The Stairs: My New Worst Enemy.

Every mom (no matter how clueless), knows that stairs are dangerous. We all know that we should have them gated, top and bottom. That we should never let our children climb them. And that, under no circumstances, should we ever, ever let our little bambinos anywhere near the upper landing.

Yeah.

I know these things. But the problem is, I have pets. Pets who, when they find themselves unable to go up and downstairs at will, show their immense displeasure by peeing and pooping places they shouldn't.

I also have a little girl who likes to climb. She has since she learned to crawl. So I let her climb the stairs—always following closely behind, of course.

Recently, she even learned how to go down, sliding backwards, feet first. But still, I never let her do it alone.

But today?

Today, I was five seconds too slow.

We were upstairs. I'd just put her in her pajamas, then realized I didn't have a bottle (yes, she still gets a nighttime bottle. Shut up).

So I set her down, and together we headed toward the stairs. But I paused. Stopped briefly to pick her wet bathing suit off the bathroom floor so I could bring it outside to dry.

And that five seconds? Well, that was all it took.

In the time it took to take one step, bend down, swoop up the swimsuit and step back into the hallway, she was at the stairs. I saw her start to take that first step...

Then found myself screaming as she started to tumble.

I dove, but the world, it was moving in slow motion as she started to roll. down. the. stairs.

I pounded after her, watching her surprised face crumple into tears as she thumped. thumped. thumped. Thumped.

My feet, they seemed to be moving through mud. Stumbling over my suddenly too big toes, I finally reached her. After she'd already fallen down eight stairs.

Eight.

As soon as I picked her up, she started shrieking.

And I? Started sobbing too.

The tears started during the first, furtive look-over as I checked for bleeding.

It accelerated into bawling as I bent her elbows, wrists, ankles and knees, making sure nothing was broken.

It continued even after she stopped crying. Even after she started patting my face, babbling at me merrily and wiping away my tears.

The tears even continued rolling, silently, when we were back upstairs, bottle and bedtime story in hand.

Because I failed.

I let my baby fall.

And that image? Of her rolling and rolling and rolling helplessly? Keeps replaying behind my eyes.

She's fine. But I? Well I have one more item to add to my inventory of events to berate myself with when I'm competing in my own personal Worst Mother of the Year Pageant.

I think I'll go buy some gates tomorrow.

A Friendship Glimpsed.

It was a beautiful Monday afternoon. I had just finished eating a picnic lunch with Brian and Tori under a gorgeous maple tree flush with the first lime green leaves of spring. Tori was giggling from her seat in the baby swing, soaring higher and higher as daddy pushed until I found myself pinching the inside of my arm to keep from blurting, "don't you think she's going a little high?"

Then I saw her.

All around her were clusters of moms, laughing and gossiping together as they shared child-minding duties. But she sat alone, looking lonely as her toddler played in the sand at her feet. On her face I saw a reflection of my own painful shyness. My own longing for a mommy friend. I thought about going over and introducing myself, but like the awkward teen I once was, I couldn't quite summon the courage.

Suddenly, Brian noticed the direction of my gaze. "Hey, that's Dianna!"  Scooping a protesting Tori from the swing, he marched over and greeted her loudly. I followed hesitantly, unsure of our welcome.

But her face lit up when she saw us. "Brian!" she exclaimed. "How the heck are you?"

He plunked Tori down in the dirt next to her 13-month-old and the two burgeoning toddlers eyed each other warily. Then they both began sifting through the sand, mimicking each other's motions.

"Look at that. Aren't they cute," I said.

She grinned back at me. "They sure are."

That set off a conversation about our babies' so-called accomplishments, stubbornness in refusing to walk and teething troubles. As the minutes flew by, my imagination took flight.

I imagined play dates where our kids occupied each other while we moaned about the travails of motherhood. I imagined leaving our husbands in charge while we went out to grab a martini - arriving home before bedtime, of course. I imagined having someone I could call at the drop of the hat to reassure me that no, in fact, I wasn't going crazy. I was just another tired mom.

I imagined having a mommy friend.

But eventually Tori started rubbing her eyes, signaling it was time to go.

"Well," she said, "maybe I'll see you around here again."

"Yeah," I said. "I hope so."

But I know I won't. I work. I don't usually get to take Tori to the park on sunny weekday afternoons. I don't get to hang out with other mommies. I'm destined to go it alone.

But that doesn't stop me from wishing things could be different.

Not Quite the Vacation I Had Planned.

I made it 33 years without ever needing a single surgery. That's a pretty good stretch. Then, in the space of just one year, I had three. That's right. Three abdominal surgeries.

The first one doesn't really count, I suppose. I mean, that was Tori's fault, not mine. After all, she had to come out somehow! And the remembered effects of said surgery are all mixed up with the exhaustion and general confusion her homecoming caused, so I don't really recall it being that bad.

Then there was that little procedure I had in February. The one that was supposed to end the problem. Yeah. That one kind of sucked, but the sheer novelty of getting to spend some serious time (guilt-free) in bed was enough to keep me from getting too crabby.

