Flying Deodorant Will Not Break Me

The morning started off well enough. I got TD off to Bubble Camp (best idea ever!) and took myself and The Comedian to the gym. I got in a nice run and worked up quite a sweat and was sufficiently pleased with myself. I walked into that bizarre TV/ironing room in the women's locker room and things went down hill from there.

-As I went into Warrior pose I somehow lost my balance and fell over face first. I iz wicked graceful. My face? It hit the arm rest on a chair placed in that room for optimal TV viewing.

-Next, I opened my gym bag to hit the shower and realized that I forgot my shower shoes. My feet itch just thinking about it. The entire time I was standing in the shower I could think of only two things. One, Madonna telling Letterman that she pees in the shower to kill Athletes foot. And two, scores of tiny bacteria eating away the flesh on the soles of my feet. Blech.

-Then I dried off and put on my bra only to have the strap break. Sigh. I tucked the other strap in and went into "strapless" bra mode. Since that isn't the way it's supposed to be worn the bra was bulging oddly out from my t-shirt. I pulled on my shorts and noticed that H hadn't treated the stain on them. Now clean and dried my one pair of khaki shorts is ruined. If I was TD I would have had a meltdown right then and there.

-Trying to be undaunted I went to dry my hair and finish getting ready. I realized I forgot to apply my deodorant so I pulled it out and uncapped it. The stick went flying through the air. Well, just the deodorizing part. When I picked it up to place it back inside its tube my fingers got stuck in it and I had large chunks of antiperspirant on my hands. Which then just smeared everywhere.

I really just wanted to pack it all in at this point and head for cover. Like under my covers with my 'bink', my old tattered blue blanket from when I was a kid. The one I still take out when I'm sick. Except, I'm 33 years old and things can't always go my way.

Enough goes right in my world that flying deodorant and not wearing shower shoes should not get me down. After all, there is cheese in my fridge and 'True Blood' on my DVR. That alone can make my day.

Biting the Big One

I'm not quite sure where to begin. It's not like when I was younger and I could just go off for a few days, write some deeply unprofound thoughts in my journal, break a few things and take a series of long drives. I barely have time to remember to turn off the burners on the stove these days much less time to figure out what is normal.

That's the thing- I don't know what is normal anymore.

I don't think it is normal to keep thinking such incredibly sad, circular thoughts. Thoughts that don't even make sense. Like sitting down feeding Dash Two and remembering the death of my 6th grade friend's mother. The crack in her twelve year old voice as she called from the hospital to let me know that it had finally happened. Suddenly, that memory is playing over and over again in my mind and I feel the tears welling up - again. For the bazillionth time that day.

Is it normal or just being the mother of two small children to be making lunch and realize you forgot to turn off the shower over an hour ago? When you run upstairs to turn it off you hear the water running but instead you just stand and stare at it and get lost in some sort of brain fuzz until your kid comes up to ask you what you are doing. You don't know what you are doing so you just head back downstairs. Later you wonder, "Did I finally turn off the shower?"

I'm a New Englander born and raised and we seem to be genetically programmed to Seasonal Affective Disorder. So is this just the winter blues or something more? The something more is scaring the crap out of me these last few days. OK, weeks. It's been creeping up like a sullen child from the dark, dank corners of my mind for a while now. I've been fighting it tooth and nail and I think I'm finally beginning to feel too weak to combat it anymore.

I know that lack of sleep and all the hormones can contribute to Postpartum Depression. I want this to not be it so badly, for it to just be the winter blues because really? What on earth do I have to be depressed about?! My kids are healthy. I have a roof over my head, my health, a loving H and a great family. BUT MY GOD I JUST CANNOT STOP CRYING. Except between the hours of 6-11 pm when I try really freakin' hard to keep it together and make jokes and feel normal and keep it all so neat and tidy. Who wants to come home to a crying mess every day? Then yesterday as I sat idling in traffic and the tears started again over something so ridiculous as remembering a moment in the inauguration (a very happy day damn it!) I could just picture my heart and it was gushing this black goopy mess all over the place and I could see this one thread, one stitch just keeping it all together. Keeping it all from falling completely apart. I thought, "Just one tiny pluck of that thread and I'll be done. I'll be completely unraveled and I don't know how to stop that from happening."

HOLY FUCK this SUCKS.

I want this to just go away. I keep thinking like a chant in my head, "Just be happy. You are fine. Shut up whiny little girl. Suck it up!" For a while that works. And then it just doesn't. Then I feel like I'm going to explode and instead of feeling hostile and violent like last time I just feel incredibly weepy and unmotivated. The sadness is overwhelming. It leaves me harried, exhausted beyond comprehension and like I've been stuck with a tranquilizer dart. I don't even want to look people in the eye anymore and I have no idea who I am. I want nothing to do with anything. One minute I'm ready to tackle the day, the next I just want to hold my kids and not leave the house, ever. Suddenly I'm roaring to go, the next I want to call the whole day off. If this is winter blues, so be it. If it is something else, I don't even want to know. I don't have time for it. I don't have time for the drugs, the therapy, the journal writing and everything else they prescribed last time. I don't want to talk to my parents about it. I don't want to talk to anyone about it. I don't want it to be real and if I say what I'm thinking aloud then it just might be true and I just don't think I can handle it.

