For one, I am HORRIBLY sick. My health concerns involve me throwing up 6-12 times a day. I'm basically lying on the couch,  not tired but trying to sleep because at least when I sleep I don't throw up. I am racked with never ending guilt because even though I am home all day, I"m unable to get any chores done so my husband comes home from working a 10 hour shift only to be forced into being a single parent. He feeds the kids, does the dishes, bathes them and puts them to bed. Honestly, I have an incredible husband who has stepped up in unbelievable ways.

On the days I do feel well, I am able to get things done and on those days, I don't feel completely worthless. I do feel completely bored. And useless. What am I supposed to do all day?? I was never one of those girls/women who dreamt of being a stay at home mom. I did dream of having NOT to work but rather having the option of staying at home. Basically, I want to be a rich housewife from 1950. I want the money and the options that come along with the money. I want to volunteer hours or go on day trips with the kids or be able to enroll them in classes. But none of that is in our foreseeable future. So again, what am I supposed to do all day??

Once Lucy is home with me I will of course have more to do. And once school is out for the summer, I will have both kids at home with me. I have already planned out our daily/weekly schedules but I'm sure those will be thrown out the window by the second week. My sister-in-law stays at home with her kids and I honestly do not know how she does it without going crazy or giving her kids up for adoption. I know its easier for her, too, because she has lots of mom friends with kids her kids' age. Unfortunately, I do not have any mom friends here. How do you go about making friends at 30 years old? Is there a play group for me? A Tinder app for making friends? In a time that is based on technology, I fear no one knows how to interact on a face-to-face level anymore. Or maybe it's just that I don't know how to make "mom friends" or how to even socialize anymore with people who are strangers. Ugh, people are the worst.

So how do I make the most out of being a Stay at Home Mom? I feel Pinterest can only take me so far...before I lose my mind admist glitter and construction paper. I will stick to schedules as best as my kids will allow me but really, how many days can I go without losing my mind when all of my conversations revolve Ninja Turtles, Minnie Mouse, and superheroes? I need to talk politics and literature and things that are relevant in the real world! I need adult conversations. I need adult interaction. But how do I get that while being a stay at home mom who has no mom friends? Ugh. People are the worst.

I suppose I will just have to take this one day at time. And hope that my kids learn how to read The Times and debate properly before summer.

Maybe I'm just too sensitive

I have always been a sensitive person. My eyes, my skin, my feelings...all sensitive. So maybe I am over reacting to this. Maybe not. Either way, I am offended.

My husband and I are pregnant with Baby #3. I used to think that everyone knew there were certain things you don't say to a pregnant woman but that theory was quickly shut down when I was pregnant (a single mom) with my first for the following were said to me, by more than one person, throughout my entire pregnancy: Your ass is huge! That means it's a boy; You know, you'll shit yourself when you give birth, don't worry, they won't drop the baby in it; Who's the father?; Why didn't you use protection:; You shouldn't eat so much; How are you going to handle being a single mom?; and, by far the worst, you should give the baby up for adoption. It was ridiculous. It was offensive. I thought I grew tough skin but apparently not.

My second pregnancy came along at an unexpected time---I was seven months engaged and we ended up having to move the wedding because our original due date was also the date of our wedding. No big deal. We were thrilled and I loved seeing my husband take in the whole pregnancy aspect for the first time. The questions weren't as offensive this time, clearly I knew who the father was, I didn't get nearly as fat, and people were genuinly happy for us. It was a nice change.

Still, I was not ready for the Baby #3 interrogations. Maybe it had been too long since I was offended by a person I knew as opposed to the random strangers on the internet who are idiots. Either way I was unprepared for the question that has greatly offended me, "So was this planned or....an accident?"

Let's get something straight, unless ou are my husband or my OB-GYN, it is none of your damn business. If this pregnancy was meticulously planned, if I did IV treatments, if I just went off my birth control, if I didn't go off my birth control, it is absolutely no concern of yours.

I have been so taken aback by this question that comes from, so far, my FAMILY members that I at first did not know how to respond. Now I just say, "This baby is a miracle and we are thrilled." Whatever that tells them, I don't know. But what I really want to say is, "IT IS NONE OF YOUR EFFING BUSINESS. Just congratulate me and move on."

Again, maybe I'm being too sensitive but let's get something straight, if what you say offends me, it's offensive (maybe just to me but still). So if you someone tells you they are pregnant, congratulate them and smile. You have questions about the conception? Ask yourself this first, are you married to this person? Are you their physician? If the answer is no, deal with your curiousity some other way and move on.

Excuse me while I raise a gentleman

When I was a child, I never thought twice about my father opening doors for me (or for others). It was just something that he did. He was courteous. He held out chairs for my mom and me. He offered his seat up to others. Whenever we walked outdoors, he always walked on the outside of me. This was the norm and I never thought anything of it.