Except, you know what? It didn't work. Which means, dear Internet, that I had to go under the knife yet again. And this time they had to take stuff out. And you know what? That hurts.

It's four days later now, and I still feel like I'm eighty years old.

My whole abdomen hurts, of course (by the way, if one more person asks me if the original pain is gone, I'm going to hurt someone. I don't know. Everything hurts, damn it). But worse is the dang shoulder pain. I feel like a small, very toothy creature is trying to gnaw its way out of the back of my neck.

Even worse than that? Is the total exhaustion. Yesterday, I did the dishes and then had to go lay down for a half hour. That's how tired I was.

Did I mention this sucks?

Oh, and Tori's getting not one, but three teeth. And because we weren't already having a good enough time, she got her shots yesterday.

And Brian? Well, let's just say he's done playing nursemaid (now he's just frigging crabby).

So, to review:

1. I feel like I've been stomped on by the Jolly Green Giant
2. My child is channeling her inner demon
3. My husband is pouting like a five-year-old who's been told his best friend has the chicken pox and can't play

And you know what the kicker is?

I am using my vacation time to experience all this joy. That's right. My dreams of an oceanside hiatus have been smashed into so much dust because after I return to work, I'll  have not a single vacation day left.

Aren't I a lucky girl?

So now you all know why I've been so quiet this week. I don't have anything nice to say. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go back to cursing the universe...silently (I don't dare do it out loud. That universe is a real bitch, you know).

I'll keep my mouth shut until I have something other than complaints to spew, promise.

Flashback Sunday: One Year Ago Today.

I'm exhausted. Baby Girl Page has been ridiculously sick all weekend long. Ridiculously sick, and wanting her mama.  Her mama who's also not feeling all that great. Which means I have no brain cells left to write you a witty post today...

So instead, we're going to look back at the trouble she was causing me on this exact same day last year...

Like Mother, Like Daughter?

Baby Girl Page had a big surprise for us this week. Turns out she's decided to be breech—just like I was. But she's taking it up a notch. Instead of landing in the standard breech position, she's in something called the oblique lie, which means she's laying on her side, like she's in a hammock. With her head oh-so-comfortably jammed under my right ribs, her butt on the left, and her shoulder where a more obliging baby would put her head.

In other words, unless something changes, there's no way she's coming out of there the normal way. And to make it worse, the placenta's on top of her, so trying to turn her from the outside would be a risky business, to say the least.

But I don't think I even want them to try. According to my mom, they attempted to turn me, and I obliged, but then decided I really didn't like being upside down and turned myself back around at the very last second. And since she's my daughter, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she has the exact same attitude.

Yep, so it looks like Mommy is going to get a C-section, like it or not. And I? Don't like that idea at all.

The whole thing scares me to death. I have a hard time not passing out when I have to get a little blood taken. And now they're going to cut me open and pull a baby out of me? Excuse me while I go throw up.

In fact, I know this is pretty immature of me, but every time I think of C-sections, I think of this clip from Spaceballs:


But, I know that at the end of the day, all that matters is that I end up with a happy, healthy baby in my arms. She certainly won't remember how she was born. Although, this way, I'll have a physical scar to prove  just how traumatic her birth was—proof I can use to slather on the guilt for the rest of her life.

And what mom doesn't love the opportunity to guilt the crap out of her progeny every once in a while?

Helpless.

I hate being sick. Hate the closed-in, claustrophobic feeling of a stuffed up head. And the dagger-sharp pain of trying to swallow with a sore throat. Not to mention the bone-breaking hack that threatens to shake my body apart.

But you know what's worse? Watching Tori suffer from the same symptoms, knowing there's almost nothing I can do to help.

She can't have any decongestants or cough medicine. She doesn't understand that she needs to blow her nose. She doesn't know how to clear her throat to rid herself of phlegm.

Instead, the snot bubbles out of her nose and down her face. She coughs until she cries, rubbing her clogged ears the whole time. She wants to be held, to be snuggled close and comforted, but at the same time, she wants to get down on the floor and play - and doesn't understand why her body won't do what she tells it to.

She doesn't understand why she feels this way. Doesn't understand why I can't do anything about it. She just looks at me with her big blue eyes, wordlessly saying, "help me, mama."

So I force saline drops up her nose. Suck out the boogers with the bulb syringe. Ply her with Tylenol and sit with her in the steamy bathroom, hoping the moist air will make it easier to breathe. At night, I hold her sleepy body close as she struggles to make her way to dreamland, rubbing her back as she coughs.

But really, there's not much I can do except watch and wait, hoping the sickness quickly runs it course.

It's a terrible feeling, this helplessness.

Wordful Wednesday: The Body Image Edition.

When this picture was taken, I thought I was fat.

I was a size 6.

And now? Well, I'm quite certain that right now I am, in fact, what if you were being very polite, you would call "curvy." So when I look back at this picture? I want to slap that girl and tell her to enjoy that body while she has it.

But I know she would just roll her eyes at me.

