Depression

If my recent post about the Pit of Despair wasn't enough of a clue, I'm seriously fighting off some depression right now.

It started about two weeks ago and I told my husband I could feel that depression blah setting in. The tiredness. The listlessness. The feeling that no matter how happy your life is, you can't be happy. You just look at it analytically and say, "I should be happy. Life is great. There is no reason to be unhappy, but there is no way to feel otherwise." If you haven't experienced it (or if you aren't currently experiencing it), it's hard to understand how real this is.

I'm not in some catatonic depressive state where I can't get up in the morning or brush my teeth. I'd call this mild depression. It's just that constant, nagging feeling of unhappiness and lethargy that I can't shake. It's annoying. I am living my life in black and white instead of color--but I'm still alive and kicking. I'm still making plans and getting things done and being a (pretty) good parent.

But there are little troubles that irritate me. My oldest is constantly dragged down by my mood. His mood is very dependent on mine and he is really bothered that I'm not being fun and cheerful and laughing with him. In other words, he's bummed out that I'm bummed out. I feel for him and I'm bummed out that I'm not being more fun.

The other thing that is really irking me right now is that I see myself entering a more serious stage of depression. This one I like to call the "Push Away Anybody Who Cares About Me At All" stage. This is the self-pitiful, moody stage where I make myself so incredibly unpleasant that nobody wants to be within a mile of me. I frown. I complain. I am a Piece of Work.

I look at myself logically and wish I could get away from myself, but I'm stuck here living inside this Piece of Work that I don't recognize. She's a stranger to me--so foreign to my naturally sunny and optimistic temperament.

Four more months and the baby will be here. My heart will recognize its' biological speed limit again and slow down so I can fight this with some exercise. And if things are getting worse, I at least have the option of an anti-depressant. I don't like to pop the pills but I'll do it for Joseph. He deserves to have his Mom back.

***

Why, oh why, do I expose myself to the world this way? We've gone over this before. I'm not ashamed that I was built this way: overly anxious and occasionally prone to depression. That's not a choice I made. It's something that was dealt to me in my genetic deck of cards--the same way some people are dealt diseases or handicaps. I know how to fight this and I always do. I'm proud of how thoroughly I've made this a non-issue in my life (except when I'm pregnant... and getting pregnant scared me to death for that very reason) ... but I remember the first time it hit and I was unprepared. I felt so alone, so misunderstood, so ashamed of who I was. 


This is a common, but mostly unspoken, problem and I want others to know they're not alone. I want to shout down into the abyss that others have fallen into and tell them there is hope. Maybe that will be enough of a rope for them to cling to that they can eventually climb out and find normality again.


That's why.

Lights Out

I am dreaming and the world looks so black, so cold.

There is a void ahead of me and I am swirling in closer, closer. It is a pit. A blackness. A never-ending shiver that I have tried to shelter myself from.

I turn away, only to fear that I will lose my balance and fall backward. I must face it, stare it down, back away. But it is calling me.

I am tired. I don't want to fight. I just want to fall, fall, fall ...

Now I am standing on the brink, staring into black oblivion. A haunting voice without words calls to me from the depths. It is waiting to welcome me. It says that I am home.

The only string holding me upright is the truth that I will one day want to climb out of the darkness and it will exhaust every reserve of fire inside me. Would that fire be extinguished if I fell down, down, down...?

I awake to discover I've never been asleep.

Confirmation!

I've known for three weeks, but wanted to wait until after my 20-week ultrasound to put it on the blog. Now I can really, truly, officially state:

IT'S A GIRL!!!!

I can't even begin to describe what this is like for me. We'll just say that I've found myself standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, water dripping from my hands as tears form in my eyes at the realization that I'm finally having a baby girl.

It feels like an enormous responsibility all of a sudden. I don't know how to raise a girl. What do I do with a girl, for heaven's sake?

But for heaven's sake ... thank heaven for little girls.

Flowers & Clueless Employees

Flowers
I bought myself flowers today. Why shouldn't I? Do flowers have to be symbols of romantic love, friendship, sympathy or best wishes? No! On the most basic level, they are not symbolic of anything. They are beautiful and, occasionally, fragrant. They are pleasing to the senses.

As I walked past these flowers, I was first struck by some large, peach-colored roses. It is my mother-in-law's birthday and I knew they'd be perfect for her. Then my eyes wandered toward some beautiful stems of unique, white flowers. I don't know what they are but I know I adore them. I have a thing for white flowers. I found some beautiful rust/red flowers to accent both of the other bouquets and took them home.

I snipped them to the right length under some warm water, gave them their flower food and arranged them admirably. Maybe I'll tell my husband I bought them "for him" to make him feel appreciated. He needs to be more appreciated around here. I'm not easy to live with when I'm pregnant. True story.

Clueless Employees
I am one day shy of 20 weeks pregnant and loving it. This is a crazy journey and I felt like an absolutely inhuman monster during my first trimester. I'm human again now (but still hard to live with) and looking forward to May with excitement and trepidation.

