Oh, Bee...like Connor, everyday this little man surprises and amuses me. He hasn't met a woman he doesn't like, he also hasn't met any food or snack he doesn't like (which explains his "man chub" and "moobies" which make him just that much more delectable)--yes, I enjoy talking about Bee (or BooBoo) like he's a yummy French dessert. Why? Because he reminds me of a hybrid of a sweet macaroon and decedent chocolate eclair. I never thought I'd be that mom, but yes...I threaten to eat his little face off every day and I also promise to nibble on those chubby legs whenever we get ready for bath time. I know I'll need to cut it out before he hits high school. Otherwise that would be weird.
Matthew was born on July 23, 2013--two weeks before his due date (just like his big brother!). My water broke as I was chowing down my peanut butter covered waffles drenched in syrup (no judging--by this point I was so miserably pregnant that I gave myself a free pass to whatever sounded good to me). Connor was on his way home from spending time with his dad. I sit on the couch, turn on the Today show and "it" happened--my water broke. Now, this never happened with Connor, so I was worried that something even scarier had happened--that I'd peed my pants. I ran to the bathroom and thank goodness, my bladder control was still intact. However, I was definitely in labor. And scared shitless. It had been 9 years since this happened after all.
In full disclosure, I called Dylan and Connor's dad from the toilet (I mean, I was paralyzed people). Dylan had the momentary "This can't possibly be happening, it's Monday morning and I have meetings scheduled all day" to which I replied, "If you don't get your skinny ass home right away I will personally kick it up and down the halls of St. V's once we get there". He arrived VERY shortly thereafter.
For weeks we both had "go bags" packed up, all the necessities for labor and the stay thereafter. We hit the highway, my contractions in full swing. Every bump in the road or short stop at a light felt like i was donating a kidney with no pain meds on the black market (at this point, my selfishness was still in full force. I was way more concerned about my pants getting wet because *God forbid* someone thinks I pissed my pants and I wasn't even thinking about the baby, I was picturing my "happy place"--that beautiful spinal tube and medication that has changed labor forever).
We had left our neighborhood when Dylan informs me he has left his cell phone at home. Really?!?!? You remembered your man face and eye creams, laptop, iPad, pressed button-down shirts and khakis, and extra pair of shoes WITH shoetrees...but you forgot your damn cell phone? We turn around as I'm grasping the dashboard trying to not reach over and put the sleeper hold on him. After we turned around we got stuck behind...a combine. You know, the ones that are like tractors that drive like 10 mph? Yep, one of those. I started screaming, "GO AROUND! GO AROUND!". Dylan did and we were able to acquire the cell phone and hit the road once again. Dylan dug his hole even deeper when he had the audacity to say, "You know, we'll laugh about this someday". Right (for the record, still not laughing).
To make a long story short, Bee came very quickly. He knew what he wanted and he wanted OUT. He was beautiful. A full head of dark hair, these wide blue eyes that sucked you in and made you feel like you never wanted to look away. His hands were precious, his fingers long and immediately wrapped around mine. Tears were streaming down my face. Here was this precious human being I had shared a body with for almost nine months. He was mine. It was just as amazing as when I had Connor.
Since Bee has been born he has kept us on our toes. He wasn't the greatest sleeper, but Dylan stepped up to the plate and took over nighttime feedings pretty early so I could get some rest for the long days ahead. Connor is the most amazingly patient and generous big brother we could have ever hoped for. When Dylan travels, Connor assumes the role of "man of the house". Bee loves his Bubba (Connor) so much, he lights up when Connor comes into the room and will just sit and watch him in amazement for hours. We've already prepared Connor to be ready for a "stage-5 clinger" once Bee starts moving because Bubba's room is where he's going to want to be. As a matter of fact, the first clear word Bee has said is, "Bubba!".
It's been almost 7 months since this little creature entered our lives and we are forever changed. We have all bonded in ways I never imagined, it's exhausting and difficult at times but it's elating more of the time...it's the best job in the world. I am lucky enough to stay home with both of the boys and I wouldn't have it any other way (well, except I'd love to train Bee to wait and drop a deuce until AFTER I've had my morning coffee because that's just more polite. Oh, and also not to do it in the car on the way to Target because those bathrooms are just nasty).
Yes, I'm surrounded by testosterone and I love it--because at the same time, I am also surrounded by boundless love from my boys. I'm blessed to have friends who are in the same boat and if you ask any one of us about our "boys", our faces light up and the love is so evident.
I can't wait to see how Bee grows and what he'll be like. He's already showing a temper like his mama (and a little bit of stubbornness), a desire to move and be active and get what he wants when he wants it, but he's also showing tenderness--like when he caresses my face as I feed him his bottle. He's almost crawling and I know once that happens time flies by even more quickly--so in the meantime, I'm going to enjoy every poopy diaper, oatmeal crusty smiles, open mouthed giggles from being tickled, and those first of the morning grins. As I know from raising Connor, it all goes by too quickly and I want to cherish every one of those moments with my new lovely family.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Puberty
I promised myself I would write a post about Connor--there are so many things to say about him that I had trouble finding a place to start. So obviously, I chose puberty. Because I want people who read this to feel as uncomfortable with that word as I do (so thoughtful of me, right?).
I recently took Connor in for his 9/10 year checkup. I was expecting the same kind of visit as we've had for almost 10 years, except I convinced him that there would be no shots (to be fair, I was only about 75% sure there would be no shots--but there is no music loud enough to drown out a hyperventilating kid in the backseat). Turns out, the visit was a complete surprise. He did get a shot, which put me in the mommy penalty box, and there was also talk of...puberty.