Truth is, I've always struggled with my body image. I've always felt just a little bit awkward in my own skin. I was all of ten when I put myself on my first diet. Ten.

Since then, my weight has yo-yoed dramatically, sending me into sizes as big as 18 and as small as the aforementioned 6. And while I'm generally at my happiest and healthiest at an 8 or a 10, I've never actually been "happy" with what I see in the mirror.

Why do I bring that up now? Well, because I have a daughter. A daughter who's starting to understand what's going on in the world around her. And I? Can't stop putting myself down. Can't stop using the words "fat" and "ugly" in reference to my reflection.

And Internet? It won't be long before she starts to pick up on what I'm saying. It won't be long before she starts modeling her behavior after mine. And I do not want her to go through life with baggage like mine.

But I can't seem to stop. I keep telling myself that after I lose the next ten pounds, I'll feel better about myself. When I can finally run a 5K again, I'll feel sexy. When I can fit into my pre-preggo jeans again, I'll be proud of the woman I see in the mirror.

I'm not sure I believe me, though. Do you?

See the other Wordful Wednesday entries at Seven Clown Circus.

A Visit With A Little Green Monster.

One evening not too terribly long ago, I sat snuggled up on the couch with a nice glass of wine when an unexpected visitor plopped down next to me.

LITTLE GREEN MONSTER: Hey, whatcha drinking there?

ME: Wine.

MONSTER: Out of a plastic cup?

ME: The good glasses are in the dishwasher. And besides, who cares? It tastes the same no matter what you drink it out of.

MONSTER: I dunno. It just seems a little pathetic. I'll bet Melissa never drinks wine out of dixie cups.

ME: How would you know?

MONSTER: I'm just guessing. But a little birdy told me she has a cleaning service come in twice a week, so there's probably no shortage of clean glasses.

ME: A  maid? Well...good for her. She works hard. She deserves it.

MONSTER: Just like Tabitha deserved that European vacation, right? Just months after her Jamaican escape?

ME: Yes. Exactly like that.

MONSTER: Hey, did you hear about Jeremy's new job?

ME: No. He got a new job? That's great. Where at?

MONSTER: I don't remember the agency. But he's already hard at work concepting a Super Bowl commercial for next year.

ME: Him? A Super Bowl commercial? But I'm ten times as talented as he is. That conceited ha-(PAUSES AND BREATHES DEEPLY). I mean...how awesome. I'm sure he'll do great.

MONSTER: Yep. He's got it made. Kinda like Cindy.

ME: Cindy?

MONSTER: You didn't know? She met a millionaire on the set of that reality TV show she was doing. Now they're getting married and moving to Hawaii. I hear there's already a bun in the oven, if you know what I'm sayin'.

ME (MUTTERING): We'll see how much he likes her when she's carrying 25 pounds of baby weight two years from now....

MONSTER: What was that?

ME: Ummmm, nothing. Nothing at all. Just wondering what I should get them for a wedding gift.

MONSTER: Not sure. Maybe you should go in with Jackie on something.

ME: You're right, I should. I haven't talked to her since she had her baby. It'd be a good excuse to give her a call.

MONSTER: Well, if you decide to get together, meet somewhere that's not too crowded. Otherwise you won't recognize her.

ME: What are you talking about? Of course I will - I've known her for 15 years!

MONSTER: Yeah, but you've never seen her this thin. She's down to a size two now.

ME: What? But her baby's only five months old. How is that possible?

MONSTER: When Paramount bought the rights to that book she wrote, she figured she better slim down before Hollywood came calling.

ME: She's got a movie deal? But that's not fair! She's not even a real writer—she just did it to pass the time while she was on bed rest. I've been writing since the third grade, and what do I have to show for it?

MONSTER: An ulcer and a mountain of debt?

ME (GETTING UP FROM THE COUCH IN A HUFF): ARRRGGGGHHHHHHH!

MONSTER: Hey, where you going?

ME: To the store. I need some more wine.

MONSTER: Well, you'll have to walk. Your car's in the shop, remember?

ME: Go away. I hate you!

MONSTER: Aaaaand my job here is done. Enjoy the rest of your evening.
 
 ME (THROWING PILLOW AT MONSTER'S BACK): Enjoy your spot in hell!

THE END

The Search for the Couch and Other Stories.

We had to have a plumber come to our house today (leaking bath tub + wet ceiling = bad news). That’s bad enough, but you know what’s worse? Having to clean the house for the plumber.

Yep, you read that right. Our house was so embarrassingly dirty that my husband and I spent more time than I’d like to admit making it presentable. For the plumber. Not spic and span, by any means. But clean enough so that we’re reasonably sure the guy won’t call CPS on us.

Which he might have, had he seen it on Saturday.

The kitchen floor was littered with cheerios, puffs, pieces of dog biscuits and other random bits of trashy excellence. So much so that I found myself constantly chasing Tori around, snatching things out of her mouth (I may or may not have let her eat a few stray cheerios along the way).