But I don't know where else to go or what else to do. And I'm tired of feeling alone.


If anyone has any advice please let me know. I can't even bring myself to look up stuff up online these days. I realized I had a problem when I wrote this for Honest Baby this week.

Light It Up!

Now with an Alternate Title: "Vicky's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day"

Uh... yeah. So if I could have lit a day on fire and just set it ablaze, yesterday would have been that day. I would have just torched that sucker after dousing it in lighter fluid or about 18 gallons of gasoline and let it burn, baby, burn.

We woke up late and as I hurried us off to school- can't miss school picture day after all- I was a bit stressed but coming out of it. Nothing a good dose of "kid at school" quiet time won't fix. I ran some quick errands, did a bit of work, showered and was good to go. Relaxed and everything. Pick up from school was a whiny trek home but it was to be expected. She gets worn the hell out. What I didn't anticipate was the following:

-Whining in the car.
-Whining on the sidewalk and through the front door.
-Whining that only pink cheese was to be served at lunch time. After much debate it was established that pink cheese does not exist and white would do just fine. While I cut up strawberries for dessert TD chucked her lunch in the trash. I failed to notice this until the bowl of strawberries was being devoured. Where the hell was the lunch plate? Oh there it is... in the trash. Sigh.

Finally, I sat down to eat with her and she went to the use the bathroom. Seemed like a good plan and I excused myself as well. Less than two minutes later I'm back downstairs finding wet footprints on the floor. In the foyer, by the bathroom, in the kitchen and also the living room. WTF? TD is clearly still in the bathroom and upset about something. I investigate and find the bathroom floor completly flooded. The toilet is to the brim and beyond. It is an overflowing mess of toilet paper, a clogged pipe and well, yes, poop. Kick ass. It's now hitting the floor at a rapid pace. Grumbling, I head downstairs with her soggy pants and to look for clean up items. No sooner do I begin to pick up the rags to clean up the mess but I realize I'm being rained on.

Huh.

Is that a leaky pipe or F'ing toilet water raining down on me from upstairs? If you guessed the second you would be correct. I send a pantless TD to play in her kitchen area. DO NOT DISTURB MUMMY RIGHT NOW. HUNGRY PREGNANT LADY is now covered in the real eau de toilette and she is not happy or hungry. Just pissed. The thought, "if I was at work right now this would not be my life" enters my brain. Back upstairs in full cleaning and plunging mode toilet water sprays me in the face. I am literally sickened. My body aches from the bending and reaching. The mood is not good.

Finally, all is clean. The basement is no longer leaking. The floor and bathroom mopped. I am clean again too. TD is wearing pants. I can sit down and eat lunch. I'm exhausted. A nap is in full order and shortly after we are all down for the count for the next few hours. I wake refreshed and in a much better mood. TD on the other hand is upset about the state of her graham crackers and this seems to mean imminent doom. I persevere and head outside for some distraction/play time.

Later that day, despite my best efforts to keep salvaging my mood and hers, I still find myself feeling like a failure. A failure as a wife and a mother. My attempts to get dinner on the table are not sufficient, my timing is off, my child is declared a brat and I feel responsible since um.. isn't she with me all day? H is annoyed that I am not going to girls night (too exhausted and not in the mood, I just want the comfort of home and him) and TD bucks bed time for an hour and ends up accidentally kicking me which just sends me over the edge into a messy abyss of emotions.

At 3 a.m. this morning I was up. I feel fragile and edgy. At 34 weeks I'm ready for this pregnancy to be done. I'm sick of the roller coaster emotions, the clumsiness, forgetfulness and the aches and pains. The insomnia one minute and total exhaustion, double chin and sausage fingers are just doing me in. I want to feel competetent and myself again. I want to be a good mother, wife and friend. I feel I'm failing in every single capacity, every second of each day.


Check out this week's Honest Baby piece by me.

Candy Corn = Massive Meltdown

I know what you are thinking. TD wanted candy corn. TD did not get candy corn. TD has massive meltdown. End of story.

Nope. The meltdown was all mine and it happened happily in my home and not out in public. That would have been really embarrassing for H.

Call it hormones, a house over run with home projects, baby stuff and just our own stuff and I lost it. There I was trying to write, supposed to be writing/working and I just couldn't. The infant car seat was apart on the floor in front of me with the Jolly Jump-Up, excersaucer and taken apart baby swing. If I looked to my left power tools and paint covered almost every surface. Toddler toys crawled out from every corner of my home and laundry snarled and snapped at my feet. The stairs to my house were a landmine of items to be put away, I forgot to figure out dinner and grocery shopping was desperately needed. Did I mention I am on the verge of a cold and TD was a walking snot bomb? Yeah, I was due for a massively volcanic meltdown any day.

Every time I turned around someone was stuck, tripping over something, throwing shit around or getting into trouble. Someone was crying or yelling and it wasn't always me. Our shit was all apart. Then I heard it again. More screaming and crying and a crash and skittering sound that I could not identify. I lumbered my big ol' pregnant ass upstairs to find TD in underwear only snotty and crying. Candy corn was all over the kitchen floor.

