Parenthood- An Abundance of Gross

Quite often I am the lucky recipient of incredibly gross behavior that requires me to say things that are even beyond my disgusting, perverse comprehension. I am the one who wanted a book called, "The Wonders of the Scab." Parenthood however has revealed a whole other level of nastiness.

"Stop putting things in your butt and trying to eat them!" 

"You cannot eat the snotty tissue, even if your Father did leave them all over the bedroom floor."

There is obviously the normal ones too-

"Don't pick your nose."

"Don't pick your nose and eat it."

"You cannot pick your  nose and wipe it on your bedroom walls."

"Yes, you do have to wipe."

"No, wiping does not consist of smearing poop on the bathtub."

Sigh.  I'm exhausted just typing up this list of disgusting things.  That's the part about parenthood that no one tells you.  Yes, it is loud. Yes, it is messy.  There is spit-up and snot.  There are mountains of diapers and you are covered in more bodily fluids than you ever knew were possible but no one tells you how absolutely gross, putrid and stinky parenthood can be. 

I, for one, never thought I would have to use a sock to wipe my kids ass in the woods one day. Did you?

The Sweaty Cowboy

Last week I saw down to a Mother's Day Tea at TD's school.  We had lemonade with heart-shaped ice cubes and pink paper bags full of popcorn that the children had made for us.  It was delightful.  After our snack we followed them to 'Music & Movement'.  Each week she participates in what can only be described as a yoga/dance/singsong frenzy.  The kids love it and it was fun participating even if I couldn't exactly get into a correct downward dog.  The staff spoke often about how the number of overweight children has almost doubled in the past twenty years.  This generation will not live as long as their parents because of fat-related illnesses.  In my state it is the sixth leading cause of death. 

We know the facts.  The First Lady is on a misson to eradicate this US epidemic.  What used to be a small issue isolated to one or two kids per grade has now become commonplace.  $3 billion a year is spent by fast-food companies marketing directly to kids. I don't like my kids wearing cartoon/TV show clothing because I don't want them to be walking advertisements.  I don't want them thinking that french fries and ketchup equal two servings of vegetables a day either. 

When I see these two items -

IHop's Stacked Pancakes. For breakfast, lunch and dinner. Oh, and dessert.  Maybe Fourth Meal too, perhaps? 

and of course KFC's Double Down.  Who doesn't want all that grease, fat and salt mainlined into their system all in one punch?

Um, me.  I don't, that's who.  It makes me mad every time I see things like this! I'm sick of companies thinking that they can just keep creating this shit, because that is what it is, shit. And they are passing it off as a meal let alone actual food.  Death on a plate or a greasy paper bag is more like it.  It doesn't help the countries problems today or its future. A slow, sickly death.  One bite at a time.

Now visit this site for some real cringe-worthy dishes.  My favorite is the Sweaty Cowboy right next to the Elvis Double Down. 

That is all.

In Which a Window Attacks My Head

I guess my forehead was jealous of my eye divot because after a glass or two of cranberry wine I decided to close up the house (A broken AC the last few days has made my house hotter than the hounds from hell dog house.). As I pushed down on the window to slide it shut a spring busted inside it sending the window flying open towards my face. The lock on it, in the open position of course, smacked me square in the middle of my forehead.

Stunned I slapped my hand to my forehead and stumbled up against my kitchen wall. The pain was like a ball bouncing around in my head. After a few moments I opened my eyes but I had to say aloud, "Are my eyes open?" No one answered me as H was gone on a work trip and the girls were asleep. I confirmed that yes, I was seeing the kitchen floor and I pulled my hand away from my forehead as I blinked back tears. Mmm... blood. All over my hand. I lurched to the bathroom almost afraid to see what was waiting for me in the mirror. Sure enough, blood was pouring from the middle of my forehead and I had a nice jagged gash. I began to sob. I dialed H and woke him up. He suggested calling my friend who immediately showed up on my front step. In minutes another friend was in my house to watch the girls as we drove to the ER. All I could think was, "Really!? Really face?! As if the eye-sore wasn't enough, now you want to go and Frankenstein me up with a slice to the noggin?" I had no idea though that the worst was yet to come. The dreaded middle of the night ER visit. Thankfully, I didn't have to go alone and walk in with the line, "So I had a few glasses of wine and then I hit my head..."

Our local hospital must be composed of the most archaic systems. You sign in on a loose sheet of paper that just gets put in a pile on the information desk. Yes, really. No one seems to think that computers are needed. It took two hours for my vitals to be checked. Head still bleeding. Another hour for them to register me into their system, all the while CNN was blaring up to the second status on the Swine Flu outbreak (coming to a town near you!). Sick babies cried around us and a woman threw up on her broken leg as she tossed a plastic yellow ball in the air. Umm.... yeah. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone or Outer Limits. When a kid walked in with a terrifically terrifying cough and was immediately masked I began to get worried. The fact that this four year-old then coughed up blood on the mask didn't seem to bother anyone made me wonder if I should just make a break for it and hope my head wouldn't gangrene at a later date.