The table was piled high three feet high with books, magazines, cereal boxes and mail. It had gotten so bad that I was forced to shove things aside to make room for our plates every time we actually wanted to have a meal there.

The family room and living room were buried in toys, laundry and the other flotsam of daily life. In fact, it took me fifteen minutes to even find the couch. And when I finally got out the vacuum? I managed to completely fill up the canister before I even finished a single room (but in my defense, the animals are all shedding).

And don’t even get me started on the state of our bedroom.

I’m sick to death of living this way. Tired of being greeted by a scene from a disaster movie every time I open my front door. I don’t want to live with a laundry pile that’s perpetually in danger of taking over the house. And I certainly don’t want to plan my meals based on what pots are clean.

But I’m not sure how to get a handle on it.

The things my mom always told me? You know, like put stuff away after you use it. And wash the pan you were using before you take another one out. And do a load of laundry every night. Those kind of things?

Are all very good ideas. And seemingly easy to implement. Except they’re not. At least, not for me.

I won’t lie, I’ve always been a slob. But since Tori was born, it’s got a thousand times worse. The dishes don’t get done after dinner because as soon as I’ve eaten, I’m rushing to get her ready for bed. My things don’t get put away because I almost never finish what I start—halfway through, I get pulled away by a Tori roar and never quite make it back.

And as for laundry? Well, by the time I can tackle the clothes pile, all I want to do is collapse on the couch for an hour or two.

My husband and I have resolved (yet again), to do better. To actually clean up after ourselves and keep the mess under control. We’re really going to try. At least until the memories of our latest cleaning frenzy fade. I'm just not sure how.

How do you guys do it? How do you manage to get everything done in the 24 hours we’re allotted each day? Does it ever get easier to pull off the super mom charade?

Bitch and Moan Monday: The Working Mom Blues.

Disclaimer: While I realize that I do, in fact, have quite a nice life, and when in better spirits, would even go so far as to call myself kind of blessed, I am in a shitty-ass mood today. And when I'm crabby? I reserve the right to bitch, moan and whine up a storm. So, if you'd rather not hear it,  feel free to visit this site instead.

Last week, as you all know, I was lucky enough to have my second abdominal surgery in less than a year. And while this time, I was given four small incisions (as opposed to the six-inch monster that now decorates my bikini line), that did not make the process pain-free.

Quite the opposite, in fact. In fact, I think this "minimally invasive" surgery was worse than my C-section. Why? Well, because I wasn't expecting this level of pain. In fact, my doctor told me that most people go back to work the next day after a procedure like the one I had. That's right. The very next day.

Well, I'm here to tell you that my doctor is a liar, liar, pants on fire. 

It was very painful, folks. And to make it worse? The painkiller I was on causes constipation. A fact I didn't find out until I was crying hysterically in the bathroom (open abdominal wounds + constipation = torture), just like I was last April. So, yeah, my weekend sucked. 

I'm sure I don't need to tell you, then, that when Tori woke up crying with teething pain at 5:30 this morning, I was less than pleased. Especially since,  recovered or not, I was scheduled to return to work (and its attendant deadlines) today.

And when I realized that the Gods of Menstrual Cycles hadn't decided to spare me my regularly scheduled bout of PMS? I'm surprised Indiana didn't suffer an earthquake brought on by the strength of my internalized screams.

Nevertheless, I got myself together, got Tori bundled in her car seat and got the business of paying my beloved daycare provider (I'm serious here, she really does rock and I feel very, very lucky to have her), out of the way. But when signing the check, it was all I could do not to sob out loud.

Sometimes, it's very, very hard to pay someone else to live the life you wish you could lead.

And that, my friends, is also why it sucks to be a working mom, no matter how much you love your job. 

Now, go visit my friend Kisha at In Through The Out Door and tell her what you would like to bitch and moan about today. Or, since you're already here, you could just tell me...

And don't forget to come back tomorrow. I'll be doing my first book review—of Free Range Kids (and no, no one's paying me to do so. I just happen to think it rocks). It will be whine-free, I promise.

The Life of a Goddess (minus all the perks).

Today, I am leading a life of leisure. For the first time since Tori was born, I spent the entire day in bed. Yes, folks. The entire day.

I have a jug of ice water at my side. A plethora of magazines and books for my reading pleasure. A variety of snacks available to soothe my delicate hunger pains. And of course, my iPod, trusty computer and TV remote control.

I am laying on 400 thread count sheets. A ceiling fan is blowing a gentle breeze on my face. The sun shines through my window, sparkling beautifully on the dust bunnies that live in my corners.

Even better, the house is silent. The hub is at work, and the babe is at daycare. My only companions are of the furred variety, and their demands are much simpler (and more easily ignored).

The cost of this day of (ahem) bliss? A belly fully of incisions that weep pink blood every time I move. Also, pain that has me whimpering into my pillow, controllable only with the precious vial of little white pills that sits on my nightstand. And, of course, a stomach so bloated that I look like I am six months pregnant once again (and I really wasn't missing that particular look).

