Take Two Breaths and Try Again

The more comfortable I become with my mental illness - a combination of anxiety and depression - the more I recognize just how much it has impacted my life. My depression and anxiety play tag, one month I will feel the effects of one more than the other and the next it will switch.  This month, anxiety has led a harsh battle against my inner peace.  Since school is my trigger, this makes sense. My perfectionist tendencies come out in force as I work on papers, study, and interact with my peers and professors.

Yet, with recognition comes understanding and awareness.  So, despite my inability to take my stabilizing medications (due to pregnancy), I can talk about my difficulties with Ben and try out possible solutions.  And sometimes these solutions are simple, like taking a couple breaths and starting over.

This past week, for example, I had a hefty load of papers and other assignments to complete.  Because I am attempting to forge a work-life balance, I do most of my school work on Monday through Thursday and keep Friday through Sunday open so I can spend time with the kids and Ben.  This means that I am spending over 10 hours on those days working on assignments, and, since I am also a stay-at-home mom, waking up really early and staying up really late.  By Thursday, I am generally wiped out and overwhelmed.

When I felt myself losing control, I firmly decided to take a breathing break and try again the next day.  You know what? It was the most efficient thing I did last week.  So, to help me remember this, I've made a poster to hang up in my room...or at least place on my computer.



This post is part of Health Activists Writer's Month.

How Not to Survive (Under)Graduate School

I am three weeks into my program and wondering, what the hell was I thinking?  To make it easier for me and my fellow (under)graduate students, I've composed a list of 10 ways to ensure one doesn't survive school.

1. Have kids.  Lots of 'em. And, if possible, make sure you're pregnant WITH kids.

2. Start out poor.  Extra stress from financial burdens is extremely important to (non)success.

3. Stay home full-time with your kids, finding baby-sitters *only* when you have class.  This way you and your children will experience (under)graduate school together!

4. Move FAR away from family.  When you need help with little things, like an emergency baby-sitter, you will learn patience by taking your kids with you to appointments and classes!

5. Include your partner/spouse in the school/life/mother/spouse balance by sending them away for a few weeks.  You'll never appreciate them more than when they are gone and return.

6. Ensure that you live on the third floor of an apartment complex without a washer and dryer.  This will make you appreciate your ancestors as you lug your kids (who refuse to walk), the laundry, the laundry supplies, and your pregnant body up and down the stairs to the laundromat.

7. Live in a *small* apartment.  Nothing like enclosed spaces to improve familial relationships!

8. If you have a mental illness, don't take your medicine - for physical or whatever reasons - to improve your chances at (non)success.

9. Ensure that your toddler and preschooler are sufficiently independent and busy enough to cause all types of chaos while you attempt to work on a paper.

10. Don't sleep.  Blame it on pregnancy-induced insomnia, anxiety-induced insomnia, or just insomnia in general.  That way, by the end of the week, you are hysterical with overwhelming stress and exhaustion.  A perfect recipe for (non)success.

If you can, try to combine one or more of these and I promise you the (under)graduate experience of your life!

 

A Pregnant Sky

I watch as the clouds turn from a pleasant grey to a dark, heavy, and threatening charcoal grey.

Winter is peering over the hills, casting a long shadow over our small town. Daylight Savings Time has fooled us; no longer does the sky stay bright as the time clock ticks, nearing Closing Time.

The clouds, the darkness, and the expectations weigh heavily in the air as I wait for my family to pick me up.  Looming above me is the potential for a powerful storm.  I hold my breath, hoping it waits.

*****

Inside, the clouds of a different storm wait.  They twist and turn, growing heavier and darker by the day, consuming my mind with different thoughts.  I am not sure when this storm will hit--or, if it will blessedly pass me over.  Hope, excitement, and other positive emotions are squeezed out by nervousness, pain, and fear. Disappointment dots my landscape.  I push through, though, certain I can work the bad thoughts away.

*****

I am home with the kids and husband, lying in bed when the clouds release a torrential outpouring of rain.  It isn't the gentle pitter patter I had wanted; instead, the water slaps my windows, walls, and roof over and over again, jerking me awake as I listen to the sounds and hope our walls and windows keep us warm and safe.

*****

The storm inside is more complicated, silently waiting until I have relaxed to fully engage my mind, releasing a torrential outpouring of happy and sad, exhaustion and elation.  My insides shake as I am slapped consistently by a barrage of these competing emotions, attempting to decide which ones to focus on.

*****

I hide under my covers as the storms outside and inside converge, metaphorically, in a thunderous roar above my head.  The walls shake and I cower even further under the protection of warm blankets.  I tremble, not wanting to know the truth.  Or worse, to confront my fears.

But deep inside, as the storm rages on, I feel the shield of strength.  An umbrella emerging to protect my face and arms from the worst of the barrage as I confront my issues.  I take deep breaths and run through the storm, reaching my destination.  First one place, then the other, quickly making my rounds.   I finish, exhausted, but feeling Full.