At 3 a.m. (read: 4 1/2 hours later) I was brought into the actual ER and put on a bed in the hallway which was across from Room 16. I point that out because my hallway bed was labeled a precious 16A. For reals. At this point I was delirious with exhaustion and couldn't stop laughing at my predicament. It was then that I noticed that the staff stood around everywhere doing nothing and wouldn't make eye contact with us. Sure, they were laughing and joking and translating for people who brought babies in with minor colds. Grrr.... I'm not getting into the health care system but GAH!! My head still cut open was now burning, growing swollen and red. I felt defeated and frustrated. Finally, someone came by asked me what in tarnation I did to my cranium. Oh and "what's with the eye lady?" They told me I needed stitches and a tetanus shot. I have successfully avoided that shot through a web of carefully placed lies since the last one I got in Kindergarten. They stuck me before my addled brain could lie my way out of another one. After searching for some skin glue (no one on staff could remember where it was located anymore. I feared paper clips or a good ol'fashioned Swingline might be used instead.) A nurse glued me up and sent me on my way at long last.

All just in time for my neighbor who was watching my kids to go home and watch her own as her husband was leaving for work. Two hours later TD and The Comedian woke up ready to start the day. Thank God I have kick ass neighbors who don't even blink when someone calls for help.

Got Cancer? Hopefully, No.

Two weeks ago I got off a plane at Logan Airport in Boston, went into the women's room and as I washed my hands I noticed a red bump under my left eye. A sty? Drat! Mainly annoying and sometimes itchy I assumed it would clear up in a few days.

A week later and no longer itchy the bump was still there. This time with new scaly action. My friend suggested applying hydro-cortisone cream to it and dutifully I did. The scaly bump stayed put. It just shed itself like a snake and resumed squatting on my face. I took matters into my own hands and tried anti-fungal cream. Gross, but maybe it would help. The evil scaly red spot would not budge. When I touched down into DC earlier this week after a trip to the desert the first thing I did was call my trusty, if not "Is it Safe" dermatologist.

Yesterday, Dr. Happy Slicer decided that while the scaly mess didn't look cancerous but we should just be sure and biopsy it. We don't want another episode like this one. Nothing like taking a needle to the eye in the middle of your sunny afternoon. Did I mention The Comedian had just decided to add her own zany humor into the mix and puked on me only seconds before? She's a charmer that one! I digress. Dr. Humming, Happy "Is it Safe?" Slicer Man told me he would "just scrape" the area. Ugh. Scrape he did. I now have a lovely divot that is sure to scar and never fill back in, forever marring my face. Seriously. I admit to being vain here and now. This is my worst nightmare.


Just after the face-altering divot


And this morning-


Tomorrow I'm expected to face a group of bloggers and tour a musuem with some Hershey PR people and I have to look like this. As if I really want to take forever keepsake photos for TD's scrapbook with this eye-sore. Heh.

To leave it all on an upbeat note (results come back in 7-10 days from Dr. I Love to Slice the Faces) I give you Sundry Mourning, a blog I just "discovered" and find hilarious.

UPDATE: The doctor just called. Pre-cancerous but benign cells. Hmm... is that actually possible? Must keep watch on it and it if returns have it frozen off. I wonder if sharks with lasers could do that. I might prefer that to Dr. Love Me Some Scalpel.

Many of you know I blog about genetics and pregnancy at 23andMe. I'd like to know how you would anwer the question I'm asking this week- "Genotyping- Scary or Freeing?" I would not want to know when I’m going to die.” I heard that many times when I divulged the fact that I had taken the 23andMe genotyping test. Read more.

Open Letter to Ontario Airport Security

Ontario, CA that is. Not the Canuck one.

To Whom it May Concern at the Ontario TSA:

On my April 20 jaunt through your sadly depleted of all food services airport (seriously?! it was 4 pm and all restaurants were closed at 2 pm! Hello! Starvation!!) I was welcomed by not one but five security staff as I ran my bags through your security system. Clearly, you all have a lot of time on your hands. I abide by your rules to a 't'. I removed my shoes and laptop. My bag, shoes and special baggie of 3 ounce toiletries were placed in the bin and my laptop in a separate one. See? Rule follower, that is me! I waited my turn in line to go through the metal detector like a good citizen too. Oh wait, there wasn't a line. It was just me. Still, I passed with flying colors. I sprinted bare foot to catch my bags and saw you stop my carry-on suitcase. That's totally fine. The black bag within a bag got you. That pesky breast pump was at it again.

This time I even smiled calmly and said to the female screeners (all two of you for one machine), "It's my breast pump, happens all the time." We chuckled and my bag went through the machine. Then something funny happened. One of you decided not to believe me and had to open my bag to check. Fine. Totally fine. You then decided that my entire toiletry bag needed to be dumped despite having everything that is a liquid already in the plastic baggie. When I asked why that was being done you shoved a placard in my face with the rules. Whatever. Do what you must with the mascara that ISN'T a liquid. Moron. See, I'm getting testy now. You bent my heels on my shoes, pawed through my dirty laundry (literally) and then went to work on my breast pump. This is where I have a MAJOR bone of contention with you Ontario TSA. Did you really need to call three additional security people over to look over the breast pump? You swabbed it down because of a foreign substance first. Heh. Breast milk spatter perhaps? Rocket science, I swear. You frisked me up and down with your wand. Indeed, the woman is engorged and lactating. All systems are go! I had no idea that wand could detect mother's milk. How high tech we are these days. Did I put security at threat level orange after that?