Yes, ladies, heaven has its price. And its name is Abdominal Surgery. Be jealous of me if you will, but remember, if your body is fucked up enough, you too can join me in my pillowed paradise.

And this is what will have to pass for a pithy post today (as I mentioned, I may be a bit high on painkillers).

The Anatomy of a Sick Day.

It's cold outside. Cold and snowy. We've got six inches of snow on the ground, and more is falling. Normally, this would make for an awful start to a Monday morning. Normally I'd be out there scraping off my car, and negotiating un-plowed roads, and dealing with drivers, who despite living in a region where snow falls fairly regularly, still cannot manage to steer their cars in a straight line.

But my body had other ideas this morning. It decided to declare a revolt. It decided that I really didn't need to be going anywhere today. So here I sit, aching and tired, on my couch.

Aching and tired, but not cold. Or soggy. Or enraged because of what the idiot in front of me just did. Nope, I'm just sick.

And so I sit, watching the fire crackle and the twitter stream go by. I listen to the wind howl, glad that for the moment, while my daughter naps, the house is silent around me. I sip my hot tea and re-arrange my blanket around my toes, snuggling a little deeper into the cushions.

I consider doing some dishes, but my body protests, so I don't. I think about taking a nap. My body thinks that sounds like a good idea, so my eyes drift closed, heading toward dreamland.

But what's that I hear? The monster is up from her nap. Reluctantly, I pull myself up from my cozy nest, wondering if it's too soon to take some more Advil. Because while I might be sick enough to declare this a day off of work, there's no such thing as a sick day for mommies.

There's No Escaping the Guilt.

As a working mom, I often feel like I'm shortchanging, well, everyone. I run out of work as fast as I can so I can spend time with my daughter. Then I half-ignore her so I can get some housework done. And my husband? Well, let's just say it's a good thing he's a patient man.

But the one person who almost never gets any attention at all is...me. My hair hasn't been cut in almost three months. My makeup supplies haven't been replenished in six. Since Tori was born, I've been out with friends all of twice. Maybe three times. I'm lucky to get one book read every month, and naps (which used to be a treasured part of my weekends), have gone the way of the dinosaur.

Sometimes, I get to feeling like I'm running on fumes. Like I've got nothing left to give anyone. Like I just. need. a. break. If only for a couple of hours.

Today was one of those days. Tori's teething, or fighting a cold, or possessed by demons, or something (maybe all three). My house is a pigsty. My laundry pile is reaching epic proportions. And my husband was annoying me just by breathing (which does not diminish my love for him, right honey?).

And just to make it worse? There was no fricking coffee. Or tea. Or even coke (the caffeinated beverage. although maybe I need to consider investing in the other kind) anywhere in the house. It was a bad scene.

So, pretending I was heading to the grocery store, I left. And headed directly to Starbucks. Where I ordered a giant vat of caffeinated goodness, plunked myself down at a table and opened my book. It was heaven. Before I knew it, over an hour had passed.

As soon as that realization sunk in, guilt raised its ugly, snaggle-toothed head. How dare I neglect my family this way, it asked. Wasn't I always complaining that I didn't get enough time to spend with my daughter? I was a baaaaaad mom, it asserted.

So I called home and told my already fed-up sounding husband that I had lost track of time and would head to the grocery store immediately.

But I didn't. Instead I went to Kohls. Not looking for anything in particular. Just putting off the inevitable. Because I? Hate grocery shopping. Besides, I wasn't anywhere close to feeling recharged yet.

Unfortunately, Kohls had nothing I wanted to buy. It's that terrible time of year where I can't stand to look at sweaters anymore. But spring? Could very well be years away, so there's no point in buying any cute duds for that supposedly upcoming season.

Finally, I took myself off to Kroger, and after loading up on supplies, headed home. Where Tori was plunked in front of the TV (which she ordinarily is not allowed to watch. ever.) and my frustrated-looking husband was trying to pull a (wickedly delicious) chicken out of the oven.

Oh, the guilt. It hit me like a tsunami. I was asking too much of my husband. Caring too little for my child. How dare I leave them for that long? Bad person! BAAAAD person!

But the guilt was accompanied by a wave of resentment. Why shouldn't  I take some time out for myself? Didn't I count?

The only solution was to pour myself a biiiiig glass of wine. Which I eventually did, and am, in fact, currently sipping. But the frustration hasn't left me yet. It's just been pushed to the back of my mind and put on simmer.

So I'm asking you again, oh wise women of the Internet. Is it possible to find balance? Do I just need to get better at ignoring the guilt? Does it eventually get easier? Enlighten me. Please.

Because We Are All Blessed: Help Haiti.

We all experience little earthquakes in our lives. Jobs are lost. Loved ones get taken too soon. Homes demand expensive repairs. Dreams are destroyed.

But the people in Haiti? Are experiencing all these things at once. Their homes are destroyed. They no longer have any source of income. Chances are, they've lost members of their family—after all, more than 72,000 people have died—and those are just the bodies that have been recovered.

And the earthquakes keep coming.