Those who know pregnancy will know that "20 weeks" means more than just a halfway stepping stone to delivery. It means an in-depth ultrasound to see if baby is growing the right way and to make sure everything looks healthy.

It's hard to explain this amazing experience to somebody who hasn't witnessed it. It's the point at which the blob of seeming-fat on your front side is suddenly a living human being. It's proof that two individual cells can come together and miraculously turn into a variety of specialized cells, tissues, bones, blood... It's one of those amazing moments that just floors me.

Today is my 20-week ultrasound. I've been looking forward to it for about 18 weeks now and didn't want to miss a moment of it, so I went to the store to buy a DVD-R to record it for my children and family. I was stressed because the ultrasound tech told me a very specific type of DVD to buy. I think she said a "DVD minus" (DVD-R as opposed to DVD+R) but called the office to confirm. The receptionist sent me to an answering machine. Dang.

An employee was next to the DVDs, stocking shelves, and I hoped he might have something to shed on the subject. (Really, I just wanted a little reassurance but wasn't hoping for much.)

I asked, "Do you know the difference between the two types of DVDs?" [Edit: My actual words were, "Do you know the difference between the DVD-R plus and the DVD-R minuses?" but I was too lazy to type that out until a comment made me realize I was being ambiguous....]

"There's no difference," he replied. "They're made by the same company, but some of them are made in a different factory." He looked at as if he was letting me in on a big secret and shrugged. "They just package them differently. Stupid, really."

I squinted my eyes at him just a little in disbelief, dropped my jaw and tried to control the facial expression that I knew I was about to form. I am a big believer in being straight-forward with people and this guy was clearly way off in left field. I appreciate honesty in others so I don't have to second-guess myself or them. But there are times when it's just not polite (and completely unnecessary) to clue people in to your mental process. This was one of those times.

I tried to adjust my face to appear thoughtful for a moment*, smiled at him and quietly said, "Thank you." Then I wheeled my cart away and hoped I was buying the right thing.

* Like Steve Martin in the movie "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels" when he is being hit in the leg that he claims is paralyzed, is in terrible pain but trying to mask his pain by looking intensely thoughtful. Great stuff.

The Pit of Despair!

No, this is not about the Princess Bride. That would be funner.

I was sick. I couldn't sleep last night. I was extremely irritable when my 7-yr-old son came pounding down the stairs around 6:30 a.m. (one of the rare times I was sleeping instead of tossing or turning) to tell me he was "scared." Mentally, I knew I should be supportive and loving. Emotionally, I didn't feel like it.

My husband jumped in and took him out of the room so I could rest a little longer. Then my husband left for work, leaving me alone with three loud, rowdy boys who naturally needed their Mom. I didn't want to be needed. I didn't want to take care of anybody else. I wanted to curl up under the covers, cry myself back to sleep and have somebody else take care of me. Hmph!

This was selfish. I was in a very rotten state of mind. I yelled at my son and when he demonstrated a very bad, rebellious attitude, I sent him to time out. That took about 30 seconds from start to finish. He slammed the door as hard as he could and things escalated. Eventually, he left the room and I sat in my bed in tears, feeling like the worst Mom in history of Bad Momness

My son poked his head around the corner timidly, asking what was wrong. I told him I was sick and tired and just not feeling well, which was true. Like the little codependent he's learning to be--sigh--he immediately assumed this was not true and that I was crying because he had misbehaved. He apologized and told me he wanted me to be happy. I tried to reassure him that (a) this wasn't his fault, and (b) that's not his responsibility. A few minutes later, we were sitting across from each other with bowls of cereal in front of us.

My son had completely forgotten the prior trauma and remarked, in response to something I'd said, "I think you're the perfect Mom." I wanted to snort milk out my nose and scream, "HA!" because I had just demonstrated the worst character traits imaginable a few minutes before. I didn't, though. I thanked him and tried to remind myself how innocent and vulnerable my children are--making it that much more important to grow up and stop blaming my children for my misery when I'm feeling ill.

We'll see how that turns out. If I could turn off all my negative emotions with a switch, I'd do it. I'd love to be purely compassionate, reasonable, kind, supportive, and validating all the time. It's just not that easy when life is swirling around me crazily.

I felt depressed the rest of the day until a surprise phone call jolted me out of my self pity. It was somebody who I hadn't talked to in over six months--somebody that I had a "professional" relationship with, meaning she was under no obligations of friendship to keep things positive between us. She was calling to say she was so sorry that she had missed an opportunity a few nights ago to hear me sing. She wanted to make sure I understood that she was very disappointed that she had to leave before my turn came. I thanked her and felt immediately buoyed up. She reminded me that she had heard me sing a few years ago, thought I had a real talent and hoped I would continue my progress there.