I was fine with all this I swear. OK, wait. Not true. I was getting a bit heated now. However, when three men decided to try and pry the motor out of the pump case I decidedly did get a bit heated under the collar and said through clenched teeth, "Please! That is a $300 dollar breast pump! Do not pull on the motor you will break it!!" You all chuckled and said, "Ma'am, we know what it is and how much it is worth." Fine. SO STOP F*CKIN' PAWING AT IT! My blood pressure was roiling at this point and my fists were clenching and unclenching. I'm sure if I saw a mirror image of myself at that moment it would have been very much like Mrs. White from 'Clue' - "Flames, on the side of my face, breathing-breath- heaving breaths. Heaving breath..." As if that was not enough you then tried to pull apart the black pump bag and lift the motor out from the storage compartment. I wanted to cry and scream and gnash teeth and kick you all in the groin with a knife-blade stiletto.

This is where I learned that we women get can get all crazy-killer animal like when our kids are endangered but also when you mess with our breast pumps as well.

Note to the TSA- I'm all about airport safety and security. Just don't effin' touch my pump like that ever again. When I used it the next day the right side suction was hiccuping and I had to slam the casing back together again. If it had broken I sure as hell would have sent you a bill.

The Tinge T'aint for Me

From the file of products I will not be reviewing:

The Tinge Razor/Vibrator - Honestly I thought it was a joke. It arrived in my inbox (is that dirty?) on April Fool's day and was so cheeky I didn't think it could be real.

I mean really, would you want a razor that doubles as a vibrator. I know it is water resistant and can last up to a whopping three hours but it just seems a tad dangerous to me. Not as dangerous as this, but still. Blades. Soft, unrepairable tissue with tons of nerve endings. Doesn't seem like a good combo to me.

Also? The name Tinge? It sounds a bit like 'singe' which I imagine might happen to you if things went catastrophically wrong one day when it you decided to use this as more than a razor.

Randomness #234

According to a recent survey conducted between November and February on Twitter (so you know it's scientiftastically reliable) people have been swearing more since the recession. Huh. If swearing weren't so uncouth I would probably add a pleasant MoFo and SOB/Whore into almost every sentence. Can't help it, I admit to liking the sailor talk.

When I was a kid I liked to watch Mark Russell on PBS. I'm quite sure my parents feared playground beatings on a daily basis. As it was no one would share a locker with me because of my political dorkiness.



Kiddie spas annoy me like a sharp piece of barbed wire stuck in my craw. When I pass by the one at my local mega-shopping-plex I want to picket it and/or grab the girls inside and teach them about self-worth being about more than your complexion and shade of toe nail polish. All this at a second grade level. It's frightening people. I can't even discuss what I want to do with the parents who take their kids to places like this.

Angry Woman Kicks 1,4-Dioxane to the Curb

I'll admit I'm a bit cantankerous today. I was up all night with TD who has a hellacious cough and the poor kid is just not herself. Combine that lack of sleep with an issue that just generally gets me riled up anyway and you've got one angry woman on your hands.

That must mean it is time for a SOAP BOX RANT! I've climbed up. Attention please! Let me begin.

I love my kids. I want what is best for them in every possible way. I want them to feel safe and secure at all times. Their welfare and health is at the tip top of my list on a daily basis. So that is why I get so steaming, hell-fire breathing mad when I read that companies that many parents have trusted for generations, companies that love to court us mommy bloggers, just really don't give a shit. There. I said it. They don't. It's all about the bottom line. Duh. I feel like they are duping the consumers. Especially when we mommy bloggers have asked repeatedly at certain events if their products are really as safe and harmless as they say. We are a skeptical lot us mothers and we protect our young with a ferocity that cannot be imagined. When we find out that chemicals that cause cancer have been pumped into our tiny babies bath soap we get angry.

Really angry. I feel like I want to rip someones jugular out today and not just because I'm feeling all sleep-deprived and primal but because I'm damn mad that the makers of these products just don't care what they do. It's all about the easiest, cheapest way to make and market the product and who cares what the general public thinks. "Put a green leaf on it boys and the moms will go mad thinking it's all-natural!" When really it's chock full of formaldehyde and 1,4-dioxane. Kiddie leukemia anyone?!

Grrr... Much teeth gnashing and I'm looking for blood.