The darkness and desperation have fled.  Yes, they might come back; but, this time I will be ready.  Fist clenched tightly around my medications: my relief and hope from the dangerous storm of mental illness.

*****I am linking up with Heather today, for her wonderful Just Write series.

Closing Shop and Other Housekeeping Items

After I went public with my disaffection/break/discontent (whatever you want to call it) from the Mormon church--the church of my upbringing--I have had conflicting feelings.  On the one hand, I want to talk about my experiences because it shaped me as a child and continues shaping me as I grow older.  (My entire mindset is Mormon--I see things from a Mormon worldview; I view religion-related things from a Mormon perspective; and many of my friends are/were Mormon.)  On the other hand, I do not want to isolate those who continue to believe in the tenets of Mormonism and, in my mind, religion in all its forms.  It isn't that I am trying to convince people to join me in my agnosticism/atheism, it's that I am working through my past beliefs in order to integrate them into the person I am now and the person I am becoming.

I don't feel I am being anti-Mormon, but understand the Mormon mindset which makes certain topics uncomfortable.   But, to be frank, it isn't just Mormonism that I have issues with.  It is God, Jesus Christ, the scriptures, and the history of all Judeo-Christian religions.  I am open to exploring different religions and am also open to opinions that are different from my own. Heck, if you have an experience that is or was similar to mine, and you stayed faithful to whatever religion you currently are, tell me about it!

However, you are formally warned that I will be sharing my religious experiences and why I feel the way I do now.  It will be thoughtful and may also be hard to read.  So if you are uncomfortable with that and wish to say something that is not conducive to respectful conversation, do so at your own risk.  That is to say, I will not respond to hurtful comments.  In fact, I will delete your words forever.  At the same time, I have a forgiving heart.  Just be respectful to me and my views (and, by all means, disagree with me!) and I will be respectful to you.

All this is a lengthy explanation for my new Facebook rules.  I will be trimming down my current friends to those who are close friends and/or relatives.  I will not be talking about my religious angst, my political opinions, or anything that might be controversial on that account.  Instead, I have opened a new account that is dedicated to all the above plus a few other things that I will discuss a little later in this post.  You are welcome to friend me.  I am not picky and will accept everyone, who is not crazy and/or a friend whore, who asks.  I might seek you out because I am interested in what you have to say.  Again, you can find that new account here.   If you are not into that sort of thing, you are also welcome to "like" my blog.  It won't be nearly as fun as my new account, but will apprise you of new blog posts.

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My second piece of business is more momma-related.  Y'all know that I struggle with intense mental illness, right?  (If you don't, where have you been?) (Kidding.)  As I am figuring out how to handle it (yes, my medication does not make it all better, I must do other things to keep me level), I realize that most of my current stress comes from being a mom.  To two toddlers.  To help me see the bright side of some crazy days, I will be posting quotes and/or experiences from the day to my new Facebook account's wall.  So if you are annoyed by that kind of thing, be warned.  It is something I realize helps me see things in a less hazy way.  I love my kids.  Oh I love them.  But mental illness often clouds my perspective and I need a metaphorical Windex-like product to wipe my windows clean.  And this is the idea that came to me.  So I'm going to try it.

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Numero three.  I am revamping my weekly supporting parents write-up.  Look for more details soon.

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And finally, I am taking a short break to recuperate and tackle this enormous to-do list I have.  I will most likely continue reading your blogs but need some time to gather my own thoughts before returning to writing. This whole exploration of my new feminist/religious/philosophical self is exhausting.  Literally, I pass out every day quickly because my mind is teeming with information, comments, ideas, etc.  Also, my to-do list is full of things with actual deadlines.  Deadlines that are coming up real fast.  Yikes.  So I must dedicate more time to completing these tasks (which include some exciting new adventures, I'll keep you posted) before the end of the month.  I will continue with the Supporting Parents posts because I really do believe in my original idea and because it helps me look over my parenting with an objective magnifying glass.

If you are still reading this long post, kudos to you.

Oh Birth Control, How I Love/Loathe Thee

After the last miscarriage, I had to take what I normally avoid: birth control. Why? To control my insane cycles that included major depressive episodes that my current medicine was not effectively controlling; nausea and/or vomiting; and intense cramping that left me breathless.  Also, the bleeding was mild and came and went over 9 days.

But I have hesitated to take the BC.  My first experience, in the beginning two months of our marriage, was not good.  It turned me crazier than I already was.

However, my doctor explained that it would help with the overactive cysts (another thing that accompanied the miscarriages), keep the bleeding regular, and control my intense mood swings.

So I caved.

And it became my--almost--best friend.  That little pill worked wonders until I was ready to try again.

But the third miscarriage put me into another hormonal/period tail swing.  So I went to my therapist--the red pill--and began a new regimen.  Again, things righted themselves (except for the major depressive episodes, yuck), and all has been good in my world.

