I don’t even know what to say. Please forgive me in advance if this is rambly and makes no sense. I am not doing good right now. Haven’t been for over a week. There are things going on right now, things in my face that I am trying to deal with that I just can’t discuss right now. It’s taking every thing in me to just survive.

I know I don’t have to blog. This is not a job, it’s a hobby. I don’t get paid to write; I have no contractual obligation. However, you are my friends and I do feel like I owe you something. Some truth, some knowledge about what I’m going through, so you at least know why I’m not around much.

I love this space, I love writing. I don’t have words right now.

I am struggling to get out of bed each day. To take care of my kids. To manage the seemingly HUGE task in front of me. To heal.

I am not sleeping. I am barely eating. There is a very angry T-Rex sitting on my chest, making it hard for me to breath. My kids, my husband and my best friend/life line are keeping me going right now. It’s a struggle. It’s hard right now.

Before it’s asked, yes I am in therapy, yes I am taking my now upped meds. I am okay. Truly. Don’t worry, I’m not going off the deep end. I’m just dealing with some heavy shit. Some old shit that needs to be dealt with.

I don’t have words. I’ll be around, as always. I’ve commented on some blogs and then others I just can’t. I spend a little time on Twitter and then I just can’t. I’m doing the best I can right now. I hope you’ll understand and give me some time.

Alex,

Today most people would say that you are one years old. Your sisters have been trying to get you to hold up one finger for over a week now. Your daddy keeps asking you how old you are and you laugh at him.

Me? Well here’s the truth son. I’m not going to admit that you are one. If I say it, it’s real. Instead I came up with a brilliant idea. I will tell people that you are just 12 months. After today, I’ll tell them, oh he’s twelve months and change. It should work for a while.

Yesterday you had shots. You know… for your 12 month visit. Anyway, the shots gave you a fever in the afternoon and you spent the majority of it, laying on me. You weren’t crying, you weren’t interested in doing a single solitary thing, except laying on me. It made me happy. I know, I shouldn’t say that, but it did. Even though you are no longer that 8.6 pound butterball that we brought home. Even though you are now a 22 pound brute of a boy, it made me happy to have you laying on my chest, like you did for the first few months of your life.

Every day, every single moment,  for the past 365 days, I have been grateful for you. You are one of the three shining lights in my life.

As a third child you have done and been given certain things that your sisters had to wait for. What can I say? You get tired by the third kid.  *shrug* Let’s just put it this way dude. You love to eat Cheetos that I um…possibly put on the floor for you. You’ve had more dairy in the past month than your sisters had by the time they were two. We have, as of last week weaned you of bottles, but I honestly may let you keep those binky’s until college if you want. I don’t mind if you suck on my phone, empty all the Tupperware or jump on the bed. You get the joy of a third time mama. A tired mama.  A mama who knows that none of this will harm you. A mama who knows that 10 minutes of peace, is worth the mess.

You love to eat just about anything (I wish you’d stop trying to eat Lil’s food. She’s a dog. You are a boy. Enought said.) and I have this problem with not giving it too you. You don’t scream if I don’t, but you look at me with those puppy dog eyes and your little bottom lips quivers a bit. I hand you whatever it was, that I had just told you I wasn’t going to give you. Don’t get used to it, okay? I can be a hard ass. Just not yet.

Moving on…you have been the baby that makes people say, oh I should have a baby. You daddy likes to say that had you been first, we’d be like the Duggars by now. He’s delirious, but it is funny. For the first six months of your life, I was afraid for you. I was afraid that you were too perfect. That I’d lose you somehow because you were too perfect. Then you turned six months old. You learned to crawl. You stopped sleeping well. You learned how to get into everything. You learned how to annoy your sisters to no end. I think at that point, I stopped worrying about you a bit.

We call you baby Destructo. It’s very fitting. You are all boy and all toddler these days, which is normal. You are very, very, very destructive. Nothing is safe. Nothing. You love to tear apart papers, unload drawers, over turn plants and pretty much you leave a trail of destruction wherever you go. If I lose you in the house (not that I’ve ever done that. ahem) I can easily find you, by following the stuff. The remotes, magazines torn to bits, your sister’s shoes, tampons; all leave a trail to wherever you happen to be wreaking havoc in the moment.

However, you are easily entertained by two matchbox cars. You can sit for an hour and toss the dog a tennis ball down the hall. She loves you best by the way. This is new for me, this ability to entertain yourself. You are better at sitting and entertaining yourself that either of your sisters are at five and nearly eight years old.You sisters both adore you as well. Most the time at least.