I don't even care if it isn't my country that this is effecting though I'm quite certain that it is chemical poisoning is just as rampant in the US as it is in foreign lands. These chemicals just aren't required to be listed on our products labels according to US laws. Feel angry now? And just because it isn't in my house doesn't mean it isn't effecting me. Yet it is effecting my house because last year I got a ton of free baby bath products, kids shampoo, soap and lotion from this company. Trying to not be wasteful, especially during the time of my husband's lay off, I began using all this stuff just to save a dime. I'm almost done with all of it too. Despite my concious always eating away at me over the last few months I kept using it all too. But as of today it's all being chucked in the trash. Instead of waiting to be done with it and then going back to my safety-checked bath products I'm just going back now. No more chemicals for my kiddos. Because this?

The Campaign for Safe Cosmetics, a consumer safety watchdog group, last
Friday reported that dozens of popular children’s bath products marketed in the
US contain two cancer-causing chemicals, 1.4-dioxane and
formaldehyde. Twenty-three of the 28 products tested for formaldehyde were
shown to contain the chemical, and 17 of those products contained both
formaldehyde and 1.4-dioxane. Among those were the highly popular Johnson’s
Baby Shampoo, L’Oreal Kids Extra Gentle 2-in-1 shampoo and Pampers Kandoo
foaming hand soap, which contained enough formaldehyde to trigger a skin
reaction in highly sensitive people, the Campaign for Safe Cosmetics said in its
report.

Is completely UNACCEPTABLE. I'm not just going to single one company out either because this stuff and more is in so many of the products we use on a daily basis to clean our homes and simplify our lives. I have been trying to weed items like this out for the past few years and often there are much more wallet-friendly solutions that you just need to do a bit of searching for versus always buying the sometimes expensive and not always effective green marketed products crowding our shelves these days. Don't despair and feel defeated! You can take action in some very simple ways.

What you can do:

Contrary to industry statements, there are no regulatory standards that limit formaldehyde, 1,4-dioxane or most other toxic chemicals in personal care products sold in the United States. There are signs the U.S. is gearing to catch up, but for now it's up to consumers to consider carefully before they buy. Here's some suggestions for safeguarding your family's health:
Simplify: Select products with fewer ingredients and no synthetic fragrance or dyes, and use fewer products overall.

Choose safety: Search EWG's cosmetic safety database, Skin Deep, to learn more about the products you use and find safer alternatives. Also check out EWG's Safety Guide to Children’s Personal Care Products.

Read labels: Select products for baby and yourself that don't contain the ingredients listed above, which are commonly contaminated with formaldehyde or 1,4-dioxane.
Take action! Can’t memorize these lists? Nobody can. If harmful contaminants and ingredients weren’t allowed in products, you wouldn’t have to. Tell Congress you want safe cosmetics for babies, adults and everyone in between.

Spread the word: Send an e-card letting friends and family know about this report.

Finally you don't have to be a parent to be angry about this issue. It's a matter that everyone should take to heart. It is your health after all too. Your pets as well. The more of us that take action the better off we will all be in the long run. Not only healthier but safer. And by God maybe then some of those green products will have to come down in price as well!

Stylin'

H often jokes with me that all I really need to stay organized is this sweet little number.

Quite simply put, The Biggest Little Organizer ever! He says he'll even swing it so I can have one in each color and then I'll never be out of style. Lucky little me will even get the digital message reminder so I can never forget the sweet sound of H's voice telling me to pick up faves of his like scrapple, wife beaters and Schlitz (Go for the GUSTO!). A woman should feel so loved I always reply.

Then, there I was standing in line at the post office today and what to my wondering eyes should appear but the Buxton Bag in real live gen-u-ine leather. Even purtier in person than on that there electronic box in my living room. I could barely drag my eyes away but when I did I noticed that the Buxton Bag look isn't complete unless the owner has some gen-u-ine feathered hair. Straight up 1984 style. I didn't even know it was legal for hair dressers to do that anymore.

As a side note:
Yet another reason I love Neil Patrick Harris (NPH to all the laaadieees....). You must see this.

A Woman Walks Into a Shrinks Office...

Stop me if you have heard this one:

A woman walks into a psychiatrist's office and asks to talk about her Postpartum depression medication and dosage.

She walks out with a script of an MRI, EEG and a two night sleep study (all accommodations provided, thank you very much.)

You never heard that one before? Yeah, me either.

Probably because my insurance messed up and listed the neurologist as a psychiatrist and by the time I figured that out I had already filled out the necessary paperwork and was sitting in his office waiting to discuss my diagnosis.

At first I just swallowed it all but after a few days of thinking things over, going with my gut instinct on the whole thing and more, I am actually really aggravated. First, the whole eye roll thing he did each time I mentioned PPD just pissed me off now and at the time. Second, the lack of listening when I tried to correct him about the insurance mix-up just confirmed my pissiness. He played it off as not wanting me to go since I clearly have sleep issues (true...) but really what I need RIGHT NOW is to get over PPD. Not delve more into other issues. I can't do that when I'm thinking about MRI's, hooked up to an EEG for his diagnosis of 'emotional incontinence' (all that sudden crying... must check for a tumor! Can't be because you have PPD ma'am...)

It just really wreaks of someone who doesn't believe in my diagnosis and in the end will only costs me money and not fix my problem. Only time and myself can fix this problem.