Until the scale topped out at 20 lbs heavier than before the miscarriage.  What the hell?  I kind of expected 10 lbs but 20, 20! I think the weight gain might be creating major depressive episodes at this point.  And anxiety attacks.  Oh my.

So I'm going to bid good-bye to my friend.  It's been a lovely relationship full of give and take.  You took my body and I gave my soul.  Or something like that.  For real, though, adieu.  And good riddance.

What type of birth control do you use?  Do you like it?  (Come on, don't be shy.  Sharing is caring. And it makes me feel better.)

image via ladysuite.net

----This week's supportive parenting theme is saying sorry.  How do you say sorry?  How do your kids sorry? Funny stories about apologizing?  Let's hear it.----

Oh to be normal.

I had a rough last week.  I could give various reasons: the kids went crazy, Ben is busy with medical school, I've woken up with debilitating migraines every morning; but the truth is, the wiring in my brain is screwed up and I am terribly sensitive to hormonal changes.

To have two mental health issues that are comorbid with each other--like my anxiety and depression--means they are interconnected yet independent: you cannot address one without addressing the other; and, as the patient, it is almost impossible to pinpoint which one is the source of mental anguish.  For example, if I miss a dose of my anxiety medication, I feel tense, my thoughts begin to race, and I have trouble sleeping--and, subsequently, my depression begins to come out (even when taking medication) and my whole life goes to hell.  That's the truth.

The tricky part comes when hormonal fluctuations interact with my mental health issues.  As a woman, I am more prone to hormonal imbalances and, as myself, am especially sensitive to the regular changes (i.e. ovulation and monthly cycles).

So last week's mess could have been calmly handled if I hadn't been battling my hormones that also sent my mental health issues into a downward spiral.

There is nothing like a wake-up call to how crazy you truly are.  To make it through these hormonal swings, I must increase my medications a few times throughout the month.   The problem is recognizing when these times are and taking action immediately.  The lines become blurred when dealing with mental illness, so I will tell myself that things will get better if I clean the house, read the kids stories, stop bickering at Ben, and numerous other things that sum up to being strong and dealing with my shit like an adult.

But I know these are not solutions.  Taking control of my mental illness through medication, exercise, and healthy eating will help more than mentally belittling myself.  It's just recognizing when I need to take these actions that's hard.

Here's to hoping that next week I will not sequester myself inside the house and that my body's hormone levels will finally reach homeostasis.

Shifting From Dark to Light

While we were dating, Ben and I often went hiking on the beautiful Alaskan mountains. One particular morning found us at the top of Flattop a little after sunrise. I remember observing the gradual shift from dark to light as the sun's rays spread across the land, leaving a kaleidoscope of shadows.

These last few days I've been reflecting on that scene in connection with my newly found happiness.  For years I suffered under a cloud of despair: Seeing my future as hopeless and desolate.  Looking back through time, I can only remember brief stints of joy splattered on a canvass of bleakness--my existence.

Up until a few months ago, before I recognized the need of intervention--in the forms of therapy and medication--I would wake with a rising sense of dread.  The kids would watch hours of the Wiggles so I could sleep through the pain of severe anxiety and depression.  When they engaged in normal child activities, the screwed up wiring in my brain produced reactions of intense and irrational irritation and anger.  My husband was terrified to come home because he did not know what Amber he would find: the cheerful and supportive wife or the desperate and despairing wife.  Multiple times a week I would have meltdowns complete with tears and dreary announcements of our future.

Under the guidance of a wonderful practitioner, I received the help I needed.  After finding the right dose and mix of medications--to treat the clinical depression and anxiety--I saw a noticeable difference.  The manifestation began by waking up full of hope and excitement for the day ahead of me, followed by joyful anticipation of the transition our family will soon make when Ben begins medical school, and capped when I no longer dreaded my husband's long work week but looked forward to any time we had together.

The medication precipitated a symbolic sunrise in my life.  No longer do I dwell in darkness; rather, the shadows are carefully dispelling under the gentle caress of the sun's rays.

No longer incapacitated by mental illness, I am peeling away the layers and finding the person I have always been: Compassionate, optimistic, and happy.

Thank you all for supporting me through this painful journey.   Your patience, kindness, and friendship has meant so much to me.

Repose

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

I trudge through the snow pushing the double stroller back home from the library.  The kids, bundled up in various assortments of coats, hats, and blankets, point out objects of entertainment.

"A red truck, Mommy!" squeals a delighted Emily.

"Dada, Mama, Jump!" adds Andrew.

We breathe in the delightful scents of leaves fallen off trees, the pine cones of Evergreens, and the fresh scent of fallen snow (that is to say the air is free of smoggy residue and, therefore, scentless).   The noise of passing cars is barely noticeable as I push the stroller through serene neighborhoods.