It was in the pantry. On the shelves. Stuck in corners and plastic bags. Under the table and just well, EVERY-FREAKIN'-WHERE. I sighed deeply and tried to calm her down as I began to clean. And then. Then, I just started sobbing. Those great heaving sobs where I became the snot bomb and this massive feeling of being overwhelmed and incredibly futile gripped me hard. TD ran running from the room for cover and Daddy. I heard her telling him, "Mommy upset! Mommy crying!" Seconds later, H appeared and had to figure out through my sobs what the hell was the matter.

I don't think he quite got it and frankly, I don't think he wanted to. The man wanted his football game and a solid three hours on the couch with minimal interruption. I didn't blame him. A weekend full of chores, cleaning, organizing, painting, Lowe's runs and more had done him in too. Now his wife was a fretful mess on the floor and his kid was sobbing too. It was a bit too much for any of us to bear.

Twenty minutes later, TD was napping, the baby gear all put away, laundry sorted and started and candy corn mysteriously swept away, all by H. I was hiccupping while writing a draft or two and H was back to watching the game. It came and went like a tornado but I guess that is what massive meltdowns do.

Scary Even to Me

Sometimes life just gets to be too much. No amount of wine or cigarettes (I wish!) will do. A nap, a good book, or a time out just isn't sufficient.

Pedicure? Yeah right.

What you need is a good crying jag. Or a meltdown of such epic proportions that has built up for so long that you scare even yourself back into normalcy. Your kid? Well, I feel I have scarred mine for life now and spent a good half hour apologizing to a child who just looked up at me with huge eyes.

How did this happen?

1. Lack of sleep. Sleep has been positively elusive to me the last few days and now weeks. Each day it gets worse. (Do NOT suggest Tylenol PM or some natural remedy for sleep the do NOT work on this woman) That does not make for a totally sane Mommy.

2. Ongoing and unfinished house projects. Debris in various areas of the house. 'To Do' lists that just won't die.

3. The Mole (more on that later)

4. Heat. Temps in the 90s and humidity were just keeping us inside with the A/C when what we really needed was room to roam.

Add in a dose of everyday life and a possibly teething toddler (molars are hell!) and you have yourself a set up for a scary situation right off the Hollywood screens.

When did it happen?

Yesterday. After a morning of constant whining and more whining from T.D. and an already exhausted me I knew a storm was brewing within me. She refused all food all day and just continued to cry. I could not figure out what on earth was wrong! I was getting close to the edge. A doctor appointment later with some not so fun news (the mole indeed) I picked T.D. up from the sitter and put her down for a nap. I worked for longer than I intended becoming mesmerized and repelled by my computer screen. I just needed sleep. I tried to nap to no avail. I just tossed and turned and became increasingly surly.

When T.D. awoke I was already starting dinner. Dinner that would not cooperate. A toddler that gripped my legs refusing to be soothed by toys, music, books, being read to, held, and baby Tylenol and Orajel. I broke out a wet washcloth figuring she needed to be cooled down? She wasn't sick. I gave her some snacks and a drink. No change. The diaper was changed. Nothing. Just that incessant "eeeehheeeh, eeehheeehh" whine. About the time I tried to start dinner for the fourth time I could feel myself going over that cliff. The edge was gone and I had fallen down the rabbit hole into meltdown land.

I threw a portion of dinner across the room. It went in two totally separate directions and I screamed. I later found more of it behind the phone and attached to the spice rack. Yum! I glared at T.D. with blazing eyes, tears starting to brim over, and begged her to stop crying. Begged. I begged my 17 mos. old child. A new low. She just kept going. I lost any amount of calm left and scooped her up fast and with tears streaming down my face, jagged sobs escaping me, I put her in her crib and slammed the door. I just couldn't take it. Eight hours of incessant whining with no stop and no cause I could find was too much. I was beyond tired and had slipped in the mode of being a cranky toddler myself.

Back downstairs trying for a fifth time to concoct dinner I could hear the whines turn into downright screams of fury. Blood curdling. Except my blood just boiled and I began screaming. Crying and screaming and hic-coughing. I ran up the stairs and threw open her bedroom door a la Jack Nicholson in 'the Shining' and bellowed, "JUST BE QUIET!! STOP! STOP CRYING!!" The look on her face said it all. Startled and thrown off from crying her eyes became saucers and she just gulped. A little like Shelly Duval I suppose as she watched her husband axe his way into the bathroom.

For about the longest two minutes of my life I just gripped the edge of the crib all white knuckles and panting. I was eye level with my daughter as we both tried to control our rasping breaths and lip trembles. I wanted to die. Outside of post-partum depression where I lashed out at others and not my child, I had never had such a desperate moment with her. It was terrifying. I picked her up and just hugged her to me. We sat for a bit just staring at each other. Me in a quite voice apologizing for yelling and losing myself. She just asking me questions such as, "Dat?" as she gripped my necklace and smiled at me.

How could she just forgive me like that? I can't.