So, no matter how bad you think you have it? There's probably not a person in Haiti that wouldn't give a million dollars to trade places with you.

Take a moment to count your blessings. Then take another to reach out and lend a hand—by opening your wallet. I did...and I'm not someone who donates very often.

I don't know. Maybe it's because I'm a mom now (it's true what they say. things do hit you harder), but the thought of all those orphaned children and shattered lives turns my stomach. If, by giving up a couple of pizzas and a few lattes, I can help make their lives even one tiny bit better...well, I couldn't live with myself if I didn't do it.

Here's a partial list of organizations involved in the relief efforts. For more, go here:

American Red Cross
Doctors Without Borders
Mercy Corp
UNICEF

Look Out: It's Time For Another Virtual Temper Tantrum.

If you're offended by foul language, you might want to stop reading now. Seriously. Well, okay, but don't say I didn't warn you.

When Tori's upset (or even just a tiny bit bothered), she throws herself backwards on the floor, arches her back and screams for all she's worth.  And you know what? That's exactly what I feel like doing right now.

My insides are still a mess. I have no appetite, and probably have not eaten more than 800 calories in the last five days, but I'm so ridiculously bloated that my pants barely fit. That fucking sucks, people. Everybody knows that if you can't eat, the reward is supposed to be artificially loose pants.

Fuck you, body.

And you know what BabyCenter just sent me? An email with an article titled, "Why you might still look pregnant." I clicked on it, thinking it might make me feel better about myself, only to find the following gem of advice, "it might take weeks for your belly to go down to pre-pregnancy size." Weeks? Weeks? I'm on month nine, people, and my belly is nowhere near its pre-pregnancy size.

Fuck you, BabyCenter.

Oh, and speaking of Internet fails, today's How To on my iGoogle page is "How to Sleep When You Are Not Tired." Really? Google, the king of data collectors, can't sort its content better than that? I mean, come on. Even the text ads next to my facebook profile know I'm a tired, fat new mom who hasn't gotten enough sleep in the last 18 months. Are you telling me google can't figure that out, too?

Fuck you, google.

Oh, and you know what else makes me mad? NBC. They're threatening to bump Conan in favor of Jay Leno. NBC, you know what? The reason you have to cancel Jay Leno's show is because he's not funny anymore. Say it with me. Jay's. Not. Funny. Don't go replacing actual wit and humor with the vapid nothingness that is Jay Leno's show. And Jay? If you still feel the need to work five days a week, have some respect for yourself and go be a greeter at Walmart or something.

...

You thought I was going to say fuck you again, didn't you?

Okay, fine. Fuck you, NBC.

Sarah Palin. She makes me want to stab things. Why won't she go away?

Also, the racist idiots of the tea party. They need to go drown themselves in a big vat of tea-flavored urine.

Glamour magazine? You make me mad, too. How many years can you continue to recycle the same 14 stories? There's a world full of freelancers out there. Find some with original ideas.

Authors of parenting books? Stop making me feel like I don't know what the hell I'm doing (I don't. I know it. You don't need to remind me).

Makers of baby products? Stop making me feel like I'm depriving my child if I don't have the thousand dollar stroller, the five hundred dollar car seat and whatever gee whiz super cool gadget you're going to come out with next.

World? Stop looking at me. You're making me paranoid.

I could go on, but I think I've probably alienated enough people already. So I'll stop. Normally, this is where I'd go pour myself a big drink, except for the fact that my fucking body is fucking messed up and in need of prescription meds to continue to function.

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

See? The F-bomb. It has magical healing powers.

How to Get Helped in the ER (without having to wait).

Maybe it was the tight grimace on my pale face. Maybe it was my hunched over, 95-year-old lady stance. Maybe it was just the pajama pants with mismatched gym shoes look I was sporting. Or maybe it was the constant whimpering that emitted from somewhere deep inside me every 30 seconds.

Whatever it was, when I walked into the ER on Friday night, there was no hesitation on the part of the staff. They had me checked in, registered and into a room (with an actual door) before I could say, "somebody hand me one of those pink buckets. I'm going to puke again."

By the time I got there, it had already been a long day. A day that had started seven hours before when I walked into an urgent care center, thinking I had some sort of weird bladder infection and could get myself some antibiotics and back to work before the clock ran out on my lunch hour.

Yeah. Not so much.

Truth is, no one there could figure out what  was wrong with me. Everything checked out fine. Meanwhile the stabbing pain that had driven me there on a day full of deadlines grew worse...and worse...and worse...until it was all I could think about.

Finally, they sent me home with some painkillers, shrugging their shoulders and wishing me good luck.

I would have thanked them, except I was too busy vomiting on the bushes outside.

Home we went, where I alternated between laying on the couch, pacing the floor while foaming at the mouth and rocking myself like a crazy person, completely consumed by the searing pain that wrapped around my middle.

I was certain my appendix was rupturing. Either that, or I was dying. And at that point? Anything that would have ended the pain would have been welcome.