While I engage the kids with multifarious questions, I ponder my current situation.  My habit to load up the stroller when I feel my mental capacities buckling under the overwhelming (or so my mind thinks) pressures; my tendency to lose my head when a child wakes up early from a nap (or refuses to take one) or busies herself in naughty behaviours; and my inability to confront certain places (ahem, internet) without feeling fear, with a dash of dread and a heavy side of guilt, because I am convinced of my personal inadequacies and failures.

My intense desires to be at home with my children and provide a loving, safe, and education-rich environment juxtapose with my acute longing to run away--whether to the workplace, school, or another state--from the battles being fought inside my head supposedly because of my occupation as a stay-at-home mom.

Rather than hide from these devilish thoughts, I tenuously chose to accost my enemy this last week as a knight would duel his foe. I stayed away from friends--on-line and in real life--because I knew this fight would need my full strength.

At this point it would be natural to interpose "and in the end," except that an ending doesn't exist.  With this war, the battles are waged daily--some I win, some I lose.  However, I am emerging as victor more often than as conquered.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

The birds chirp, the leaves stir, and the kids continue with their endless chatter.   I open my eyes a little wider and notice the contrast between this day and the last: the pressure in my chest has lifted and I feel as light as the wind.  And though it is cold outside, I feel the warmth of this knowledge spreading through my limbs and the beginnings of a bounce to my step.

With guarded optimism, I embrace the changes and look forward to days filled with more hope and less fear.

Morning Cocoa

If we were to meet for cocoa...

I would tell you that today feels like a Monday.  Ben took a 4-day weekend and boy did we soak it up.  We went on a date and used an actual baby-sitter.  Right as we were walking out the door, Andrew fell and bit his lip.  Lots of blood, lots of tears, and a wonderful baby-sitter who calmly took charge.

Over the weekend, I saw Sue, my nurse practitioner.  After having me do a few balance tests, she decided a specialist would be the next best option to figure out this nausea.  Oh how grateful I am for Sue.

After an incredibly hard week last week, I was able to meet with a therapist and start medication for my anxiety and depression.  It takes about a month for me to notice any difference, which slightly scares me, but I am thankful for my supportive husband who helped me tremendously during his 4-day mini-vacation.

I would tell you that today is a mellow day.  I received a phone call that my grandmother died this morning.  I had mixed feelings when I heard she had passed away.  She had suffered from Parkinson's for at least ten years now.  For the last five, dementia has settled in leaving her vastly different from the grandma I grew up with.  While I am sad to say good-bye, I am grateful she has been released from her physical and mental pain.

I would share our latest exciting news: our final decision for where we will attend medical school.  Watch out Midwest, our family is headed in that direction!

I would refill your cup and tell you how wonderful a warm beverage is on these cold, winter months.  My dear husband fixed our stroller last night so the kids and I will be able to get out, but walking in the cold weather isn't exactly thrilling--not in a pleasurable manner anyway.

I would give you another hug and tell you to stay as long as you'd like.  It's nice to visit with an old and good friend.

Grab a mug of something warm (or cold for those in different parts of the world) and tell me, what would you share?

On Being a Stay-At-Home Mom

I struggled for a long time with what I thought being a stay-at-home mom meant.  I visualized a day full of baking, putting together puzzles, reading story after story, and, of course, creating art and making crafts.  As many of you know, I detest baking and abhor having to participate in making arts and crafts.  And, with my recent health problems, floor time is very challenging.

In my mind, this makes me atypical; which, in turn, makes me feel highly uncomfortable with my new profession.

It doesn't help that I don't fit into any mold.  We live in an apartment, my husband works two full-time jobs, we have one very old vehicle, and our food budget is meager.  I struggle with chronic anxiety and depression and can barely keep our tiny space from imploding from the chaos of two kids.  Not the suburban bliss most people picture (or at least I pictured) when thinking of moms staying home with their kids.

So, when I hear women saying "I'm not the stay-at-home type" I can relate.  At least if their definition is the same one I've always used.

What am I to do?

Change the definition.

As with parenting, there are all sorts of moms who decide to stay-at-home.  I have to believe that not every mother delights in the typical homemaking (a word I really dislike) pursuits.  We all have talents and interests, outside of mothering, that spice up our résumé.

Some of my interests include helping the low income, minority, and mentally ill populations find the healthcare they need, continue on to higher education, and apply for jobs directly related to their individual talents;  fitness and helping women and men find their inner beauty and perfect their own healthy body image; and pursuing life long education by obtaining a masters, followed by Ph.D, in some area of expertise and conducting and publishing research in premier journals.

My talents include reading to and teaching my kids all sorts of things beyond picture books; incorporating exercise--whether it's walking or aerobics on DVD--into our daily schedule; and managing our finances so we do not go over our budget.

These talents and interests make me, me.  Even if it makes me an untraditional SAHM (another term I dislike).  I'd much rather do what I always wanted to do (stay at home with my kids) my way than stay within some defined boundary and feel miserable by not staying true to myself.

What about you?  (I'm sure you can relate this to your own life and whatever profession you have. You don't have to be a mom to feel as if you are an outlier.)