WTF? The doctor was all rational about it, giving him handouts, giving me handouts, telling me to look over all of them and to talk to Connor about it...she acted like this was no big deal. No big deal?!? Guess what? IT'S A *BIG* FREAKING DEAL. When I look at Connor, I see an angelic little 4 year old heading off to pre-K, not some soon-to-be preteen boy that hides out in his room with a moody disposition and is perpetually annoyed by his parents (ok, another honesty moment--he does play in his room a lot and gets annoyed from time to time, but that's human--not PUBERTY).
So, Connor reads the handouts on the way back to school, but doesn't say a word. Then I head home with the baby and enough handouts to teach an entire fourth grade classroom about what happens to all of their bodies during this "time". I read the handouts. Extremely detailed and *very* thorough. I spend the remaining four hours until Connor gets home from school on the verge of a panic attack. What if he asks me about sex? The handouts talked about "wet dreams", how the f/ck am I going to explain that one? It talks about "hair down there" and "noticing that your arms, legs, and armpits will become hairier. 2:30pm came, I put on extra deodorant and prayed for the best.
Oh, did I mention that Dylan was traveling at this time? Yeah, no male backup to be had.
But guess what? Connor doesn't say a word about the handouts. There they are, staring at me from the kitchen table and I panic when he puts his lunchbox down right next to them. Still, nothing. Big sigh of relief. I am home free, at least for now...
As Connor is playing Legos and I'm giving Matthew a bath, I marvel at the fact that I am bathing this little baby while a preteen plays across the hall. Next up, shower time for Connor. Dun, dun, dun...I have to ask the question, I'm dying to know what he thought of the handouts--I've been obsessed with this for almost 8 hours now. So I say, "Did you read the handouts the doctor gave you?". Connor, "Yep". Me, "Do you have any questions? I mean, some Dylan will probably be better to ask, but you know...". Connor, "Actually, I do". Me, "Oh shit (what ran through my head)". What I really said, "Okay, what?" with a big, fake, everything's cool, come talk to mommy smile. And he looks at me while standing buck-naked in the family room and says, "I really don't want to get zits or pimples". I blink. I blink again and again. That smile is now a look of puzzlement. You mean to tell me a 9 year old boy reads about penises growing larger, hair growing in "special places", wet dreams, having "funny feelings about people you like" (I could go on and on...) and he's worried about ZITS?!?
Big sigh of relief--actually, I felt a whoosh of all that panic flood right out of me. I ask him to go put some pants on (please) and we'll talk. I reassure him that we'll help him take care of his skin, that he has perfect skin now, but that no matter what, we'll work hard so that he's always confident.
Look, I know the talk will have to happen soon. But until then, he's still my baby boy and I'm going to hold on to that for as long as I can. He is brilliant and understands many things and a small part of me thinks he might already have this puberty stuff down. He's amazing--not only intelligent, but funny, charming, witty, empathetic, a voracious reader and technically-saavy enough to reconfigure our Wi-Fi while Dylan was traveling and reset the password so we couldn't get on the Internet (THAT was a fun one). He loves his cats and makes sure they are all taken care of multiple times a day. He is kind and patient with Matthew and the love and adoration between the two warms my heart everyday.
He's a wonderful gift and I grow more in love with him every day. He never ceases to amaze me. Although he might just do that when we go to have the formal "talk" and he rolls his eyes and says, "Uh, Mom and Dylan? I learned all that stuff in my biology book when I was like 7".
I recently took Connor in for his 9/10 year checkup. I was expecting the same kind of visit as we've had for almost 10 years, except I convinced him that there would be no shots (to be fair, I was only about 75% sure there would be no shots--but there is no music loud enough to drown out a hyperventilating kid in the backseat). Turns out, the visit was a complete surprise. He did get a shot, which put me in the mommy penalty box, and there was also talk of...puberty.
WTF? The doctor was all rational about it, giving him handouts, giving me handouts, telling me to look over all of them and to talk to Connor about it...she acted like this was no big deal. No big deal?!? Guess what? IT'S A *BIG* FREAKING DEAL. When I look at Connor, I see an angelic little 4 year old heading off to pre-K, not some soon-to-be preteen boy that hides out in his room with a moody disposition and is perpetually annoyed by his parents (ok, another honesty moment--he does play in his room a lot and gets annoyed from time to time, but that's human--not PUBERTY).
So, Connor reads the handouts on the way back to school, but doesn't say a word. Then I head home with the baby and enough handouts to teach an entire fourth grade classroom about what happens to all of their bodies during this "time". I read the handouts. Extremely detailed and *very* thorough. I spend the remaining four hours until Connor gets home from school on the verge of a panic attack. What if he asks me about sex? The handouts talked about "wet dreams", how the f/ck am I going to explain that one? It talks about "hair down there" and "noticing that your arms, legs, and armpits will become hairier. 2:30pm came, I put on extra deodorant and prayed for the best.
Oh, did I mention that Dylan was traveling at this time? Yeah, no male backup to be had.
But guess what? Connor doesn't say a word about the handouts. There they are, staring at me from the kitchen table and I panic when he puts his lunchbox down right next to them. Still, nothing. Big sigh of relief. I am home free, at least for now...
As Connor is playing Legos and I'm giving Matthew a bath, I marvel at the fact that I am bathing this little baby while a preteen plays across the hall. Next up, shower time for Connor. Dun, dun, dun...I have to ask the question, I'm dying to know what he thought of the handouts--I've been obsessed with this for almost 8 hours now. So I say, "Did you read the handouts the doctor gave you?". Connor, "Yep". Me, "Do you have any questions? I mean, some Dylan will probably be better to ask, but you know...". Connor, "Actually, I do". Me, "Oh shit (what ran through my head)". What I really said, "Okay, what?" with a big, fake, everything's cool, come talk to mommy smile. And he looks at me while standing buck-naked in the family room and says, "I really don't want to get zits or pimples". I blink. I blink again and again. That smile is now a look of puzzlement. You mean to tell me a 9 year old boy reads about penises growing larger, hair growing in "special places", wet dreams, having "funny feelings about people you like" (I could go on and on...) and he's worried about ZITS?!?