I hung up and smiled at my rambunctious children. It didn't make everything all better, but it was a nice little shot of optimism to keep me going. That's the kind of thing my kids need in large doses to counteract the crazy world they're growing up in: optimism. What am I thinking when I yell at them and make home a miserable place to be? That's not good for any of us. I need to practice patience and compassion 100% of the time--not just when I'm feeling healthy and well-rested. And I better practice fast because soon there will be a new baby in the house and there will be no more sleep for a long time.

Sweet Surprise

Cinnamon. Ginger. Cloves. Molasses. Add in some flour and butter and you're pretty close to my favorite Christmas-time snack: Gingerbread.

Only one caveat: it can't be cooked. That ruins gingerbread. Gingerbread cookies are meh. Gingerbread cookie DOUGH is divine. I don't know why this is true, but it is irrefutable in my mind.

Yesterday, as I promised my son that I'd make gingerbread people with him, I tried to tell myself I had to be well-behaved. Raw cookie dough is a risk--one I'm willing to take most of the time, but not when I'm pregnant. Everything is riskier and more serious when I'm pregnant, so I was mentally steeling myself to stare at the spicy goodness without indulging even one little bite.

This morning, I got up and mixed the dough together. When I was all done, it hit me: no eggs. This recipe has NO EGGS. That means no raw eggs... no fear of poisoning... and that means the cookie dough is perfectly safe!

I stared at the recipe in amazement. I stared at the tantalizing bowl of deliciousness and let my Pavlovian instincts take over: time to salivate. I washed my hands carefully and reached in for the tiniest pinch. Pure heaven! I mentally congratulated myself for having the forethought to make a double batch. That means that I can indulge without taking away the sugary delight of fresh-baked cookies from my children.

I sat down and played board games with my twins for over an hour. I stood up and reached into the fridge for another pinch of dough.

Life is sweet. Oh, so sweet.

On My Mind & Neighbor Gifts (Part II)

A few things on my mind today, plus a bonus(!) Lengthy Commentary Probing the Psychology and Interpersonal Implications of Neighbor Gifts, the Lack Thereof or the Substitution Thereof for Other Ideologies.

Let's begin.

* The "Ranch Rolls" at Maceys Supermarket are surprisingly good. They have a little chew on the exterior and softness on the interior that sent me thousands of miles away to the homes of my cousins in Europe. Good rolls like that belong in Vienna or London or a small home outside Kassel, Germany. Not Maceys Supermarket. Perhaps it was a fluke. Maybe the next one I bite into will just be another bland, American-style, squishy excuse for bread. Let that happen as it may. The last one was heaven.

* I have entered a new stage of pregnancy: the "I Can Look at Raw Meat Without Gagging Violently" stage. I am very excited about this and I am celebrating by cooking some chicken for enchiladas. I am wondering why I still gag when I see dried-on bits of cereal in my children's unrinsed breakfast bowls. I hope that stage comes soon.

* I think my random blog posts (like this one) are my favorite.

* I think that it's time to break down and go buy some new maternity clothes. (1) My old ones are not only hideously unattractive, but also a tad on the big size. I've lost some weight since my last pregnancy ... which was a multiples pregnancy. (2) My current favorite non-maternity pants are so threadbare that they finally developed an unsightly and immodest tear in them two days ago. And I've worn them for two more days anyway.

* On to my Lengthy Commentary:

I blogged about neighbor gifts last year and here I am feeling flummoxed yet again, so this is an issue that I am clearly not at peace with. My dilemma stems mainly from three sources:

(1) My neighborhood has developed a sort of "tradition" of asking people to give food to charity or donate to a cause or some other High And Worthy Purpose instead of spending money on neighbor gifts.

(2) But I like cooking. And I like giving gifts to people. And I give money to charity year-round, including supporting a foster child in Cambodia.

(3) I always come back to The List. Whom do I skip by with a guilty conscience and whom do I give to, even though I know they haven't given anything to me for five years but I saw the plate of goodies they gave to my neighbor sitting on her counter so they're clearly doing more than the above (#1) High and Worthy Purpose?

This is not a major source of stress for me, but it keeps my brain more active than I usually care to admit. Last year, I made photo cards and added a message that I was donating food to charity for every card we handed out. This felt wrong for several reasons:

   (a) Doesn't a card like that say, "Look at how noble and good and charitable and admirable I am! Admire me ... from a distance, please."

   (b) My husband accused me of never following through on donating the food. Ahem. Who does the grocery shopping? Who does the budget? Thank you very much, Mr. Doubter, but I did so.

   (c) It felt like a cop-out. Like taking the easy way out. Like cheating. Which is what I needed last year, which was a very stressful time for me. But times have changed since then so I don't need a cop-out this year. (See above #2.)

So this year I printed up my Christmas cards and addressed all of the out-of-towners and then sat back to wonder what I'd do about the neighbors. I have fabulous neighbors that I adore and I like to drop a little something on their porch every year, but then the stress started creeping in. I started doubting myself. I decided to just buy something this year--maybe some Anna's Cinnamon Thins. I was all set on this plan but didn't make the trip to IKEA that day and started doubting myself again.