So off to the ER we went, hoping to find better answers. I didn't get any of those, at least not right away. But you know what I did get? An IV full of beautiful, merciful drugs. The dry heaving stopped. I could open my eyes. Granted, I didn't want to, as I was floating on a pink fluffy cloud of narcotics, but I could.

Later, they did a bunch of tests and determined that no, actually my appendix wasn't about to burst. They sent me home with some more drugs, instructions to "wait and see," and an appointment scheduled at some far off date in the future. And in the meantime? My insides continue to torment me, with no clear end in sight.

But that's okay, because I've discovered the secret to good service at the ER. It's not about the amount of blood. It's about how crazy you look (and sound). And I? Am very good at acting crazy.

Jealous Again.

This morning found me getting ready for work for the first time in twelve days. Twelve days might not sound like much, but it was just long enough. Just long enough to get a solid routine going with Tori. Just long enough to start to feel like a real mom again—not just a part-timer.

Just long enough to get used to not working.

So when the alarm went off this morning, I awoke with a heavy heart. For the last twelve days, it had been Tori's voice that woke me up. Granted,  it was usually far too early, but her little bababa's are always  a more pleasant sound than that annoying buzz (side note: someone should invent an alarm that you have to throw against the wall to shut off. It's what I always feel like doing to mine).

This morning, she decided to sleep in (her timing is wonderful). So  I had to wake her up. Had to try and shove oatmeal down her throat while she was still rubbing her eyes. Had to bundle her in her coat and strap her into her car seat when she was just getting ready to play (and that makes for one unhappy Tori).

It kinda sucked. Okay, it really sucked. So much so that halfway to the babysitter's house (with a still screaming Tori in the back seat), I almost turned around and went home. 

But people were depending on me to show up at the office, so I resisted the urge (that good old Midwestern work ethic, you know). Instead, I dutifully trudged to my desk, fired up the computer and logged on to twitter (ahem, after I checked my work email, of course).

And twitter? Was full of tweets from people celebrating kids going back to school and bemoaning spouses going back to work. Tweets about missed naps and temper tantrums and teething kids. Tweets from fed up moms who would probably have loved to switch places with me for a little while.

But I couldn't help but be jealous of them. Couldn't help but wish I was still at home, tapping my keyboard while Tori tried to bash the space bar in. Would have given anything to be looking at another day full of nothing special.

Does anybody have a rich (and frail) relative I could adopt? Or a winning lottery ticket they're not using? Because I'd really love to turn my high heels in for a pair of worn out sneakers.

No? Darn. Guess I'll just have to start planning that next vacation, then.

An Open Letter to Whoever Designed My Car.

Dear auto engineer type people,

When I bought my car three years ago, I thought I was buying a larger vehicle. After all, it has four doors, a station wagon-style rear hatch, and is called a "crossover." This, to me, means big. Or if not big, at least family-sized.

After all, it isn't fast. Or particularly stylish. Or particularly comfortable to ride in. So it should at least accomodate the average family, shouldn't it?

But you know what? It doesn't. I have one child.  One child who needs a car seat. And you know what doesn't fit in this damn car? A car seat.

Back when I was pregnant, we had to return the first car seat we bought because it was too big for my car. We ended up purchasing a seat not because of its safety qualifications, but because of its size. Granted, it is a very nice seat (the Chicco Keyfit. Best infant car seat ever),  but that's not the point. The point is, I couldn't buy the seat I wanted because of your poor designing skills.

But I was willing to let that go. I mean, sure, when we go out as a family I have to ride in the passenger seat because to make her seat fit, we have to scoot the front seat allllllll the way forward, but it's only temporary.

You know what I can't forgive, though? The fact that not a single convertible car seat will fit in the rear-facing position. At least, not if anyone wants to sit in the front seat.

My daughter is only eight months old. And she's dangerously close to outgrowing her current seat. It's not going to last her the whole year. It's just not.

But you can't let a baby sit facing forward until she's at least twelve months.

So, what am I supposed to do, oh genius designers of the Dodge Caliber? Not go anywhere for the next four months?

Lest you think my complaints have no basis, I'll have you know that I spent several hours at various baby super stores today. I took just about every model they had (at least those that fit in a normal human's budget) out to my car to test it out.

And you know what? None of them fit. Not one. So I drove two hours (there and back) with a cranky, constipated, teething baby, had my hair pulled, my shirt pulled down (in front of a salesperson) and my pants spit up on, for NOTHING.

You know what I could have been doing that would have been more enjoyable? Sitting on top of a nest of angry red ants while bees stung my eyes and spiders crawled up my nose.

So next time you go to design a car (specifically the front seats of said car), pause to think about your target audience for a moment. If your typical buyers are young families on a budget (who are not midgets), then make sure they're functional for said families. Make sure you can fit a damn car seat in there.

Sincerely,

One pissed off mama.

The. Worst. Pain. In. The. World.

I have broken my arm...and elbow. I've sprained ankles. I've broken and dislocated my knee. I've given birth to a baby via c-section, for crying out loud.

Those things all hurt. A lot. In fact, I often say that my broken dislocated knee was the worst pain imaginable.