Big sigh of relief--actually, I felt a whoosh of all that panic flood right out of me. I ask him to go put some pants on (please) and we'll talk. I reassure him that we'll help him take care of his skin, that he has perfect skin now, but that no matter what, we'll work hard so that he's always confident.
Look, I know the talk will have to happen soon. But until then, he's still my baby boy and I'm going to hold on to that for as long as I can. He is brilliant and understands many things and a small part of me thinks he might already have this puberty stuff down. He's amazing--not only intelligent, but funny, charming, witty, empathetic, a voracious reader and technically-saavy enough to reconfigure our Wi-Fi while Dylan was traveling and reset the password so we couldn't get on the Internet (THAT was a fun one). He loves his cats and makes sure they are all taken care of multiple times a day. He is kind and patient with Matthew and the love and adoration between the two warms my heart everyday.
He's a wonderful gift and I grow more in love with him every day. He never ceases to amaze me. Although he might just do that when we go to have the formal "talk" and he rolls his eyes and says, "Uh, Mom and Dylan? I learned all that stuff in my biology book when I was like 7".
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Ginormous Changes Around Here
Where did the last couple of years go? Oh yeah...we moved, I got pregnant, puked until I thought my stomach would come up next, parked my ass on the couch for months and then had a baby...oh, also went without wine for 9+ months (do NOT recommend--seriously. We almost needed couples therapy because I wasn't drinking AND I was hormonal)...
So we have some catching up to do. First off--moving. BB (before baby) we lived in a cute little townhouse that Dylan & Connor loved but I was frustrated with because their crap covered all of my crap. It was time to move on. Enter Amanda house-shopping on her own one random day (ok, ok, I was with my mom and she *might* have egged me on). Which was followed by Amanda putting an offer on a house that day (without Dylan, but what the hell--have I told you the story of how I bought my car when he was in San Francisco? This is obviously a pattern). All of this ended up with us getting the house and *holy shit* moving! Moving!! Into a real house with a real office for Dylan to work in and a real yard (that's a whole different post).
We love our house. For the most part. Great neighborhood (minus the one little shitbag that lives down the street and bullies Connor. It's a good thing I was a marooned mammal last summer otherwise I would have taken him out with a Nerf gun while he was careening around our neighborhood on his and wwwaaayyy too close to our cars for comfort).
Pregnancy. I'll keep this one short and sweet. It blew. I don't remember the first three months, the second three were ok, the last three I wanted to smack myself in the face with a 2x4 and remain unconscious until labor began. And then I wanted as many pharmaceautitals as humanly possible along with the tube in my spine to make everything pretty (and this is pretty close to what actually happened when baby came). Baby's name is Matthew. He's amazing. And chubby. And he has a big head. But he is so awesome, he deserves a post devoted entirely to him.
AB, or, After Baby. WTF? Life changed. A lot. It's amazing how batshit crazy people can get when they are sleep-deprived. There were times when I was waiting for some secret CIA people to drop in through my windows, accuse me of being a terrorist and start the water-boarding. Because obviously this little newborn worked for them and was starting us out on the sleep depravation tactic. Things have settled out. Dylan and I no longer stare each other down like we are one move away from a full on prison escape--without the other person.
Connor is, as always, a completely entertaining and exhaustingly intelligent little boy. Like Matthew, he deserves his own post.
So, that's it--we're settling in with both the boys, drinking wine again (and even ventured out tasting!), Dylan is still working like a dog and I'm still riding his ass everyday to get home sooner because DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND I AM GOING OUT OF MY EVER-LOVING MIND HERE?!?!?!?. To his credit, he's done 50% better this week. Good job babe, good job. :-)
So we have some catching up to do. First off--moving. BB (before baby) we lived in a cute little townhouse that Dylan & Connor loved but I was frustrated with because their crap covered all of my crap. It was time to move on. Enter Amanda house-shopping on her own one random day (ok, ok, I was with my mom and she *might* have egged me on). Which was followed by Amanda putting an offer on a house that day (without Dylan, but what the hell--have I told you the story of how I bought my car when he was in San Francisco? This is obviously a pattern). All of this ended up with us getting the house and *holy shit* moving! Moving!! Into a real house with a real office for Dylan to work in and a real yard (that's a whole different post).
We love our house. For the most part. Great neighborhood (minus the one little shitbag that lives down the street and bullies Connor. It's a good thing I was a marooned mammal last summer otherwise I would have taken him out with a Nerf gun while he was careening around our neighborhood on his and wwwaaayyy too close to our cars for comfort).
Pregnancy. I'll keep this one short and sweet. It blew. I don't remember the first three months, the second three were ok, the last three I wanted to smack myself in the face with a 2x4 and remain unconscious until labor began. And then I wanted as many pharmaceautitals as humanly possible along with the tube in my spine to make everything pretty (and this is pretty close to what actually happened when baby came). Baby's name is Matthew. He's amazing. And chubby. And he has a big head. But he is so awesome, he deserves a post devoted entirely to him.