Then I thought, "Bah. I don't need to spend that money--I'll just give everyone a card with a few candy canes tied up with ribbon. It's the thought that counts!!" I walked into the grocery store this morning, determined to follow through on this plan. Then came the secondary wave of self-doubt. I realized that my insecurities are to blame for my hesitancy to bake ... after all, what if the cookies I give them sit on the counter for two weeks, get stale and then they think I'm a terrible baker? Harsh! What if I give everybody a certain treat just to find out that Mrs. Better Baker made the same thing and mine are suffering by comparison? Oh no!

Then came the moment of truth. I laughed at myself. How silly! I love baking and I love giving gifts, so I am going to bake something for my neighbors this year. Even if it turns out badly and everyone knows how human I am. Even if it takes two weeks to get it done. Even if it's not cool and now everybody else thinks I'm not into High and Charitable causes because I brought people cookies instead. I'll still give to charity. I'll still be generous. I'll just do those things AND make silly little plates of cookies for my neighbors too.

Plus, I'm not sure how High and Charitable it is to beg off the neighbor gifts to donate $20 to a Better Cause. It's great and socially conscious and all that, but don't you think there's just a teensy, tiny, little hint of laziness involved, too? Oops, did I say that publicly?

If I get burned-out, I have a backup plan: three dozen candy canes sitting on my counter in case life just gets in the way.

Skeezix

Skeezix. That's what we call babies who are still chillin' in Mom's tummy. I'm going to tell you about Skeezix today.

On Sunday morning, I clearly felt Skeezix moving around. I felt it again Monday morning and I've got to tell you: this kid is ACTIVE! Skeezix is doing aerobics inside me. Or karate. Or kickboxing. Probably kickboxing. I'm only 16 weeks pregnant and baby is already doing kickboxing! What will Skeezix be doing at 8.75 months? Gulp.

I've been feeling strange lately. I won't go into details, but it's probably harmless. My OB sent me in for an ultrasound this morning just to make sure all was well with Mom. (We already knew all was well with baby with all that movement and an audible confirmation of the heartbeat.)

There is nothing--absolutely nothing--like seeing my baby on ultrasound. Skeezix was moving constantly, wiggling little arms and legs. We got to hear the heartbeat and, yes, determine the gender. We're 90% sure, but I have my 20-week ultrasound in three weeks so we'll confirm it then.

All I can say is: I'm in love with that tiny little soul that is already a mover and shaker. In my mind, all that movement is saying: I'm happy. Life is good. I can't wait to see what is waiting for me! Hey Mom, look what I can do!

All is well.

Wake-up Call

I was having a lovely dream around 3:00 a.m. when I awoke suddenly to the sound of my telephone ringing. In my supreme mid-dream drowsiness, I reasoned that either (a) it was important and they would call back or (b) it was unimportant and they would not call back. They didn't call back (wrong number?) and I fell asleep again quickly.

The real wakeup call came later in the morning when I met with a member of our Bishopric. I was recently released from a calling and knew that something new was in the works. As we sat down together, I hoped for something that would be spiritually invigorating and mentally challenging.

In particular, I hoped I would finally be called to teach in one of the classes. I come from a family of teachers and spent a few brief months teaching at a private school before my oldest son was born. Teaching is in my blood. I enjoy it and look forward to it. It's a real treat to me when I'm asked to substitute teach a class. Yet for some reason, I've never been called on to teach regularly in church.

I'm generally called to do very organizational types of things. This makes sense because I am extremely organized--or at least I can be and prefer to be--and because I have no trouble keeping track of several "loose ends." I'm a natural-born secretary, but pardon my indignation while I state that I am good at plenty of things non-secretarial. I'm intelligent and well-educated and I love a challenge.

You can imagine my inner reaction when I was asked to fill the easiest calling in the entire church--"church librarian." This involves making photocopies and taking pictures off a shelf. That is all, in its entirety. Making photocopies and taking pictures off a shelf. (I mustn't forget that I have to take our paper out of the machine at the end of the day to keep supplies in their proper places. Heaven forbid I forget that detail!)

I had all the enthusiasm crushed out of me, but we never say no when we're asked to serve in the church so my husband (who was released from a calling he loved for this) and I are now librarians. Every other week.

I'm still wrapping my head around how to humbly and gratefully magnify this calling. I'm trying to forget my impression that this calling is generally given to people who seem to be spiritually unprepared for more important things. I'm trying not to feel like this is a waste of my talents. I'm trying to remember that we were told this calling is highly coveted and we were chosen, partially, because we are being released from time-consuming callings. It's our reward, I guess, for serving well in other ways?

I'm trying to remember that callings come from a Higher Source and He knows better than I do. I'm trying to remember that I am pregnant and probably not fit for the most challenging calling right now. I'm trying to remember I could end up on bed rest again, just like with my other pregnancies.