I'll Get There at Some Point

It's a beautiful snowy day here in the 'burbs. There's no school. Dash Two is teething and TD and I have a cold. I'm trying to stay positive but there was little sleep to be had in my house by me last night. I just couldn't stay asleep and for no good reason other than my brain was whirring away on mindless junk.


Today is day one on the meds my doctor prescribed. I'll take them for a month to see how it all goes. I just have one thing to say though, if one more person tells me I need to "just get more sleep and hit the gym." I'm going to cover them with brain goo because my head really will have exploded. Seriously? That's all I need to do? How about the fact that when I think of loading the kids in the car right now, the two hours it takes me to get out the door and lugging that heavy baby carrier around, my brain gets fuzzy and I have to shut my eyes to keep from having some sort of meltdown. I just can't deal with it right now. I need quiet, and yes, more sleep. I need a schedule for Dash Two and less going on in my life. When I think about scheduling appointments for me with a therapists and a psychiatrist like my doctor told me to do I get all panicky and can't figure out how it will all work. "There isn't enough time in the day!" my brain screams.


I will have to hire a sitter which I'm not sure we can afford and then that sends me into a tailspin of more guilt and uber-sucktastickness. The negativity is exuding off me and the anger is there today. I've turned into post-partum Darth Vader. I hate that I can't wrap my brain around it in some Zen like cocoon and push it away. It just ain't happening yet. But I feel pressure to be well already. Like one day of meds and the switch is flipped. Presto Chango! All better! I envy the women who never have to deal with this.


People tell me I need to be around more people to relax and take my mind off things but the last thing I want is a progressive dinner or potluck to prepare for or to head off to the store to buy even more vitamins. What's with the vitamins people? Why do people keep telling me about vitamins!?! I'm going to start hurling giant bottles of fish oil and vitamin B at passing cars soon.


I will say this - the support I've received from you all has been outstanding. I cannot get over it and it has helped me more than anything else so far. I appreciate it and it makes my days brighter. I know it will get better. I will get better. Next week I might even feel like going to the gym again. I just have to take it one day at a time right now and have faith. Lattes and Life has faith in me. She sent me this beautiful award and it made me cry. The Nobel Award is for Motherhood. It's an award for being a wonderful mom, for doing wonderful work, and to remind me to be proud of my accomplishment.


Thank you so much Tiffany- you have always given me support even when we were just little online support group friends (girlfriends of Marines y'all) back in our SoCal days.

And to think this was going to be a post about random stuff you might not know about me. Well here you go- I punch people in the face who try to give me throat cultures. It's like a reflex that I can't control. My current doctor has it in my chart not to do them. He has said, "I'm not a masochist. Here's your strep throat meds."

P.S. I wrote another car review. Calling all automakers- let me review your cars- I love this stuff! Check it out here at Autosavant.

It's Nothing Like Last Time

I feel I should check in despite it being a Sunday (read: a day I don't normally post on) because-

A. My blog is making my Dad nervous.

2. I've had a lot of concerned emails, new twitter follows and some comments that are longer than the norm expressing heartfelt concern and love. I can't even begin to thank you all for all of it. It never ceases to amaze me that the Internet is my friend.

and

D. I made cupcakes and didn't frost them so clearly there is a problem.

If you got that screwed up sequencing then you get a gold star. It's from Home Alone if you didn't.

And now for the update:

I did some talking with H this weekend. However, all that came after this amazing woman came to my rescue. Really, if someone had told me that a blogger would show up on my front step less than two hours after I wrote this post I would never have believed them. But there she was holding dinner in one hand with a free arm to hug my suddenly bursting into tears self. Yeah, I cried like a baby and she just trotted in and took over. She washed my dishes. She fed and dressed TD, read her a story or two, made me drink some serious amounts of water and told me to ditch the caffeine and keep up the breastfeeding. Without really thinking about it I was downing a pot of coffee a day. No wonder Dash Two wasn't sleeping! Duh, Mummy. We ate some cupcakes and talked things over and hours later after she left I felt like I had a plan in place.

When H came home and we talked things over and I felt a bit calmer so I didn't sock him when he said the following:

H: I think if you get more sleep, exercise, give up a lot of that caffeine and take your vita.... Oh crap. I sound like that asshole now, don't I? Sorry about that. But seriously, let's try that this weekend and see how you feel.

So I am. I went to the gym. I've had a bit of alone time. I slept in and took a nap and I'm remembering to drink my water and only imbibing one heavenly cup of java per day. I've got a headache, I'm a bit cranky and I still feel tired but the crying? The crying has been cut by about 40%. It's not complete and I still have that living under water feeling so I think I will make the effort to call my doctor this week. My mother is freaking out and if I don't seek help from the medical community I think she'll end up staying at my house indefinitely. That's a wonderful band-aid but it isn't a cure.

I'm also cutting back on work which I am loathe to do but I need more time to figure out how this slightly larger family works. I haven't been giving myself or us that. This is supposed to be a journey of sorts isn't it? If this is indeed PPD, then yeah, it probably will be. Just like last time, except that I feel nothing like last time. Nothing.