AB, or, After Baby. WTF? Life changed. A lot. It's amazing how batshit crazy people can get when they are sleep-deprived. There were times when I was waiting for some secret CIA people to drop in through my windows, accuse me of being a terrorist and start the water-boarding. Because obviously this little newborn worked for them and was starting us out on the sleep depravation tactic. Things have settled out. Dylan and I no longer stare each other down like we are one move away from a full on prison escape--without the other person.
Connor is, as always, a completely entertaining and exhaustingly intelligent little boy. Like Matthew, he deserves his own post.
So, that's it--we're settling in with both the boys, drinking wine again (and even ventured out tasting!), Dylan is still working like a dog and I'm still riding his ass everyday to get home sooner because DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND I AM GOING OUT OF MY EVER-LOVING MIND HERE?!?!?!?. To his credit, he's done 50% better this week. Good job babe, good job. :-)
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Cat Chaos (or WTC - my White Trash Cat)
It's been a long & very eventful summer. Dylan had the whole summer off (10 weeks) and we had some great (and hilarious) family bonding time - which I'll talk about in a different post. Right now there is a more pressing issue at hand. My cat.
Back in May I tried to install a new faucet in the kitchen sink. Long story short, I forgot to turn off the main water and ended up soaking myself, my kitchen and my cat while turning the downstairs into what felt like a tropical rainforest (humidity and all). Luckily for me, my dad was flying in that night and could help me fix it. Unfortunately, I think it caused my cat some trauma from which he suffered PTSD. He had what I can only imagine was a nervous breakdown and acted schizo all summer, refusing to come inside, pretending to not recognize us (and no this wasn't only when Dylan was fishing the Wall Street Journal out of the bushes in his boxers). Flash forward to a week and 1/2 ago. Mr. Jackson decides all is better and comes in the house, eats some food, drinks some water and plops his hairy butt down on my kitchen floor to do whatever cats like to do. That's when I see it, a gigantic wound on his stomach. Dylan rushes him to the vet and we wait for the call.
The vet calls us three hours later with this news - Jackson has a wound that will require him to be "put under" where they will stitch up the wound and insert a drain. Wait a minute - drain? Drain what into where? Call me callous but that cat was staying at the vet's office until the drain was out (I can barely handle barkdust on my floor, can you imagine a cat "draining"?). Once we conquered that challenge, then they told us how much it'd set us back. Let's just say it was worth about two car payments. Two hours later, vet calls again. While Jackson was under they cleaned his teeth and found a tooth that was completely broken in half, was infected, and causing his gums to swell. Oh, and three cavities. Removing the tooth (and possibly the teeth with cavities) would only tack on an additional $100 or so to our final bill. I said to take out the broken tooth, leave the cavities in.
We took him home on Friday (yes, after the drain was taken out). The past week has been like living in the seventh circle of hell. The damn cat has that stupid collar on which traps food pieces like a tray so he's walking around with half a meal falling off his neck most of the time, he's been stressed so he's shedding which makes the whole family miserable with allergies, he got another round of worms while on his outside summer sojourn but we couldn't get the pills down his throat, he howls all night long because he wants to go outside but can't...all of this was frustrating and exhausting but I didn't hit the wall until this morning's fiasco. I went to escape to coffee with a friend only to come home and find my laundry room destroyed. Jackson's box is kept there. There is no possible excuse as to why what happened, happened - his box is the biggest one they make. He had fresh litter, nothing left behind. But what he did was unforgivable. I'll spare the main details and leave you only with this - nowhere in my "stay-at-home mom" job description did the term "cat-shit chiseling" come into play. But that's what I had to do, off the walls, off the floors, off everything except his box - which he left one small piece of the entire present.
After this morning, Jackson is going back to the vet's to be boarded overnight. Two reasons for this - 1) He was going to go tomorrow morning anyway to have the final stitches removed and to get them to give him the pills we couldn't get him to take, and 2) If I have to spend another night with this animal someone isn't waking up in the house tomorrow morning. I won't toss the cat (I'm not that evil) but I will definitely make my way to the nearest Marriott for a night of boarding myself.
Back in May I tried to install a new faucet in the kitchen sink. Long story short, I forgot to turn off the main water and ended up soaking myself, my kitchen and my cat while turning the downstairs into what felt like a tropical rainforest (humidity and all). Luckily for me, my dad was flying in that night and could help me fix it. Unfortunately, I think it caused my cat some trauma from which he suffered PTSD. He had what I can only imagine was a nervous breakdown and acted schizo all summer, refusing to come inside, pretending to not recognize us (and no this wasn't only when Dylan was fishing the Wall Street Journal out of the bushes in his boxers). Flash forward to a week and 1/2 ago. Mr. Jackson decides all is better and comes in the house, eats some food, drinks some water and plops his hairy butt down on my kitchen floor to do whatever cats like to do. That's when I see it, a gigantic wound on his stomach. Dylan rushes him to the vet and we wait for the call.
The vet calls us three hours later with this news - Jackson has a wound that will require him to be "put under" where they will stitch up the wound and insert a drain. Wait a minute - drain? Drain what into where? Call me callous but that cat was staying at the vet's office until the drain was out (I can barely handle barkdust on my floor, can you imagine a cat "draining"?). Once we conquered that challenge, then they told us how much it'd set us back. Let's just say it was worth about two car payments. Two hours later, vet calls again. While Jackson was under they cleaned his teeth and found a tooth that was completely broken in half, was infected, and causing his gums to swell. Oh, and three cavities. Removing the tooth (and possibly the teeth with cavities) would only tack on an additional $100 or so to our final bill. I said to take out the broken tooth, leave the cavities in.