I'm trying to remember that humbly serving anywhere in the church is taking the burden off of somebody else. I'm trying to remember a lot of things. I'm trying to be like Jesus and accept humble service without complaint.

It might take a few days to sink in, but I will be there next Sunday morning with a bright, cheerful smile on my face to make photocopies, hand people pictures and put the copy paper where it belongs at the end of the day. I will find out why everybody else is congratulating me on the best calling ever ... and then my gratitude sincerely overflow.

At least, that's the plan.

Hills and valleys

Life has been superb lately. I've been happier and more productive than ever before and I think I will be able to say, when it is over, that 2009 has been the best year of my life.

Some days, though, still knock me down and kick me in the gut. Today was one of those days. I realized that all "wrong side of the bed" mornings start out with a child making loud demands at ridiculously early hours. I grumbled (forcefully) to Joseph that I was going to come into his room screaming and turning on lights some time to see how he liked it. He informed me after school that he didn't scream. I told him that in my sleepy state it sure sounded like screaming.

Around 10:30 a.m., I decided to pen a blog entry that I've been considering for a long time. It was about rejection and friendship and deep-seated pain that I have to word very carefully to share publicly. I found that emotion took over and I wasn't up to the task in the end. The writing was lousy instead of meaningful and I couldn't express what I really wanted to say. So I hit "save" instead of "publish."

The emotional effort of rehashing past hurt left me bankrupt. I felt hollowed out and depressed the rest of the day. As I remembered some of the things I had written about, I kept fighting back tears. I bought ice cream for lunch, felt guilty the rest of the day for the splurge and skipped dinner in a misguided attempt to make up for lunch.

Around 3:30, I just collapsed on a couch while my kids snuggled around me watching television. I slept until almost 5:00 and woke up feeling even lousier. I never made dinner. I just laid around in a tailspin. My husband came home and had to leave almost right away for a scouting meeting. He ate a leftover hamburger from lunch but the kids still hadn't eaten a thing. Josh finally fed them dinner around 8:30 p.m., half an hour after their bedtime. I sat around feeling helpless and guilty and continuously on the verge of tears.

That's when the craving started. I haven't craved emotional eating like this in a very long time--months, probably. I used to feel this way constantly, like I had to eat until the pain went away. That's how I ended up at my current size. It hasn't been like that lately. I may be overeating, but it's for other reasons (not the least of which is a very hungry fetus inside me.) I hate that feeling.

As Josh got the kids ready for bed, I got down a package of marshmallows and resolved to make some Rice Krispy treats after the kids were in bed. I still haven't made them. I decided to try a little therapeutic writing instead.

Why do days like this happen? Life has been wonderful! Peaceful! Calm! Organized! In control! Optimistic! Happy! And then comes along a day when something is just not right with my pregnancy hormones or seratonin levels or spirituality or ... ? ... and the world is crumbling.

I don't write this for pity, though. Nor is this a cry for help. I write this knowing that tomorrow will be a fresh and happy day. The past will be past and the future will be gleaming brightly ahead. I have a game night planned with some good friends tomorrow night and a Girl's Night Out planned for Saturday afternoon. Thanksgiving is next week, which means that I will bask in the love of friendship and family ... and good food!

That keeps me buoyant right now. I know I'll float instead of sink. I just need to get to bed--preferably before I follow through on the marshmallow plan--and remember that tomorrow is another day.

Parallel Parking

I was in a lazy mood. When I pulled into a parking spot at Megasupercorpget, I knew I had parked a bit crooked but shrugged it off. I got out of the car and saw that it was one of my better BAD parking jobs. The front tires were on the left side of the space and the back tires were just kissing the yellow lines on the right side. The car wasn't too close to the ones next door, though, so I went into the store and did my shopping. I may be finicky about certain things in my life, but perfect parking is not one of them.

When I came out of the store, I was surprised to see that the car to my left had driven away and been replaced by a new car that had parked perfectly parallel to mine. Their front tires were on the left side of the space, with the right tires just kissing the right line.

"That's amazing parallel parking," I thought humorously to myself. It got me thinking. If a third car arrived a little later, would it follow suit and ignore the nicely-painted, perpendicular yellow lines in favor of the trendy new angles?

More importantly, it was a reminder that all our lives are interconnected. We may not be responsible for the way others react to us, but it's good to remember that our actions are influential. Like a finger touching the still surface of a lake, we create ripples of influence, sometimes fading into the obscurity of eternity and other times becoming tsunamis that destroy others' serenity.

During this season of Thanksgiving, I want to express my gratitude for the goodness of life by creating ripples of joy and laughter ... and by laughing when the ill effects of other people's choices wash over me.

Pie Time!

The women at my church got together last night to listen to a great speaker and eat pie together. Sounds like a winning combination, don't you think?