Getting In Touch With Depression

Depression is an oft used noun in today's vernacular.   It is also commonly misunderstood.  To better comprehend the complexity and seriousness of depression, I am going to describe the mental illness and provide excerpts from my personal journal to frame understanding.

Lost and Hopeless

I wish I were somewhere else.  I can't be a good wife or parent.  Ben, and the kids, would be better off without me. I feel like I'm living life in a fog--the only happiness I feel is filtered through the murky vapor of sadness...or whatever it is.  I know it's my fault I feel this way.  I need to be stronger, should be stronger, but it's hard when hope feels so far away.  I can't even see it on the horizon.

Some common symptoms of depression include overwhelming "hopelessness, helplessness, inappropriate guilt or regret, and self-hatred."  Depressed people exhibit a constant low mood and often lose their ability to experience happiness with activities that they used to enjoy. (Source: Wikipedia.)

I have never contemplated suicide, but I have had a few periods in my life--as a teenager, a sophomore in college, and after this miscarriage--that I convinced myself the world, and my family, would be better off without me.

I Am Grateful, Dang It!

I have so many blessings in my life:  Beautiful children, an amazing husband, warm shelter, delicious food, and supportive family members.  Yet I know that I'm not worthy of them.  The negativity that surrounds my thoughts is proof of what an ungrateful wretch I have become.  I can hardly say a kind word to my husband, let alone give him a compliment; my eyes are constantly flashing with anger over the little things my kids do that are a normal part of their development; I avoid my friends because I am sure they notice how deficient I am in so many areas.

A common misconception is that a clinically depressed person can snap out of it if they try to develop a more grateful attitude, pray more, or have more faith.  This is false.  A depressed person is already hard on themselves.  They recognize how great everything is around them, but they cannot bring their mood up. It's a brain thing.

I remember looking at myself, as if from above, and shaking my head.  Obviously, I told myself, I am unfaithful.  Worthless.  With these phrases incessantly going through my mind, I had trouble sleeping, eating, and facing the world.  I would wake up and cry knowing that I had to parent my kids that day; me, an awful mother, would be alone with them.  A miserable place, indeed...*

*After I finished writing this post, I saw how much I had written** and deemed it necessary to break it up into two more manageable posts.  I will post part two sometime next week.

**Seriously, this took quite a bit out of me so you had better appreciate it.  Frankly, if I don't get like 1000 comments I will probably never write again.

Image courtesy of FreeImages.

Motherhood Ease and Taking A Break

I wanted to be a mother since I was a little girl. However, in all my imaginings I didn't anticipate the anxiety that accompanies this occupation.

There are many mothers who I admire; most of them seem to easily bear the mantle of motherhood. When I observe them, I see how comfortable they feel with their role and how they adjust naturally to changes.

I wish I felt that way.

I love being a mother and I adore my children. Recently, I've started daydreaming of having a big family again. A huge step for me since the miscarriage.

However, I don't feel qualified. I see this in simple things.

When Ben leaves for work, I am gripped by this terrible fear of being left, alone, with the kids. I think about the hours I have until they are down for naps and then until they go to bed. I dread meal times and bath times and almost everything in between. So I plan lots of activities to fill the voids--library visits, aerobics, shopping trips, and appointments. I don't prefer play groups because it means I must visit with other mothers who probably are much better at being a stay-at-home mom than me.

If the kids start to cry, I become rattled. I tell myself that I cannot comfort them and that the crying will continue for hours during the day. A lovely relic of the heavy duty colic I survived with both kids.

I spend half the day chasing after Emily and the other half cleaning up the messes she has made. Sitting down and playing with her rarely happens as she is too busy getting into the things to have anything to do with puzzles, blocks, or any crafty thing.

As a woman with a degree in family science (with a heavy emphasis on child development), I know what I need to do to encourage my children in their intellectual growth. Thus, when these things aren't done, I feel the failure even more significantly.  And it scares me.

I crave comfort in motherhood.

*****

My life is in chaos.  I don't mean that lightly.  The family has yet to adjust to Ben working two jobs.  I'll freely admit that I am struggling with it.

The hardest part is being responsible for everything.  Sure the dishes can wait...for me. If I don't clean, no one else will.  It's not that Ben doesn't want to help, it's that he can't.  His burden is our finances while mine is the household.  Hefty responsibilities for both of us.  We share what we can while doing our bests to fulfill our sole obligations.

I am taking a break.  I need time to organize my life so I don't feel overwhelmed by the slightest setback.  I don't know when I'll be back; it could be a couple of days, a couple of weeks, or couple of months.

Perhaps this break will stop the unsettled feeling I have.  I'll let you know when I get back.  Until then, know that I will read here and there, and that I will think of all of you during the absence.  Hey, as the saying goes, "absence makes the heart grow fonder."  Or maybe that's intended for a different context.  Yeah, that's a bit awkward.

Anyway.  If I'm not back before the holidays, I wish all of you the best.  I'll see you when I see you.