We took him home on Friday (yes, after the drain was taken out). The past week has been like living in the seventh circle of hell. The damn cat has that stupid collar on which traps food pieces like a tray so he's walking around with half a meal falling off his neck most of the time, he's been stressed so he's shedding which makes the whole family miserable with allergies, he got another round of worms while on his outside summer sojourn but we couldn't get the pills down his throat, he howls all night long because he wants to go outside but can't...all of this was frustrating and exhausting but I didn't hit the wall until this morning's fiasco. I went to escape to coffee with a friend only to come home and find my laundry room destroyed. Jackson's box is kept there. There is no possible excuse as to why what happened, happened - his box is the biggest one they make. He had fresh litter, nothing left behind. But what he did was unforgivable. I'll spare the main details and leave you only with this - nowhere in my "stay-at-home mom" job description did the term "cat-shit chiseling" come into play. But that's what I had to do, off the walls, off the floors, off everything except his box - which he left one small piece of the entire present.
After this morning, Jackson is going back to the vet's to be boarded overnight. Two reasons for this - 1) He was going to go tomorrow morning anyway to have the final stitches removed and to get them to give him the pills we couldn't get him to take, and 2) If I have to spend another night with this animal someone isn't waking up in the house tomorrow morning. I won't toss the cat (I'm not that evil) but I will definitely make my way to the nearest Marriott for a night of boarding myself.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Conservation of Anxiety
Dylan was a TA (for those that don't know, it's basically an exhausting babysitting job for a high-level executive - you feed their ego, make sure they're in the right place at the right time, put in all the long hours and all the hard work and then sit back and watch from the sidelines while they take most of the credit) for over two years. Those years were torturous for many reasons but I did take away a very important idea from one of the execs he worked with - it's called the "Conservation of Anxiety". The idea is that when you find yourself endlessly worrying about something you ask yourself two things, is someone (or should someone) else be worrying about this instead of me, and will worrying about this change the outcome? It sounds simple enough, but in reality, living by this motto is something of an art form.
As a mom, worrying is as necessary to my existence as is wine (usually the former dictates the need for the latter). While worrying is normal and most often helpful, it can also completely rule your life if you're not careful. Guess what? I'm not careful and so therefore, I figured that it was about time to try and utilize the "Conservation of Anxiety" idea that I have idolized for so many years. I will admit, I was feeling pretty cocky about how easy this lifestyle change would be and how painless the whole process would be.
I was wrong. Dead wrong. The first day, I dropped Connor off at school. On the 30 second drive home, I found myself obsessing over how many pieces of spinach Connor would get at lunch (sidenote: Connor loves buying lunch. I hate not having control over what he's eating so we negotiated a deal - he can buy lunch as long as he promises to pick two healthy "sides", one usually being spinach...or so he says...). I told myself to stop worrying because worrying wasn't going to change anything. Next, I realized that Dylan forgot his lunch in the refrigerator that morning (nevermind the fact that I reminded him no less than five times that morning to grab it). Panic sets in, I picture Dylan fainting in his office from low blood sugar and then nobody helping him because he's been such a tyrant at work lately and they would all welcome an incapacitated boss for a few hours. I am about to drive the damn lunch all the way to Jones Farm when I realize that would make me late for my pilates class. Shit! More worry! If I miss the class, I will now have three makeups to do and there is definitely not enough time in my week to get that done, I don't have enough time to warn my pilates instructor so what if she's pissed because she has some elaborate class plan today that me being absent would most definitely sabotage...worry, worry, worry...tell myself to cut it out and pick what's most important - Dylan, you lose. The lunch will be there tomorrow.
That was just my morning. The afternoon brought another slew of worries, where is the cat (and is he out eating roadkill which will end in him getting worms and me paying yet another ginormous vet bill), why didn't the WSJ get delivered, should I just tip over the neighbor's garbage cans because they have been out there for days and I'm tired of looking at them, is Connor f-ing with his teacher again, when can I get to Target to get more laundry detergent because if I don't do at least two loads a day it will mess up my weekly laundry process, and so on and so on. It's amazing my brain hasn't gotten up and left without a ransom note by this time.
As I'm sitting in the parking lot of the school waiting to pick Connor up (while writing out my to-do list for the next day which also incites a major amount of stress and worry), something dawns on me - I am failing at the "Conservation of Anxiety". I don't accept failure so I immediately try and figure out a way to at least get one "win" in for the day. I rack my brain and decide to let go of two things - one, trying to navigate the grocery store with Connor in tow to get goods for dinner and two, feeling the need to call Dylan every five minutes after five o'clock to see when he's going to be home.
Later that night, while taking a wonderful bath, I realized that the best thing happened that day - the world didn't fall apart. I let go of two things and ended up having a fantastic afternoon and evening. Connor and I got to play at the park instead of coercing him to go on yet another errand and while Dylan did end up having to work late, he made up for it by picking us up takout after Connor was in bed and we had a nice dinner on the couch catching up on some TV shows.
I'm not going to kid myself into believing that I will live the rest of my days by the "Conservation of Anxiety". As it is, I am only a few weeks into trying to get a handle on my worrying and I fail regularly. I wasn't even sure if it was really making a difference until Dylan remarked this weekend with, "You seem so much more relaxed lately". Coming from him, that's the best compliment I can ever receive. I think the most important thing that I have realized is that I CAN let go and nothing bad will happen - I'm not saying that I always will, but I know that I can.
As a mom, worrying is as necessary to my existence as is wine (usually the former dictates the need for the latter). While worrying is normal and most often helpful, it can also completely rule your life if you're not careful. Guess what? I'm not careful and so therefore, I figured that it was about time to try and utilize the "Conservation of Anxiety" idea that I have idolized for so many years. I will admit, I was feeling pretty cocky about how easy this lifestyle change would be and how painless the whole process would be.