Part of the evening was a pie contest and women were allowed to vote for their two favorite pies. This seemed like a slightly flawed system to me since most of the women only sampled one type of pie. If you only try one slice, how can you compare to decide which is best? Is the decision based on which pie looks the best? Or do you just vote for your favorite flavor?

As I said, a flawed system. However, that was all forgiven when I won 2nd place for my "Pecan Pie Tartlets." I came home and told my boys facetiously that I'm now an "award-winning pie maker." Joseph's eyes got huge and his jaw dropped. I need to be careful how I talk to him because he was way prouder of me than he should have been.

In his and my defense, the pecan pie "baby tarts" were really adorable and delicious! While I prepared them, the boys groaned about how disgusting they looked ("Fine, don't eat any.") but when they came out of the oven, they devoured them.

Tonight, Josh and I made pumpkin pie with the other pie crust dough. It may not win any prestigious awards, but it'll win the most important one: the looks of delight when I offer my boys pie for breakfast!

Bonus Geeked Out Factoid: I read on Google Reader this week that if you write 3.14 on a paper and look at it in the mirror, it spells PIE! Whoa! I can't describe how happy that made me. Stop laughing. I already told you I'm a geek.

Wrong Side of the Bed

I think I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, which also happens to be the side of the bed where a four-year-old boy is screaming and demanding that I get out of bed NOW to go fix the computer, which incidentally isn't working because we set up parental controls which limit the hours that the computer can be used.

Sunrise o'clock ain't one of the approved times.

A Home for the Holidays

The clutter in my house has been slowly reaching its hands out to me--not in a plea for help, but in an effort to wrap around my neck to suffocate me. That's what it feels like.

As I was cheerfully thanking the pharmacist for a prescription last week, it dawned on me that I felt extremely peaceful, charitable and kind there in the grocery store--but never at my house. In fact, I feel fairly chipper and peaceful anywhere else--hotel rooms, friends' houses, department stores. But when I step into my house, I become a stressed out, mean, anxious *****.

This is wrong and deeply troubling. I realized that I always feel more peaceful when I am not at my house. Why? I love my family and I love being with them. I have a beautiful house with lots of space to stretch out.

A house, however, is not a home and I am craving a home. A few years ago, I spent New Year's Eve at my friend Craig's parents' house and felt more at home than I have ever felt in a house of my own. When I saw that house go on the market a few years later, I wistfully thought about buying it until I realized that without the people who lived there, it would just be a house. It's better to make my own house into a home.

When I contemplated having another child this summer, I asked my husband out to dinner and we sat on the grass next to Chili's while we waited for our table. I told him how much I wanted to have another child but worried that I couldn't handle the stress unless I got my house organized and decluttered. I don't know why this has to happen before I have another baby, but I feel it stronger than almost anything I've felt in my life.

Then I got pregnant and fatigued and nauseous and knew it wouldn't happen right away. The stress grew and grew and grew. That all changed when my friend Kathy posted a challenge to some of her friends. She said, "Would you like to have a beautifully clean and organized home during the holiday season? Let's start now!"


In my mind, I envisioned the HOME I've been craving with red and green garlands on the staircase, the scent of pine and cinnamon wafting through the air and the sound of relaxed laughter ringing through the halls. I wanted that more than anything I've wanted in a long time. I need it. I crave it. I must have it!

So I am taking Kathy's challenge and running with it. My goal is to declutter the main problem areas before Thanksgiving, in addition to making some major organizational changes that have needed to happen for years. I made a list of all my goals yesterday and decided which days I'll tackle which rooms. I called for help--asked the in-laws to help with some projects, asked my Mom to keep me company while I deep clean my entire kitchen and asked my husband to help me with some of the weekend projects like putting together new bookshelves, installing shelves in a toy closet and ... well, I can't say more because he reads my blog and I haven't sprung the other ideas on him quite yet. Ahem. (Don't worry, dear. It'll be easy.... or at least it'll be worth it.)

As I started in to my piles of gunk, I kept finding things that elicited this reaction: "Ugh.. Stress.. I don't know where to put that or what to do with it. Can't I just put it in a junk pile somewhere else until I get around to cleaning THAT pile up...? I don't want to deal with it."

That's when I realized where this anxiety I'm feeling comes from: little pieces of ignored stress that I've allowed to literally pile up around me in my house. There are little things in every room that haven't been dealt with because there is stress and anxiety attached to them. When I let those things hang out and stare me in the face, they mock me! They reach in to my chest and twist my heart around until I feel like I can't breathe. (Which may seem like a strange illusion since the lungs have more to do with breathing, but.... that's how I feel, whether it is logical or not.)

After 24 hours into my challenge, I've accomplished a lot and wanted to throw in the towel several times per hour. It is painful to confront the stress that is piled up around me--Where can I store that beautiful paper that I bought in Berlin? Will the kids hate me if they find out I threw this away? I don't have a box big enough to store this so I guess I'll just pile it somewhere else?--but with each small accomplishment, I am triumphing over the anxiety in my life.