And if you would be so kind, please send Kristen some love for all the love she has shown me. She's having one hell of a clearance sale over at Baby Brewing so go deck your loved ones out in the coolest, cheekiest gear around. I'm talkin' $6 t-shirts people! Now shop!


I'm also giving away a BusyBodyBook 2009 Day Planner this week. Enter to win at Mummy's Product Reviews.

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.

Wouldn't You Like to Get Away?

Yesterday was just like that bad. I had my woman doctor appointment and I got that whole "I'm mad that I'm female thing " going on, which rarely happens, except when I'm the one who has to deal with the whole birth control issue and my craptastic insurance won't cover what is probably the "best" option for me and I decide fuck it, I don't care. I'm getting the fucking IUD and I'll just make payments on my uterus or what have you. Thanks Mirena! Does my uterus owe you interest each month too? Anyways... then I head to my gym determined to be in a better mood because HUZZAH! it's time to sign up Dash Two for the gym daycare. Only there's this big ol' note on the front door and while it's after 9 a.m. the gym is really dark. Huh. Oh right- because they are closed. For. Ever. WTF?! And then I drag the heavy ass baby carrier with Dash Two in it back to the car in the freezing rain and cry.


My gym was like my 'Cheers', people. Enter dark thunder clouds of all out pissiness and overwhelming sadness over the loss of my freedom in one hour increments for the handy payment of $29.95 per month. Oh right, yeah, ahem... working out. Loss of working out. Right.


Fast forward through the rest of the whatever day and it's the dinner hour a.k.a the Witching Hour, which must be named only because it's when I turn into a royal Giant Capital W of a Witch due to the mass frenzy of toddler crankiness and newborn devil spawn like behavior that happens in my house. It is at this time that I find out H will be home late and while I try to persevere with the night. The days pursuit of finding a new child-friendly, budget-friendly gym has yielded a big fat zero and I'm feeling defeated and on the edge. On the edge of wanting to down fistfuls of potato chips, double stuffed oreos, while puffing six cigarettes at once (no one said I don't know how to stay classy), dreaming of running at night without being accosted by a mugger or rapist because I'm a girl, and wanting a box 'o' wine to be pumped into my system. Wait, make that a shot of vodka every fifteen minutes. Just like the epidural. Mmm... yeah. That's the good stuff. Hit me again. Huh? What?! Right. I'm pissed. I'm pissed that I'm a woman who has to deal with the whole birth control issue and that I have to be the one to deal with child care at the gym. I'm sick of my nipples being used as chew toys and I swear if Dash Two with her razor blade digits doesn't stop trying to pull the Five Finger Exploding Heart Technique on me while nursing her jowly-self will be nicknamed Milhouse or Tricky Dick (Ooh another TD!) on this here blog instead of the bland Dash Two.

So, I sit down with TD about to eat dinner and Dash Two starts in with her non-stop crying jag number 15 for the night. It's a classic. It should be on her Greatest Hits CD if she ever gets around to putting one out. There isn't much demand for that one though. It's not like she's Tom Jones or Tupac or anything. H comes home and it's at that moment that I dissolve into tears about my shittyass day and I'm all blubbery. Cut to ten minutes later when I all out lose it because TD has crawled under my chair at the dinner table. I'm already backed into the corner. The dog is encroaching on my territory with saucer eyes of want and neglect and Dash Two is (drumroll please!) screaming again. I just book it. That's right. I just walk out the door and onto the deck shutting them all out behind me. The darkness is my friend. The cold air. The icy rain. I just don't care. I imagine that I'm smoking out there and not caring a wick about lung cancer. Like a record going off course the door opens and H asks, "Where's Dash Two?!" Seriously, dude? She's in the house. What? You thought I put her out on the curb with a box of puppies saying, "Free to good home"? I head back inside and it's at that moment that I see TD doing her millionth rendition of 'I like to Move It' of the day (kids got killer jazz hands is all I can say) and I realize this-


Two black turtlenecks.

Two pairs of dark jeans.

Two heads of crazy, insane blond hair and two sets of big brown eyes.


TD and I are have become this-



Holy crap! It's come full circle. I am JC. I spiral into darkness and .... scene.

ADT Customer Service? Pffftt...

Dear ADT (I love you, I hate you, I need to quit you),

I will admit to being a safety freak. H calls our house "Fort Knox". I repeatedly lock doors and windows throughout the day and cannot sleep unless the house alarm is on. Before TD, I even locked our bedroom door dutifully each night. If I was sure I wouldn't be brought up on assault charges I would accost those of you who like to hang out in your unlocked cars in parking lots, looking over your checkbooks, talking on your phones and generally rummaging in your cars and purses while showing not a care in the world. That's right, I'm talking to you. I would yank open your car door and pull you out while yelling like a drill instructor. It would take you a second to realize you aren't being car-jacked but instead made painfully aware about how careless and unsafe you are being.