I was wrong. Dead wrong. The first day, I dropped Connor off at school. On the 30 second drive home, I found myself obsessing over how many pieces of spinach Connor would get at lunch (sidenote: Connor loves buying lunch. I hate not having control over what he's eating so we negotiated a deal - he can buy lunch as long as he promises to pick two healthy "sides", one usually being spinach...or so he says...). I told myself to stop worrying because worrying wasn't going to change anything. Next, I realized that Dylan forgot his lunch in the refrigerator that morning (nevermind the fact that I reminded him no less than five times that morning to grab it). Panic sets in, I picture Dylan fainting in his office from low blood sugar and then nobody helping him because he's been such a tyrant at work lately and they would all welcome an incapacitated boss for a few hours. I am about to drive the damn lunch all the way to Jones Farm when I realize that would make me late for my pilates class. Shit! More worry! If I miss the class, I will now have three makeups to do and there is definitely not enough time in my week to get that done, I don't have enough time to warn my pilates instructor so what if she's pissed because she has some elaborate class plan today that me being absent would most definitely sabotage...worry, worry, worry...tell myself to cut it out and pick what's most important - Dylan, you lose. The lunch will be there tomorrow.
That was just my morning. The afternoon brought another slew of worries, where is the cat (and is he out eating roadkill which will end in him getting worms and me paying yet another ginormous vet bill), why didn't the WSJ get delivered, should I just tip over the neighbor's garbage cans because they have been out there for days and I'm tired of looking at them, is Connor f-ing with his teacher again, when can I get to Target to get more laundry detergent because if I don't do at least two loads a day it will mess up my weekly laundry process, and so on and so on. It's amazing my brain hasn't gotten up and left without a ransom note by this time.
As I'm sitting in the parking lot of the school waiting to pick Connor up (while writing out my to-do list for the next day which also incites a major amount of stress and worry), something dawns on me - I am failing at the "Conservation of Anxiety". I don't accept failure so I immediately try and figure out a way to at least get one "win" in for the day. I rack my brain and decide to let go of two things - one, trying to navigate the grocery store with Connor in tow to get goods for dinner and two, feeling the need to call Dylan every five minutes after five o'clock to see when he's going to be home.
Later that night, while taking a wonderful bath, I realized that the best thing happened that day - the world didn't fall apart. I let go of two things and ended up having a fantastic afternoon and evening. Connor and I got to play at the park instead of coercing him to go on yet another errand and while Dylan did end up having to work late, he made up for it by picking us up takout after Connor was in bed and we had a nice dinner on the couch catching up on some TV shows.
I'm not going to kid myself into believing that I will live the rest of my days by the "Conservation of Anxiety". As it is, I am only a few weeks into trying to get a handle on my worrying and I fail regularly. I wasn't even sure if it was really making a difference until Dylan remarked this weekend with, "You seem so much more relaxed lately". Coming from him, that's the best compliment I can ever receive. I think the most important thing that I have realized is that I CAN let go and nothing bad will happen - I'm not saying that I always will, but I know that I can.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Drugs.com Is NOT A Positive Resource
Living in the Pacific Northwest comes with a certain challenge -surviving the 9 1/2 months of torrential sideways rain, soggy ground, dirty cars, filthy floors and stained pants. Given that three out of the five above are centered around cleanliness, you can imagine how bat$hit crazy I get during the winter months here. Not to mention the fact that when you have a six year old son that has a lot of energy, having 9 1/2 months of crappy weather poses another challenge - how to make sure your child has a way to get his energy out somewhere (note: having shopping cart races at the neighborhood Target, while definitely fun, is not a good idea - it took a lot of fake tears and pleading - from the mom - to be allowed back there again).
With the endless gray and bleak days stretching out ahead of me, I decided to talk to my doctor about going on an anti-depressant just to get me through the season. She prescribed me Wellbutrin. It worked wonderfully - I felt better, my tone was lowered to a shrill instead of a shriek, and I actually began to enjoy my days a bit more. The only downside is that it caused a bit of insomnia but hey, Ambien works well for that.
Things were going great until a few weeks ago when I ran into what I like to call "woman issues" (not your typical monthly problems, more severe and more painful. The kind of medical thing that your husband flies back from China early for). Anyway, in addition to a few other things, the doctor prescribed me Vicodin for pain relief. I could finally stand up, walk, shower and sleep without pain - brilliant!
Unfortunately, two days ago I ran into this website called drugs.com. In addition to being riddled with anxiety and OCD, I am also a hypochondriac. On a regular basis I am convinced I might be dying, therefore, if you searched my web browsing history you would see WebMD, various symptom-checker websites, and potential risk factors for any given diseases. Last February I had my doctor give me an EKG because I thought I had a heart attack (in my defense, it WAS heart health awareness month for women). Thank god I have a patient doctor - well, she's either patient or loves the money she gets for my visits. Anyway, I find this drugs.com and (after accepting some waiving of my rights) I plug in all the medications I currently am on and...holy $hit Batman, this is not good. There are glaring red warning signs all over the page. My heart rate skyrockets, I feel light-headed, and my left arm goes numb (am I having another heart attack?). I scan the list and guess what? The major interaction is NOT from Vicodin and Ambien (or Vicodin and Xanax, which I have on hand for my fear of flying or fear of the moms of the kids in my son's school), it's from my Wellbutrin and Vicodin. The risk is...lowered threshold for seizures. Seizures? Like my eyes bug out and roll back in my head and I choke to death on my tongue? So the maintenance drug I take for seasonal depression could cause my death?