I am such an anxious, depressed mess during my first 18 months postpartum that I have to do this for survival. We'll worry about "thriving" again in about four years when the baby is older. For now, I need a plan to just survive the chaos that comes when I get no sleep and have to deal with baby poop and spit-up and screaming and temper tantrums. Nobody in my family is built for the years of young motherhood--that's just the way it is when you're raised by a working Mom who was raised by a working Mom (in the '50s!) We may feel lost with the challenges of motherhood at times, but we're strong and we're smart ... so it's time that I start acting like it. Time to make my house a HOME for the holidays.

Thanks, Kathy, for the inspiration!

I Love Reading

I love reading.

Tonight I cried when I saw that the next page in my novel said, "Acknowledgements." In other words, "That's it, folks. The end." I didn't cry because it was a sad ending to the novel. I cried because I just wanted to keep reading and stay immersed in a world I loved with characters who had become dear friends. When I really love a book, I hate getting booted out on that final page, back into reality. Not that reality is bad--I just really love reading.

I have read the following books since I got pregnant three months ago:

October
The Help, by Kathryn Stockett (464 pages)
Tea Time for the Traditionally Built (No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, #10), by Alexander McCall Smith (212)
The Miracle at Speedy Motors (No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, #9), by Alexander McCall Smith (224)
The Screwtape Letters, by C.S. Lewis (175)
Strong Women Stay Slim, by Miriam E. Nelson (Okay, I only read about half of it, I admit.) (336)
Middlemarch, by George Eliot (1,024)

September
The Winter of Our Discontent, by John Steinbeck (304)
The Last Lecture, by Randy Pausch (206)
Fablehaven #3: Grip of the Shadow Plague, by Brandon Mull (487)
Fablehaven #2: Rise of the Evening Star, by Brandon Mull (456)
Kissing Doorknobs, by Terry Spencer Hesser (160)
Forest Born, by Shannon Hale (391)

August
The Kitchen God's Wife, by Amy Tan (416)
Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert (334)

Total: 5,189 pages and hours of delight


I bought "The Help" on the same day that I checked out the latest two Alexander McCall Smith books from the library: Wednesday. Today is Saturday and I feel depressed because I've finished all three and I have nothing to read on Sunday afternoon. If this is an addiction, I don't want to recover.

I love reading.

The strength to try

Conversations with my Mom today, and what they really mean:

Me: "Mom, I'm starting a new strength training program and I think you'd love it, too."
Mom: "That sounds great! If you buy me some free weights for Christmas, I'll use them and let you know how it works." (Meaning: Give me a few months to think about it. This is new. It takes time to warm up to new ideas.)
Me: "That sounds like a great idea!" (Meaning: There is no way you're chickening out on me. I'm starting today and I want somebody to suffer with me. I'll be over in 25 minutes with new weights from the store.)

...25 minutes later...

Me: "Hey, Mom, I'm on my way over..." (Meaning: You have five minutes warning instead of five seconds. Think quick!)
Mom: "Oh, umm... I'm really busy." (Meaning: Go away.)
Me: "I'll be quick..." (Meaning: No. I'm determined.)

...five minutes later...

Me: Okay, here are two chairs to do this first exercise. It looks really simple. Sit down.
Mom: No, no, dear. You just show me how to do it and I'll do it tomorrow. (Meaning: Go away!)
Me: Two chairs. Two people. It takes the same amount of time to do it with me as it does to watch. Sit down. (Meaning: Have you ever noticed how the name "Jillian" sounds similar to "Juliana"? I'm channeling her influence. This is for your OWN GOOD!)

...five minutes later...

Me: Okay, I've done this next one before and I love it. Of course, I do this one lying down instead of sitting, so let's see how we do this. Okay, go like this... {GROAN}... UGH... Uhh, holy crap, these are heavy... {GASP}... See? {Pant pant} Easy!" (Meaning: Don't think you're superior to me just because those 5-pounders are easy to lift. These 10-pounders are a tad harder for this particular exercise... groaaaannnnn....)

I've done some strength training--simple, simple stuff--on and off for the last few years and my OB gave me permission to keep it up while I'm pregnant. So I'm going to try to commit myself to doing these simple things more often. I'm not going to the gym. I'm not doing anything fancy. Just a few simple things with free weights and the weight I'm blessed to carry every day, which is not insignificant. I wish I had people to do this with, but my neighbors are all light-years ahead of me, getting strong at the gym, and I'm a social chicken anyway. I'm a bit too timid to show my flab and weakness at the gym just yet, but maybe I'll grow into my confidence a little at a time.

(Meaning: I remember how weak and sick I felt after being on bedrest, having a c-section and caring for twins. I'm still terrified of feeling that way again. I'm so incredibly scared of feeling that sick again that I'll do whatever I can NOW to get my body a little healthier so I can weather than time when it comes... Or that's the plan, at least...)