I digress though and I need to get on with my ADT rant. It's like that line from the Gun's and Roses song, "I used to love her but I had to kill her..." that's you ADT. I'm going to have to kill your connection to my house now and take my business elsewhere. Your lack of invoices be it online or in the mail is total crap. Why can't I see my list of charges? Hm...? Why must you call me at 11 p.m. at night too? Three nights in a row? To tell me that my fire alarm battery is low, I know already. I freakin' know! You called us three nights in a row. After the first night we were aware and you should have logged in that we would fix it. But you didn't. Nope. You called us again the next night and the next. You called our cell phones too. RIGHT AFTER YOU ALREADY TALKED TO US ON OUR HOUSE PHONE! That's not great customer service that is just being a moron.

We understand that you are doing your job. That we pay you for this service. However, when we ask you nicely to not call the other lines, to not keep informing us because it is late and we are sleep deprived parents you do not listen to us. You instead "follow procedure" or something like that and keep calling us. What? Do you think that we will run out to the 24 hour battery depot and find the two 3 volt lithium batteries right then and there at midnight? Will that solve the problem? The problem that is actually not the battery but us instead?

When WE call YOU back to let you know that we have indeed changed our fire alarm batteries and just want to be sure all is well and OK in your world you only grunt in response and snottily reply back that WE CAN TAKE OURSELVES ELSEWHERE if we don't like you calling us. That's your customer service? Reminds me of another company who obviously lets feral cats train their reps.

The final straw though was this- when we also let you know that our bill has only gone up instead of down like you promised and that after five years of service we are thinking of going elsewhere because of this and your ridiculous calling at all hours on all phone lines repeatedly -you don't apologize. You don't ask what you could have changed or done better. You don't ask what we the paying customer want, need or desire. You just tell us to take our business elsewhere and be done with it. You sound remarkably like the same drone at the cable company that I talked to last week. Curious, that.

So while I love how your 24-hour monitoring seems to actually be in effect ADT, I think you seriously need to make your customer service reps run some laps, watch about 86 hours of mind-numbing Clockwork Orange style customer service enhancement videos and oh yeah- CHECK YOURSELF!

You know what comes next....

Let the New Year Begin

When you buy a peanut butter chocolate pie it just looks so divine. So tasty. You cannot wait to dip your fork into it and savor every bite.



You have no idea the pie will meets its end like this-



You think you are so civilized and then you spend New Year's with old college friends and you realize that despite owning the home, having the 2.5 kids and a dog you still end up like this on New Year's.

H and co-conspirator in the pie demise, Jen. So much for keeping it simple. It took an entire day to clean that kitchen up and I'm sure there is still bits of pie stuck to some surface or other.

Nope. No, Thwimp. I mean Shrimp.

I was all proud of myself too.

I had just finished dinner and looked at H and declared, "Wow. That was a really good pizza I made, if I do say so myself." He agreed. Two seconds later I said, "Huh. That's weird. It's like my tongue is numb. And my throat. As if I sprayed that numbing throat spray in my mouth." I figured he would make fun of me and I would reply back with something smart in return and we would be on our merry way.

Except he didn't. He said, "Your lips are swelling too. A lot." WHAT?! I ran to the bathroom and sure enough I looked like I was transforming into a fish. My throat felt tighter and my tongue even bigger. I stuck it out and it fat. WTF?! I began to panic and gulp down water.

I'm allergic to nothing. Clove is the only real sensitivity I have. You light one of those charming holiday candles or spray some of that atrocious potpourri spray around me and I'm libel to vomit or just get a massive migraine. I once puked from a holiday ham stuffed full of clove. Unless, it's in ciggie form, I can't deal with clove. Medication, foods, anything else. I'm totally fine. So why the F was I swelling like a puffer fish and beginning to panic?

I began to pace the floor as H went next door for Claritin. Did nothing. And I noticed something. The reaction would come and go. Swell. Unswell. Feel like I can't breathe. Breathing. He called my OB/GYN to see what I could do and take. Benadryl or the ER they suggested and then asked if perhaps there was any shrimp on the pizza. At least three times they asked this question. "Um.. no. No thwimp. Just plain pitha," I said. Did I perhaps put MSG on it? Because, yeah who doesn't like to just sprinkle a few shakes of MSG on their food, particularly already salty pizza? Anyone? Anyone? Didn't think so.

In the end a Benadryl quick strip that tasted much like a mouthful of cheap hotel toothpaste was the only thing I needed. Panic subsided and I was free to go about my night raiding the Halloween candy TD still has left in her pumpkin bag. Jolly Ranchers are good for anaphylactic shock right?

WTF is wrong with me these days? Now I can't even eat pizza?

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.

My Boycott of 'The Hills'

At first, it was just that smarmy feeling. A tiny alarm bell that went off in the back of my brain as I watched 'The Hills' transfixed by the vapidness of it all and the clothes. Ah, the clothes. The first bell sounded when Heidi moved out of Lauren's apartment to move in with Spencer. I thought, "Well, no good will come of this."