I spent three hours last night after being on this site getting my affairs in order. I was convinced I would die in my sleep but finally went to bed around 3am. Then, I had an appointment today with my doctor and she confirmed that yes, Wellbutrin does lower the seizure threshold but there is still only a .001% chance in 1000 people. I wasn't buying it.
So I'm going off the Wellbutrin. Not only because I'm convinced I am just special enough to qualify for that .001% chance of a seizure (because I AM that amazing), but also because I know the warmer and sunnier days are approaching. I would rather be able to live without physical pain than have to travel with my own defibrillator and personal assistant trained to use it.
My only concern now is that one of the warnings on the Vicodin bottle is to "use care when operating heavy machinery"...does that mean I can't apply for the forklift driving position at Home Depot? Or maybe not even take a spin on my dad's riding lawn mower in a few weeks? Because I live for operating heavy machinery and if that's taken away from me, I just don't know what I will do.
*Update: after much thought I've decided that the forklift position will most definitely not work. However, I think taking a spin on the riding lawn mower (or go-kart) is still in the cards. I can't do much damage on 1/2 an acre anyway...
With the endless gray and bleak days stretching out ahead of me, I decided to talk to my doctor about going on an anti-depressant just to get me through the season. She prescribed me Wellbutrin. It worked wonderfully - I felt better, my tone was lowered to a shrill instead of a shriek, and I actually began to enjoy my days a bit more. The only downside is that it caused a bit of insomnia but hey, Ambien works well for that.
Things were going great until a few weeks ago when I ran into what I like to call "woman issues" (not your typical monthly problems, more severe and more painful. The kind of medical thing that your husband flies back from China early for). Anyway, in addition to a few other things, the doctor prescribed me Vicodin for pain relief. I could finally stand up, walk, shower and sleep without pain - brilliant!
Unfortunately, two days ago I ran into this website called drugs.com. In addition to being riddled with anxiety and OCD, I am also a hypochondriac. On a regular basis I am convinced I might be dying, therefore, if you searched my web browsing history you would see WebMD, various symptom-checker websites, and potential risk factors for any given diseases. Last February I had my doctor give me an EKG because I thought I had a heart attack (in my defense, it WAS heart health awareness month for women). Thank god I have a patient doctor - well, she's either patient or loves the money she gets for my visits. Anyway, I find this drugs.com and (after accepting some waiving of my rights) I plug in all the medications I currently am on and...holy $hit Batman, this is not good. There are glaring red warning signs all over the page. My heart rate skyrockets, I feel light-headed, and my left arm goes numb (am I having another heart attack?). I scan the list and guess what? The major interaction is NOT from Vicodin and Ambien (or Vicodin and Xanax, which I have on hand for my fear of flying or fear of the moms of the kids in my son's school), it's from my Wellbutrin and Vicodin. The risk is...lowered threshold for seizures. Seizures? Like my eyes bug out and roll back in my head and I choke to death on my tongue? So the maintenance drug I take for seasonal depression could cause my death?
I spent three hours last night after being on this site getting my affairs in order. I was convinced I would die in my sleep but finally went to bed around 3am. Then, I had an appointment today with my doctor and she confirmed that yes, Wellbutrin does lower the seizure threshold but there is still only a .001% chance in 1000 people. I wasn't buying it.
So I'm going off the Wellbutrin. Not only because I'm convinced I am just special enough to qualify for that .001% chance of a seizure (because I AM that amazing), but also because I know the warmer and sunnier days are approaching. I would rather be able to live without physical pain than have to travel with my own defibrillator and personal assistant trained to use it.
My only concern now is that one of the warnings on the Vicodin bottle is to "use care when operating heavy machinery"...does that mean I can't apply for the forklift driving position at Home Depot? Or maybe not even take a spin on my dad's riding lawn mower in a few weeks? Because I live for operating heavy machinery and if that's taken away from me, I just don't know what I will do.
*Update: after much thought I've decided that the forklift position will most definitely not work. However, I think taking a spin on the riding lawn mower (or go-kart) is still in the cards. I can't do much damage on 1/2 an acre anyway...
Saturday, May 1, 2010
"I Don't Get To Go When I Need To Go"
Oh, the joys of being a parent of a grade-schooler. Kindergarten was a mess and a complete waste of time. Two hours a day, five days a week. What can you really do with twenty kids in two hours? Short answer: nothing. The highlight of the year was when Connor threw a chair and when prompted to tell the teacher why he did it, he responded with, "Because Spongebob told me to".
First grade has proven to be challenging as well. Mrs. Smith (not her real name, that would be too normal and too cute for her) and I have VERY different takes on life. Mrs. Smith lives in a 900 square foot studio apartment with her husband and son. I also have to note that this studio has no doors or walls (I wonder how much the therapy bill will be for her son as he gets older). She also told the children last week on Earth Day that they should not eat red meat because doing so creates carbon dioxide which could take away all the oxygen we have and might create the end of the world. Connor definitely understands carbon dioxide so of course this caused him to spin into a panic attack later that night when I served ground beef tacos for dinner. He was convinced that he could possibly cause the end of the world and that would mean the Blazers would definitely not make it far in the playoffs. No six year old should have that burden on his shoulders (and I'm glad he was more concerned with guys making absurd amounts of money then with the safety of his immediate family).
I definitely believe that everyone is entitled to their own opinions, lifestyle choices and moral takes on life - for instance, I shared with Mrs. Smith during the Valentine's Day party how I recycle every day - I take the plastic Target bags, scoop the kitty-roca from the litter box in them, tie them up and toss them in the trash. I was disappointed by the look on her face, it was almost one of horror when I thought she would be proud. I really want to ask her if she takes prescription meds to help her deal with the anxiety she must feel when she looks at the school parking lot on any given day stuffed with vans and SUVs, the trunks loaded with massive amounts of food from Costco and bags full of overpriced produce from Whole Foods, and children dressed in expensive designer jeans. While I am not guilty of all of those offenses, I think it's safe to say that I am the walking example of her worst nightmare and she probably calls me "Lucifer" behind my back.