A Letter to GE HR

  Dear General Electric Human Resources,

  No amount of sugar coating makes the introduction of a deductible palatable. My husband joined your company, in large part, because his former company's health plan included a deductible and yours did not. We hate deductibles that much. They are evil and they encourage loving parents to dismiss their children's sicknesses as "not important enough" because it costs $50+ just to be seen for five minutes. Ten minutes if I bring a list of questions.

  A deductible ensures that you collect our premiums every two weeks but pay nothing in return. I can see how that is a benefit to you. I can see how that is a great business model and lowers your increasing costs. The only down side? It does not provide your customers--who depend on you to provide what they need--with what they need and want.

  I would like to congratulate your propagandists, however. It almost sounds nice when you tell me that my new insurance plan will "expand preventive coverage, provide [me] with tools to be healthy, and will protect [me] financially in the case of severe illness." Almost. Let's break that down.

  (1) Expand preventive coverage. So you will be happy to cover doctor's visits when I am not sick. Okaaaay...

  (2) Provide me with tools to be healthy. Like a glossy brochure full of marketing pitches about how I need to eat more fruits and vegetables and exercise regularly? Gosh! What would I do without THAT?!? I mean, that's really earth-shattering stuff. Seriously. When you want to pay for my gym membership, let me know. Until then, I'm not impressed.

  (3) Protect me financially in the case of severe illness. So if I get cancer, you've got my back? That's good to know. Seriously. I'm not even being sarcastic. I understand that this kind of "insurance" is what you'd like me to focus on. I just wanted a lot more.

  (4) Make routine sick-child visits affordable so I can have my children seen before minor problems turn into major ones. Oh wait.. you didn't SAY THAT, did you?!?

  In closing, I'd like to thank you for making this change while I am pregnant. It's so nice to know that paying the HIGHEST premiums this year, in exchange for the lowest deductible which is $300 MORE than the deductible I had with our previous company, will be the right choice for me. It's great to be in charge of my own health choices. I feel so empowered.

  Sincerely, Juliana

  p.s. Please don't offer my husband a pay increase to help pay for this, because then we might be in the higher bracket of salaries and have to pay even more for our bi-weekly contributions. Oh wait. You didn't offer.

Sidelined

Thomas and I are sick.

It might not be H1N1, but the doctor didn't want to refer us to a place where we would find out. We're on vacation, people. The flu is the flu.

Or, technically, an "upper respiratory infection" is an "upper respiratory infection." It could just be a common cold because nobody's barfing ... yet.

What this all means is that we're supposed to be in Disneyland right now, but we're not. We're quarantining ourselves for most of a day and letting Thomas and I sleep, sleep, sleep... Elijah is always up for a good nap and Dad is happy to be out of touch with reality, too, since he did an emergency Ibuprofen run at 3:30 a.m. Only our oldest is at the happiest place on earth.

I'm just happy not to be doing dishes and laundry while I'm recovering from whatever-this-is. I'm also happy to be at a hotel that serves up Milano cookies with the nightly turn-down service. I've been swimming twice and I haven't cooked a meal since Monday. Who cares about some measly coughing and skyrocketing fevers (poor Thomas!) when I have so many great things going my way?

Rather (Rah-thuh)

I just finished a great classic novel, Middlemarch by George Eliot. It was quite an impressive epoch and I am glad I discovered it. However, I worry that it has had a negative influence on my speech patterns. I find myself using complicated, pretentious-sounding phrases because that has filled my mind so completely of late. (Ahem.)

Did it rub off on Joseph? He wanted to write me a little letter this morning and I told him to just write whatever was in his heart. The result:

"Dear Mom,

I do hope the baby will function."

I laugh every time I think of this phrase. I think, "Rather, dear!" with an overly dramatized stuffy, old English gentlemen accent. Rah-thuh! I do hope the baby will be perfectly functional, indeed!

Frail

I'm still unsure of how this happens. All is well. All is good. Then I wake up from a nap and uncertainty has overcome me. All my mistakes, all my blunders, all my imperfections are carved in front of me. I stare at them and feel so weak, so helpless.

Maybe I expect too much of myself, or maybe I don't expect enough of myself. I feel that both are true and that knowledge makes me wince.

Sometimes my words echo after they are spoken and I say, "I'm a nice person. I have a gentle voice and pleasant manner of showing others that I care for them." Then I think of all the proof that this isn't true and my words sounds harsh and unforgiving.

I want off this emotional roller coaster.

When I think about the so, so, so many imperfections that define me, I can't help but feel like the video below, which makes me cry every time I watch it. (Surprise, surprise.) If it was easy to perfect myself, wouldn't I do it? But life is not easy. I am bound and trodden down by how difficult it is to be something that I am not, that I want to be.



I know that I am progressing every day to the person whom I will some day be. I think I feel this furnace of imperfection more than many people. Now I will sit and mourn my humanity. Tomorrow I will resolve to see my own divinity.