You are quiet and serious. Your dad and I have spent literally hours (possibly days) trying to make you smile. You like to laugh at us, but you are not so quick with the smiles. You are a thinker. I don’t mind that. One drama queen and one comedian is enough for one family. I’ll take a serious thinker. The truth is, you are just like your daddy. I ddin’t realize how much until your grandma told me so. She said, eh, he’s nothing, he’s just fine, don’t worry. We didn’t think Logan liked us until he was two. We kept expecting him to walk out and find a new family. Your grandma’s a funny lady.

Smooshy, I can’t imagine my life without you in it. Your daddy and sisters feel the same way. I can not believe that you’ve been here an entire year. If feels like you were always here. Always one of us.

Happy first birthday Smoosh.

Love you to bits,

Mama

by Issa, my blog title has crazy in it for a reason.

I do most of my grocery shopping at a Super Target, not to far from my house. Mostly, because I don’t like having to go to three stores. It has a full grocery store in it and that makes me happy. Also, I am lazy.

I was waiting in line at the pharmacy. It being Sunday around noon, there was about five people in front of me in line. I wait with the kids for a good fifteen minutes. Right as it was almost my turn a guy comes up, walks right past everyone in line and goes directly to the pharmacist. I just shook my head in disbelief. The woman behind me started to say something, but I can guarantee you this guy wasn’t paying attention. By then their were about six people behind me in line.

I wish I was one of those people who thought of the great one line to say to people, in the moment. I’m not. I’m the, think of a great line at 2am the following morning, when the time for saying it to anybody but Logan, is long gone. I wanted to call the man names, that’s for sure. I DM’ed Liz that I wanted to call the man a fucktard, but it occurred to me that I didn’t want Harrison to learn to say that, not so close to the holidays. It wasn’t even that he took up time, because he was done in a few minutes. It’s that people feel so entitled to cut in front of a line full of people. Because god forbid he needs his medications more that the rest of us.

I wish I’d told him to be careful, that I was picking up my crazy meds and I hadn’t had any yet. It’d of been a lie though. Mostly, I wanted him to not be a fucktard. To somehow magically learn at probably fifty years old that he is not the only human being on the face of the planet. That the sun does not rise and set out of his ass. I said nothing.

I continue shopping knowing I am forgetting things, but I can’t seem to find my list. I am feeling stabby and can’t even remember what Logan wanted to make for dinner. I argue with Bailey about why I’m not buying Rice Krispy treats, fruit snacks and cookies. She can pick one. Then I explain to her why I’m not even looking at Halloween costumes in freaking September. I debate giving Harrison to the kind woman in the isle, when he starts screaming at me, since I took away his pacifier. Instead, I give back the pacifier.

I then leave and go to where I was going to pick up sandwiches for lunch only to stand in a line of 35 people. I know it was Sunday at lunchtime, but I’ve never been there when it was this packed. It wouldn’t have bothered me normally, but I was already feeling grouchy. I’m pretty sure I yelled at my kid for looking at me. Mom of the year, I am not.

Get home and the first thing Logan says is Iss, where’s the charcoal? It was on the list. I wave the list at him, I’d just found it sitting on the kitchen counter. You mean this list?

I then realize that I’m missing peppers, onions and avocados, which were all ingredients we needed for dinner. I decide we are likely having grilled cheese again for dinner, because there is no way I am going back to any store today.

Logan unpacks the last few bags as I go change Harrison’s diaper. He comes in to the bedroom and shows me a DVD. Why’d you get this, he asks? He’s laughing at me. I’d be laughing at me too. He’s holding up The House Bunny. Click on it, if you want. It’s safe for work. However it’s a movie about a play-boy bunny, not a Disney flick.

BAILEY, I yell. What mama, she asks? What is this? How did we get home with this? You bought it for me, she says. I asked you if I could have the Barbie movie and you said yes, so I handed it to the lady.

I did. I told her she could have the Barbie movie. I thought she meant the new Barbie movie. Barbie dwells with the unicorn trolls in the universe of duh. (Yes, I’m sure that’s the name of the new Barbie movie.) I just never looked at the actual movie. I’m sure the check out lady thought I was insane to buy my five year old the Play Boy Bunny movie. In the moment, I’d been trying to get Harrison to relinquish control of my phone so I could DM Liz again. I hadn’t even looked at the movie I purchased.

I’m almost embarrassed to take that DVD back. I’m not sure what to do with it. Giving it to charity, doesn’t seem right either. I don’t think that would be helping anyone.

SO, in conclusion, these are all great reasons for why I shouldn’t ever, ever, ever have to go to the grocery store again.

Or at least great reasons for why I shouldn’t take children with me to the grocery store. Maybe I should limit myself to taking the older, helpful shopper child next time. Nah. I’m done. I quit.