The Devil Made Me Do It

I've always considered myself extroverted.  In my growing up years, I enjoyed chatting with my classmates and friends.  I didn't think anything of how I enjoyed reading a good book over hanging out with friends, I blamed my lack of time or lack of transportation.  Besides, my older sister constantly had friends in and out of the house.  I felt adequately socialized through my interactions with them.

The fear, though, the fear did confuse me.  The suffocating fear that I feel when I am going to an event all alone.  Without a friend or my husband.  That fear convinced me of my real tendency toward introversion.  But, as with all things, facing this fear helps me to grow.  At least I'd like to think so.

In February, I decided to attend Sue's bloganthropy brunch.  I mean, it sounded fun.  I would get to meet fellow bloggers, dine, and have a great time!  Sure, I didn't really know what "bloganthropy" meant, but I thought, what the heck?  Can't go wrong with a good time, right?  I signed the McLinky assuring the hosts that I would be attending.

Well, if you remember, February turned out to be a blue month.  Blue meaning SICK month.   So, on the eve of the brunch, after I had bought a few pastry items to share, I realized I couldn't go.  Ben wasn't able to watch the kids and both of them were sick! Besides, other kids were going to be there.  The mothers would have been horrified if I brought sickness in! Yes, I did manage to ignore the real reason I couldn't attend: my fear.

I shot of a quick e-mail to Sue explaining my situation and breathed in a sigh of relief.  There was always the next month.

March came rolling in much too fast.  Without warning, Kristina announced the next bloganthropy event: Snuggies for Seniors.  This fundraiser would also include a blog brunch.    Despite the fact it was being held at a buffet, I signed my name to the McLinky and immediately made plans to attend.

Two days before the event I realized what I had done.  I had agreed to attend a brunch, at a buffet, with my two kids, without knowing any person there previously.  I had basically signed a death warrant for myself.  Cause of death?  Heart attack.

I started thinking of millions of reasons why I couldn't come.  It was a 45 minute drive.  It was during nap and lunchtime.  Andrew is kind of fussy.  After confessing all these reasons to my husband, he told me I needed to decide.  If I didn't want to go, I really didn't have to go.

Decision time.

At 2 am I finally convinced myself I was going.  Even if I died of a stress induced heart attack, I was going to attend.

Attend I did.

I left reasonably early.  I didn't realize, though, that my directions were based on a route that would take me 20 minutes longer than I had calculated.  So, I was late.  Late!!  By the time I got there, I was sweating profusely and my heart was pounding.  I was on the verge of tears.  I sucked up the last of my courage, slung my humungous diaper bag and Emily on one arm, grabbed Andrews car seat with the other, and headed inside.  I am sure I was a sight to behold.

Inside I quickly (and luckily) located Kristina to ask her where everyone was congregated.  She pointed and I boldly marched into the room.

The rest of the memory is quite hazy.  I am sure I met a few people, said many embarrasing things, and managed to exude confidence.

After I left I promised myself to never do it again.

Except for one thing: I am now a member of the service soap box team.  Gulp.  This means I am going to do this whole meeting thing once a month.

This month's service event is a baby shower.   Not any baby shower, but a baby shower to benefit the March of Dimes Teddy Bear Den Program.  While it does have a pretty cool event planned, it also includes a virtual shower component! That way, if you don't live in Utah, or are absolutely terrified of other bloggers (like I am), you can donate this way!

What am I going to do? Well, I'm going to attend the shower of course.  Yes, I will be taking both kids, again, but at least I kind of know the other bloggers.  Kind of.  Well, I still have 16 days to prepare!

Anyone want to come with me?  I would really love the extra hands.

Ladies, Speak Up!

While in school,  I was usually never afraid of offering my opinion on a subject that I felt passionate about.  After thinking,  I would quietly raise my hand and poetically offer my thoughts.

Hah!  I wish.  Usually,  I chose to not speak unless my heart was racing so hard that I had to stammer out my piece.  Once I was finished,  I wouldn't speak for a week.  I always envied those who could state an opinion eloquently and without "ummms" and "sos."  After much reflection,  I realized that most of those speakers happened to be men.

Then I asked myself,  why were the men more eloquent.  More importantly,  why were the men not afraid to speak up?

Recently Mr. B's English professor told the men to shut up and the ladies to speak up.  She informed them [the ladies] that their opinions were needed as much as the boys.  She then related a story.

She described that in one class full of boys, with only 3 girls, she rarely heard from the ladies.  In an effort to get more participation from them, she summoned them to her desk after the bell rang and told them to write her a 1 page essay explaining why they didn't speak in class.  Their participation grade would be determined by this essay.

After receiving the essays back,  she found a disturbing trend.  The women felt uncomfortable speaking up because they felt their opinions had to be flawless and particularly brilliant.

Ladies:  I know what these girls are talking about.  I have felt this too.  Now I am asking you--why do we feel this way?