Then I grew up, went out into the cruel world, and discovered my norm is not the world's.

The other night I witnessed a grown man, probably around 60, walk out of a door, in front of his extremely elderly mother, and not hold the door for her. Basically, let it shut in her face. Then to my surprise (and disgust), I watched him walk ahead of her, failing to assist her to the car or even open the car door for her. In that instant I made a decision, my son will never be that way.

I consider myself a Feminist. And by Feminist I mean someone who believes in equality for all, despite gender/sex, race or whatever. I do not think being a gentleman goes against this. Why? Because being kind is something everyone can be, even my daughter. I expect both of my children to hold doors open for others. I want both of them to give up their seats for the elderly or those in need. When they are older, I sure as Hell hope they assist their grandparents to the car, open car doors, and hold out an arm for those who can't walk unassisted.

Maybe it's because of how I grew up, but it baffles my mind that not everyone behaves as above described. I've watched grown men stand by idly as my mother and I unpacked our car full of luggage. I've seen a grown man take a seat only to have his mother say she was sitting there and for him to tell her to go find another chair. I've watched doors be slammed onto ladies' faces and elderly people struggle to open doors and I am shocked. I am disgusted. I am lost for I do not comprehend.

I am hoping that my children grow up the way I did and expect consideration for others to be the norm. I hope I can raise them to be aware of others' and their situations and be empathetic to those who need more than them. I hope that when I am old they never let a door slam in my face. For God help them if they do...I may be old but I'll still smack them with my cane.

Eight Years Ago

Eight years ago today, I checked myself into out-patient rehab. It wasn't a decision I came to lightly and it wasn't a decision I completely agreed with at the time. I did it because I had seen a new psychiatrist who diagnosed me with "alcohol dependency". (I put these in quotation marks because at the time I did not know that meant I was an alcoholic.)

Eight years ago when I agreed to rehab, I was desperate. I had been struggling with depression and axiety for twelve years, first diagnosed when I was 10, and I was fed up. I wasn't suicidal exactly, I just didn't want my life to be mine anymore. I did not want to hate myself anymore. I did not want to run away from myself anymore. I needed something but I wasn't sure what so I thought, What the Hell, I'll give this a try.

Eight years ago my life changed. Eight years ago I was not a person I would want to know or be friends with. I was not proud of myself in any way. My self loathing was greater than any other feeling I had for anything. I do not know why I drank so much, other than I'm an alcoholic, but I don't know if it was for self confidence or because I wanted to escape myself or because I didn't want to feel anything or if it was because when I drank, I didn't think. All I know for sure is, I drank and I drank a lot. I'm an alcoholic, that's what we do best.

Through an intensive out patient treatment program, I dropped my wonderfully constructe facade (as one counselor put it, I was the best actress she had ever seen, to the point where she wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. I was such a good actress I had even fooled myself and didn't know I wasn't even real anymore.) Was I cured? Ah Hell no. Not even close. But I was healing.

Eight years later and I am still not cured. I never will be. Alcoholism is a disease that never leaves you and it is never cured. If it tricks you into thinking you are cured, it has won and you will relapse before you realize what has happened. It's not even as if I'm remission, as if the disease is lying dormant, no the disease is never dormat, it's always there, right at the surface, threatening to take control.

Some nights I dream of drinking. I dream I get drunk and I wake up hungover. Those dreams used to be quite frequent, maybe one every other week. These days the more frequent dream is I have relapsed but don't remember doing it. In my dreams I know I have relapsed but I don't know how or when. I am filled with terror and shame. I wake up panicked and can only calm down when I realize it was just a dream.

There are some days, even eight years later, when I can tell you exactly how a Bud Light tastes. Or how a Corona with lime feels going down your throat. There are some days when all I want is to drink wine with my friends or taste the new beer that's out or sip an after dinner drink. I don't give in to that want though because I know now that that is all it is---a want not a need. What DO I need? Well that's simple, I need to stay sober.

Eight years have come and gone....and I have changed and grown in more ways that I can tell. I am a mother, a wife, I am the kind of sister and a daughter that I was not eight years ago. I am stronger. I am healthier. I am happier. I'm also smarter in the sense that I know being happy is not a constant. Sure, I'll get sad (and I have) or I'll get depressed (which I do) but I know that as long as I stay sober and in touch with the real me, it won't last long. I'm also smarter in the sense that I know I can't, and don't have to, do this alone. I reach out for help when I need it or even when I don't so that I'm never truly alone.

If you're out there and needing help, get some. Talk to someone, anyone. Make sure your voice and concerns are heard and helped. If you're out there and sober, whether for one hour or fifty years, I salute you. Know it's a daily struggle, sometimes hourly, but know it's a struggle you can win.

Eight years. Who would've thought...