Dang it, I need milk. Hmmm, I see a trip to the store in my near future.

I count little white pills. That’s how I know when I’m not doing so great; when I count pills. Six left. Now five left. Five little tiny pills left. I make a mental note to call in my refill on Friday.

I didn’t think it would be like this two years later. PPD is what they said, in July two years ago. Post Partum Depression. Even though I had no baby to show for it. Just a broken heart and a half filled drawer of silly onesies. I thought as time went by, it would go away. PPD does. Or so I’ve been told.

Here I sit though, two years and two months later, counting little pills. I count them, when I’m having a shitty time. I count them so I know when to get more. I count them, because the new ones will be a bit stronger. I count them, because they are my security blanket.

I see women all pregnant right now and I have to not pay attention. I walked into kids stores this past weekend with Liz and tried not to cringe as I looked over all the baby stuff. Right now, I should know what my baby was going to be. I should be buying little onesies and socks. I should be telling Harrison about his baby brother or sister and watching him laugh at me, like a loony, because what does a nearly one year old child understand about new babies anyway? I should be preparing for my Christmas baby, arguring with my husband over names. But I’m not.

It’s not as bad this time. A five week misscarriage is not as bad as a fourteen week one. But what’s bad? How do you characterize bad? In some ways, I’ve done better. In others I feel worse. Two babies lost forever is harder than one baby lost forever. I dream about them, but even in my dreams, I never get to touch them.

It’s not all sad, my life. I have weeks that are great. I adore my children. They make me smile, even on my worst days. I get out of bed every day. I take care of my family. My heart has healed in a lot of ways. My mind and emotions have healed in a lot of ways. But some weeks are rough. This one happens to be one. A week where getting out of bed is a chore. A week where making dinner seems as challenging as running a marathon. A week where I just want to hide. Part of it right now, is vacation-itis. I have that big time right now. The week after a great vacation is always sad and depressing. Reality sits in.I know this, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

I watch my husband get up and leave each morning. He comes home late and then we go to bed. I haven’t spent any real time with him in over two weeks. I roll over and look at him each morning and I miss him before he even gets up to shower. It won’t always be like this, but it is right now. Yesterday I cried as he showered. I cried on the way home from taking the girls to school on Monday and Tuesday. I cried on Sunday, after Liz borded her plane.

Today is a better day, I know this, because I haven’t cried. Tomorrow maybe I won’t even count little white pills.

I’m sure I shouldn’t post this. I needed to write though. I need you all to know why I’m not really present this week, even though I’m technically here. I’d not open comments, but I honestly don’t know how to turn them off. Plus, I just told Stacey yesterday, that she shouldn’t ever close comments again, so I’d be a meany to do it myself. Just know, I really am okay. I really will be okay in a few days. I’m just having a week.

Numbered even, because I like a good list.

1. It was hotter in Vegas in September than I thought it would be. It was also hotter than it has been at all this entire summer here. We never got above 95 degrees here. It was 103 all three days in Vegas. At one point we decided to walk part of the strip. Outside. At 1pm. Yes, we are smart women. My blisters however, might disagree with that statement. We possibly could have swam, but the water had to be 95 degrees too. Didn’t seem worth it.

2. The Hilton may not be the most exciting hotel in Vegas. However, the beds were amazing and worth it completely.

3. There were little strange men following me around all the time.

4. I heart the Bellagio. It’s funny to walk into a hotel and not hear the slots. We managed to see the fountain at night, walk through a garden and eat gelato in a quiet hallway for an hour, before we made ourselves go back into the sea of people. It’s just so refreshing. Like we left Vegas for a while.

5. I heart Gelato. Especially half Dulce de Leche and Melon. Dude, don’t knock it till you try it.

6. Mostly though, I heart Liz. Like completely. I was super sad to come home. I *may* have cried this morning.

7. Kari was in Vegas this weekend too, but I never managed to see her. I hear that Vegas kicked her ass though. Ahem.

8. We ate a Paradise grill two times too many and sadly, didn’t find paradise there.

9. You might have a gambling problem when you want football tips from the non-sports fan mother who lives in Colorado. Just sayin, mr. cab driver dude.

That’s all I’ve got. Or at least that’s all I’m sharing. You all know, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Or at least that’s what the 70 year old couples, matching t-shirts said at the airport.

This has nothing to do with Vegas, but I found it sorta funny. This morning, I had an email from someone who decided to spend the time to email me and tell me why she would be taking me out of her Google Reader from here on out. Cool, you know, whatever, unsubscribe. I have no way of knowing. But taking the time to email me and tell me that you are doing it, seems weird. Maybe like she wants me to ask her why or ask her to re-subscribe. Neither of which I plan on doing.