We live in a time when women have more rights than they have ever had before.  We see women in high positions of power.  We see women making waves.  We see women flaunting their brains rather than their bodies.  We see women being strong.

But.

There is still a lingering sense of inferiority.  For example, when I walk into a room full of men my palms begin to sweat,  my heart starts pounding,  and my head starts spinning.  These are physical responses to my tense, nervous feelings of insecurity.  I am afraid of these men.  They seem more powerful, more respected, than little old me.  They are confident.

Submom recently addressed this issue.  I found her thoughts especially well dictated.  Allow me to quote her.

"At first I thought that men are so good at “chiming in” and “making their points” at any meeting because they somehow were privy to this secret [of being intellectually confident enough to appear stupid sometimes]. Nah. Based on my years of ethnographic study of the male species in the corporate jungle, I believe that they are so good at “speaking up” because, unlike women who are often self-reflexive, most men never even consider the possibility that what comes out of their mouth may just be flat out the stupidest thing someone has ever heard of. See, they never apologize before they speak. The strength of not giving a damn. THAT is the Super Power I would like to have."

Me too, Submom, me too.

I Hate to Burst Your Bubble.....

but, I'm not perfect.

What?!!?! You Don't Have Cable?  I Wish I Were As Strong As You!

We may not have cable, but we have an on-line Netflix account that we log into daily (thanks, Mom!).  (Oh Netflix, how I love thee!)  If I wanted to, I could watch a full season's episodes of certain television shows.  I prefer to watch movies. As for the Queen,  when I am fixing dinner or trying to clean,  she watches Blue's Clues or the Jimmies.  Hey, I need her to stay out of things as much as the next Mom.

In that post, I didn't mention another reason for not having cable: I was afraid of the temptation.  I already spend inordinate amounts ignoring my children by blogging that I don't need another media outlet to distract me.  When thinking about getting cable all I envisioned myself in front of the television telling the Queen to stop playing so I could hear the TV.  I am already too absorbed in my own thoughts that I didn't need something to make me more mentally absent.

All You Need is Balance!

As Kristen mentioned,  one of my favorite words is balance.  At least it used to be.  I am still trying to achieve balance in my life,  but I am learning to let some things slide.

I used to dream of being the perfect mom, wife, and woman every night.  A mom whose attention is more focused on her children and not the internet.  A wife who doesn't get angry or become resentful with her husband over silly things.  A woman who doesn't excuse away her profession because of shame.

I am beginning to accept that perfection is not expected of me.  I will constantly be searching for balance.  I am just not as stuck on it as I used to be.

I Am Feeling Pretty Lazy These Days

I once wrote about waking up at 5 am to work out.  Oh the responses I got! Well, that regime lasted a total of 3 weeks.  I realized that when I began to dread the morning something needed to change. I am still working on that change.

I used to love the mornings.  I would rather wake up early than stay up late to finish an assignment.  I loved to watch the sun rise.  After I had children my schedule became whacked.  Right now, Manly enjoys staying awake until 1 or 2 AM.  Rather than resent his night time preference, I make a party out of it!  This only makes mornings that much harder.

Comments, Comments, Comments!!

Your thoughts on comments really made me think.  Thank you for expressing your opinions and validating my own need for comments.  Want to know a secret?  I'm kind of afraid of comments.  What if you tell me I'm wrong?  Point out my grammatical errors? Or, worse, express amazement at something I'm doing?

These fears are best faced head on. I guess blogging is a form of bravery, huh?

I think that is enough for today.  When I feel that you are once again putting me on some pedestal,  I will add to this list.  Hey, I may even have something substantial for you tomorrow!

Guest Post: Letter To Grace

Lindsey from A Design So Vast agreed to guest post for me today. I have been reading Lindsey's blog for a few months. Her writing always makes me shiver because she uncovers things that are appropriately uncomfortable.  She shares her perspective with incredible eloquence. Thank you, Lindsey, for participating.



Dear Grace,

Today is your first day of kindergarten. I honestly can’t believe it. Almost six years ago you knocked my planet into a new orbit, dented my universe, and changed me forever. You will always be the person who made me into a mother, and for that I can’t articulate my gratitude. In those dark days after you were born (I can wholeheartedly say that having a baby on the very day the clocks go back is not ideal timing) I can’t remember who cried more, and I can’t really tell which of us had the colic, but I do know that the plates inside of me were shifting in a very fundamental way. I have a lot of guilt and emotion about how those first weeks unfolded, but I’m not ultimately sure I would change them: we laid down some tracks that I’m glad we are on now, forged an alloy that has proven to be very strong.

You emerged into the world screaming and you haven’t stopped making your opinions known. I adore your openness, your curiosity, your eagerness to understand the world around you. You are generally outgoing, friendly, and quick to warm up. You approach the world with an open mind and open arms, ready to throw yourself into any experience and to greet any person with enthusiasm. You are as fond of the nice man at Starbucks as you are of your teachers, though you have very definite favorites: your grandparents and your friend Clio are at the top of your list right now.