The following season it happened again. I watched with more alarm and a bit of foreboding as Heidi lost all her friends and was humiliated at work and in front of her co-workers (Vegas style). At the time I was angry at her boss for placing the blame on her and not her douche of a boyfriend, Spencer. He is clearly a boy, not a man, with whom she has no control or power over and yet she was the one being penalized. It wasn't right. Yet, I continued to watch. I'm not even going to go into how much therapy his sister, Stephanie, probably needs from a lifetime of dealing with his inexusable behavior.

This season though and particularly the last few episodes I've moved beyond that. I have decided to stop watching 'The Hills'- full stop. Watching Heidi's family being thrown by the wayside, the excuses, sadness and bits of fear that play across her face, never mind the intense all out anxiety each time Spencer enters a room, is beyond any acting this girl is capable of doing. Yes, this show is loosely scripted and "reality"-based but let's face facts here. Something else entirely is going on and Mtv is just putting some high-gloss shine on the giant pink elephant that resides in the room. That giant elephant is none other than emotional abuse.

While he may not be smacking her around (ooh the ratings, huh Mtv?!) he is getting paid to go beyond evil-super-tv-villian. We, the viewers, just all sit around watching this girl's self-esteem crumble too. She can do no right and is not capable of seeing her world in any way beyond what he is letting her see. This type of abuse, like others, warps your mind and makes you powerless to the abuser. For a while I tried to brush it all off and told myself I was being hyper-critical. It's just a tv show I thought. I told myself I was over-sensitive due to my own past. Then I realized I was not alone in my thinking (read this please- especially the final paragraphs). It's not just me and my past making me overly sensitive and possibly de-sensitized. I can no longer just sit and watch this all play out.

I'm angry about so many things in this situation and it is all beyond my control, including how no one over at Mtv is stepping in. Oh, wait is that the season finale, Mtv? Are you going to have LC swoop in and save the day and take Heidi away from all this mess? Or are you going to step in now and help this poor girl out? She clearly can't see her way out of a paper bag on her own so she does need someones help. What better timing than now, in October during National Domestic Violence Awareness month?

Until this situation ends, I'm banning 'The Hills' from my house. So long brilliant white teeth, long silences over nothing of consequence and hello, to one less thing taking up space in my DVR queue. That silence I hope will resonate with others who stop watching as well.

The Bank of Frustration

Dear Giant Bank that Apparently only Recognizes My Husband as a Client:

Thank you so much for alerting me to the $800 charges to my debit account two weeks ago. You were so prompt and so fast in your phone call on a late Friday night. It almost made me love you. Almost.

Then I called you back and despite the late hour and 24-hour service I was put on hold for quite some time and got jokey the jokster as my service rep. "That totally sucks, sorry about that..." is not the response I want to hear when I let you know that indeed I did not spend nearly $700 at Kroger in Georgia while I was in fact racking up charges here in Virginia. Nor did I spend $100 at Home Depot in Decauter. Nope, not me. I could have gone along with your ha-ha I sound like a total stoner attitude and said that, "Yes, indeed I know who made the charges" and blamed it on a pregnant woman in GA who is searching for gas and stocking up on baby goods right now. But, that would have been a cruel, sick joke on my part and I don't joke about the monies, dude.

Instead, I dutifully filled out my fraud claim forms, chose a new pin and waited the ridiculously stone-age wait period of 5-7 business days for my new debit card to arrive. And Huzzah! It did arrive! Only it was wrong. YOU PUT MY HUSBAND'S NAME ON IT MORONS! NOT MINE! It was not a joint card that we use. ONLY MINE! I laughed a sick, dastardly laugh when I saw this new card and called y'all back right quick. No real apology was given on your part either. Just an "Oh... yeaaahhh.... we did. Well that will be FIVE TO SEVEN DAYS for your new card. Unless you want to use this one. " When I asked if that was possible because like, um.. isn't that how we got into this whole freakin' mess? By like, (snap, chewing gum here) uhhh having someone else, i.e. NOT ME!, use my card, how on GOD'S GREEN EARTH COULD I NOW USE A CARD WITH SOMEONE ELSE'S NAME ON IT AS WELL?! You just calmly told me it was A-OK. Color me sly and smart but isn't that wrong, I asked? Nope. Not to you smarty pants bank. I could use it with my husband in tow. Because apparently I just drag him everywhere. Either that or its the 1950s and I don't have a license and/or drive myself anywhere and I take my giant black patent-leather purse, floral dress and pumps with me to the store with H in tow each time I need to go anywhere. AUGH!!! Because after all, doesn't he have to approve all my purchases anyway?!

(panting... out of breath from exasperation)

So you canceled that card and I am spending the next five to seven business days waiting with little faith that indeed this time. This card. Will, in fact, be the right one. That when I use it at an ATM and at a store (ooh I'm so tricky that way) it will work just okey-dokey fine too. Because seriously? If that card doesn't work even with my name on it? I will have to do more than just write a cranky-ass post about how much I hate you as a bank along with all the other banks I've used and hated in the past. Nope, this time I will be out for bankers blood and let's be honest. You all don't need anymore heat on you as an institution these days, now do you?

Signed,

Your Insulted and Pissy Client