Turns out, I was wrong. My fragile little brain has the ability to hurt me more than anything else I've ever experienced.

To clarify, I've always had headaches. In fact, I was diagnosed with migraines a number of years ago. But pharmaceuticals have never let me down. Sometimes, if I don't take something fast enough, it takes hours for the pain to abate. Hours I have to spend in a darkened room, with a pillow pressed tight against my head.

But it always goes away.

Or at least it always did. Until Saturday.

On Saturday I woke up with a headache. Not a migraine, just a headache. So I took something. It didn't help. In fact, as the day went on, it got even worse. So much worse that I ended up taking some migraine meds.

That worked. For an hour. Then it came back.

This cycle continued, endlessly, for days. I couldn't sleep. I wasn't hungry. I couldn't work. I began thinking that I had a brain tumor - or was about to have an aneurysm.

Finally, yesterday, when my husband realized I was sobbing because it hurt so bad, he took me to the urgent care. Before we left, I packed my glasses, some makeup - a few things my irrational brain thought I would need if I ended up in the hospital needing brain surgery.

Yeah. It was that bad.

Long story short, it wasn't an aneurysm. Or a brain tumor (I hope). Nope, the angels at the urgent care just injected my butt with a bunch of drugs (horse tranquilizers, I think), and away it went.

It's just a memory now. A memory of a nightmare. One that could return at anytime. One that is immune to the most powerful weapons in my medication arsenal. And you know what? That's frightening.

Can a Mama Get Some Help?

My little girl is upstairs right now, crying as if her heart is breaking. Not cute little wails, oh no. These are full-on screams.

Even worse? Every once in a while, she lets out a chorus of "ma ma ma ma ma MA!" I know she supposedly doesn't know what she's saying, but that doesn't do my heart any good.

There's nothing wrong, really. She's clean, she's dry, she has a full tummy. She just wants her mommy. Has wanted her mommy for most of the last 48 hours. She's teething or something, I don't know. All I know is that my back hurts, my head hurts, I have a crick in my neck, a slobbery shoulder and a shirt polka dotted with various baby stains.

I've rocked her, sang her songs, read her books, played with her, tickled her, let her sleep on my chest. She's sucked on ice cubes, gnawed on teething rings and practically eaten a hole in my shirt.

Nothing helps. She's miserable, I'm miserable, and now, because you're reading this, you're probably a little more miserable, too.

The point? Teething sucks. Sucks donkey kong. And I'm out of ideas.

So, internet, I'm asking you. Is there anything I can do to help her? Other than feed her (and myself) whiskey? I could use a little help...before I start crying for my mommy.

Writer's Workshop: Erase that Memory.

It's time for Mama Kat's Writing Workshop again. This time, the prompt I chose was, "describe an experience you wish you could shake from your memory." So get ready. This is heavy stuff. 

It was a cold winter's night. The heater was working hard, trying to remove the chill from the air, but I still felt frozen. We were whipping along the expressway at 80 miles an hour, but in my mind, everything was moving too slowly, weighted down by the sadness, the madness in my head.

"I can't," I whispered.

He groped to grab my hand in the dark. "Yes. Yes, you can. I'm right here. I'll be here."

I shrank back, trying to disappear into my seat. "No, you don't understand. I really can't. I can't face it."

We were on our way to dinner. With both sets of parents. Dinner with the parents, when everyone knew I was slowly going mad. Had watched as I took a baseball bat to everything that was good in my life and set about destroying it.

"You have to, Amber. They're waiting for us."

"But I'm brooooooooooken," I howled through the sobs that suddenly overwhelmed me. "I'm broken and I can't DO this."

"What? What can't you do?"

"This. Life. I just can't, anymore. I can't do it," I said, then clutched my head hard enough to hurt and began to sob in earnest.

His hands turned white on the steering wheel, and I could tell he was struggling not to cry himself.

"Stop. Stop talking like that. We'll get through this, together. We will. I promise."

Again he reached out, and this time, I let him take my hand. Slowly, my sobs quieted, the agony once more retreating inside my head. When we got to the restaurant, I took a deep breath, stuffed the pain into its closet, and stepped out of the car.

We made it through dinner, his hand clutching mine under the table. Everyone ignored my red eyes. Pretended not to see when I bolted to the bathroom to cry. They forced their smiles and carried on with the celebration, determined to cling to a shell of normalcy.

As for me? I was dying inside. Sunk deep in a pit of depression so crushing that I could hardly breathe. I'd like to tell you that that was the worst of it. The end of it. But it wasn't. Not by a long shot.

Before it was over, I had destroyed friendships, sabotaged my career and dragged Brian to the darkest depths of Hell with me.

This is just one of many, many memories I wish I could erase. But I can't. And that's a good thing. Because they serve as a reminder—a warning. Now, when the symptoms start, I don't ignore them. I slow down, reach out and ask for help.

I was lucky. I survived. Not everyone does. So if you think you might be depressed, don't wait. Get the help you need. It could mean the difference between living...and not.

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