Your physical fearlessness trumps even your emotional openness. You approach a physical challenge with confidence and coordination. You are full of energy and love to push yourself – this summer’s accomplishment was riding your bike without training wheels. When you tried to ride the bike two-wheeled last summer you fell off and quickly asked for your training wheels back. This summer you asked to try again (I deliberately did not bring it up) and the minute you had the bike to yourself you took off down the street without looking back. As cliched as it is, that is a formative moment for me – I remember my Dad running behind me on a gravel driveway in France and realizing suddenly that he had let go and that I was on my own … this time it was I who was the parent standing, watching you bike away.

You are desperate to learn to read and the gusto with which you apply yourself to this effort reminds me of when you decided you wanted to learn to write your name. Determined, you practiced and practiced, scrawling spidery “R”s that looked like jellyfish and clenching the tip of your tongue between your lips. You were so little and so determined; the same sense of absolute commitment permeates our attempts with the beginning readers today. You sound out words (wow, I did not remember how very hard that is) and try and try, sometimes guessing blindly (“Sam” – “sandwich? Sarah? someday?”) but often actually getting to the word, slowly and with great pain. The satisfaction that takes over your face when you get a word right is visible, your delight tangible.

You want so, so desperately to be “good,” to be liked, to play by the rules – the degree to which I identify with these desires is so close as to be painful for me. I watch you oscillate between the innocence of not knowing about rules, expectations, and norms, to suddenly being aware of them; sometimes the impact is like watching your wings be clipped, watching your spirit shrink. I wish I could keep you in a world where all that matters is your whim and the comfort of those around you, wish I could protect you from the onerous cloak of expectation and performance that the world is slowly pulling around your shoulders. And as much as I want to protect you from it, I know I’m pulling one of the corners. The conflicts of parenting. I want to celebrate your free spirit, your joy at devil-may-care adventure, your unbridled enjoyment of your own physical self and what it can do. But I also know I need to help you live within the world, and I know what it is to feel a deep need for approval.

I adore you, Gracie. I love watching you venture out into the world, love seeing that curious half-smile on your face as you hang back, assessing a situation quickly before plunging into it. The way you peer over the edge of the diving board for a moment before looking up, shaking your head quickly as if to rid yourself of anxiety the way a dog shakes off water, and then closing your eyes and cannonballing into the pool. The way you approach a wall of backpacks at Target and say to me, with no small amount of resignation but also no attempt to change my mind, “I guess no Hannah Montana or High School Musical, right, Mum?” The way you want to be Wonder Woman for Halloween and the way you rejected an all-girl party because you still think it’s fun to play with everyone in your class.

I’ve written a lot about your fierce independence and how much I admire and encourage it. I also, truth be told, love the moments when you still need me. Of course I want you to bike away from me, skilled and confident on your two-wheeler. But I also like when the only thing that makes a bruised knee better is my kiss, or when the middle of the night nightmare is soothed only by my special good-dream-head-rub. I realize what a tremendous blessing it is to be aggravated by your intense, constant need for my attention. The call to “please slow down, Mummy – you know if the police officer notices you are going too fast it will take a long time” is both super annoying and absolutely correct. There is so much that you do masterfully for yourself now, but you still want me to wash your hair for you, need me to tie your shoes, and hold your hand up instinctively for mine as we cross a parking lot.

I admire your wide-open attitude about your own life. Your openness to all kinds of friends, diverse in age, race, gender, religion, and socioeconomic background. It is my devout hope that you can maintain this. I am prouder than you can imagine when you announce that when you grow up you want to be, “An Olympic horseback rider, a doctor, and a mummy.” That’s a good trio, in my book. You make me laugh and you make me cry every single day. Your very existence marks life’s passage in a viscerally bittersweet way, but how would I know where I am without you to show me? I know I am sad sometimes, and when you ask me, “Mummy, why are you crying?” I always wish I could be a better, happier, more constant mother for you. I simply can’t, and I guess what I am teaching you there is that it is useless to fight certain inalienable parts of who we are.

I’ll pick you up today at 3 and will hear all about your first day of kindergarten. It’s equally as easy to remember October 2002 as it is to flash forward and imagine the day you graduate from high school. You and I feel perched on a fulcrum here, launching into Real Life, as you become more and more who you are each day. It is my honor to watch you unfold, Gracie, and I honestly believe my only task in life is to keep you alive and fed and loved. I think the seeds of who you will be – who you already are – were in you the day you were born, and the best thing I can do is stand back and let you grow. I hope I can demonstrate to you that there isn’t much in life that matters more than finding people you respect, work you love, and being as true to both of those as you can (and I’m not saying I’ve accomplished either, just that I’m engaged in the effort to do so). But ultimately I know I am neither your keeper nor your source; I am a passage you come through on your way to the Great Wide Open. On this day I feel distinctly privileged about that.

I love you. No matter what.

Mum