Our latest throwdown happened over bathroom privileges. Just typing "bathroom privileges" makes me wince - since when is relieving yourself a privilege? Anyway, Connor informed me that he missed his afternoon recess last week because he went to the bathroom after lunch. Since Mrs. Smith has taken to not returning my phone calls or emails, I decided to "just drop in" after school to the classroom to calmly discuss the bathroom issue. I told her the story I had heard while thinking deep down that she will surely have a rational explanation for what happened. Maybe Connor threw a chair again or maybe he decided after he returned from the bathroom that it would be a great idea to throw a dance party on the desks. In reality, she completely agreed with the story and added the clarification that if children use the bathroom earlier than thirty minutes after lunch they lose their afternoon recess. Dumbfounded, I asked her what her motivation for this was and she replied with, "Well I don't get to go when I need to go - I have to wait until my breaks, so why shouldn't they?" I didn't dive into the fact that these are KIDS and therefore their bladders are much smaller than adults. I also wanted to ask her how many accidents she's had in class and which is worse, allowing kids to go when they need to go or mopping up pee and dealing with a mortified student? Instead, I said, "If you are looking for sympathy and understanding from 6 and 7 year olds, good luck. They don't care or understand. They are more concerned with snacktime and recess, not when you can take your potty breaks".
Until this point I had assumed Connor was still waiting down the hall, out of earshot. I was wrong. Just when I finished my heated response to Mrs. Smith, Connor appeared beside me and dropped this bomb of knowledge, "You know Mrs. Smith, when you have to use the bathroom it's like your body's way of taking out it's trash. If you don't go when you need to go you can get an infection and get sick. Would you keep a full trash can in your garage? Of course not".
Next time I go toe-to-toe with Mrs. Smith I'm sending Connor in first. I'll be Robin to his Batman. He summed up everything I wanted to say in a calm and fact-based statement. A beautiful ending to a frustrating situation.
First grade has proven to be challenging as well. Mrs. Smith (not her real name, that would be too normal and too cute for her) and I have VERY different takes on life. Mrs. Smith lives in a 900 square foot studio apartment with her husband and son. I also have to note that this studio has no doors or walls (I wonder how much the therapy bill will be for her son as he gets older). She also told the children last week on Earth Day that they should not eat red meat because doing so creates carbon dioxide which could take away all the oxygen we have and might create the end of the world. Connor definitely understands carbon dioxide so of course this caused him to spin into a panic attack later that night when I served ground beef tacos for dinner. He was convinced that he could possibly cause the end of the world and that would mean the Blazers would definitely not make it far in the playoffs. No six year old should have that burden on his shoulders (and I'm glad he was more concerned with guys making absurd amounts of money then with the safety of his immediate family).
I definitely believe that everyone is entitled to their own opinions, lifestyle choices and moral takes on life - for instance, I shared with Mrs. Smith during the Valentine's Day party how I recycle every day - I take the plastic Target bags, scoop the kitty-roca from the litter box in them, tie them up and toss them in the trash. I was disappointed by the look on her face, it was almost one of horror when I thought she would be proud. I really want to ask her if she takes prescription meds to help her deal with the anxiety she must feel when she looks at the school parking lot on any given day stuffed with vans and SUVs, the trunks loaded with massive amounts of food from Costco and bags full of overpriced produce from Whole Foods, and children dressed in expensive designer jeans. While I am not guilty of all of those offenses, I think it's safe to say that I am the walking example of her worst nightmare and she probably calls me "Lucifer" behind my back.
Our latest throwdown happened over bathroom privileges. Just typing "bathroom privileges" makes me wince - since when is relieving yourself a privilege? Anyway, Connor informed me that he missed his afternoon recess last week because he went to the bathroom after lunch. Since Mrs. Smith has taken to not returning my phone calls or emails, I decided to "just drop in" after school to the classroom to calmly discuss the bathroom issue. I told her the story I had heard while thinking deep down that she will surely have a rational explanation for what happened. Maybe Connor threw a chair again or maybe he decided after he returned from the bathroom that it would be a great idea to throw a dance party on the desks. In reality, she completely agreed with the story and added the clarification that if children use the bathroom earlier than thirty minutes after lunch they lose their afternoon recess. Dumbfounded, I asked her what her motivation for this was and she replied with, "Well I don't get to go when I need to go - I have to wait until my breaks, so why shouldn't they?" I didn't dive into the fact that these are KIDS and therefore their bladders are much smaller than adults. I also wanted to ask her how many accidents she's had in class and which is worse, allowing kids to go when they need to go or mopping up pee and dealing with a mortified student? Instead, I said, "If you are looking for sympathy and understanding from 6 and 7 year olds, good luck. They don't care or understand. They are more concerned with snacktime and recess, not when you can take your potty breaks".
Until this point I had assumed Connor was still waiting down the hall, out of earshot. I was wrong. Just when I finished my heated response to Mrs. Smith, Connor appeared beside me and dropped this bomb of knowledge, "You know Mrs. Smith, when you have to use the bathroom it's like your body's way of taking out it's trash. If you don't go when you need to go you can get an infection and get sick. Would you keep a full trash can in your garage? Of course not".
Next time I go toe-to-toe with Mrs. Smith I'm sending Connor in first. I'll be Robin to his Batman. He summed up everything I wanted to say in a calm and fact-based statement. A beautiful ending to a frustrating situation.
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