On Thursday night last week, I was starting to think getting off my anti-depressants was a horrible decision. My ears were buzzing. I’m not even sure I can explain it. It almost felt like my brain was buzzing. I’ve never had a symptom make me feel so crazy like that before. I literally wanted to stick a knife in my ear to stop the constant buzzing. I kept thinking to myself, this is CRAZY. I am CRAZY. I can almost understand how something like this would make people do something stupid. I think I went to bed at 8:30pm that night. Just to stop feeling like that. I told myself, if this is still happening in the morning, I will take a pill from the bottle still in my bathroom and I will go see my doctor.
In the morning, it was gone. It’d never happened before and it’s never happened since. I’ll tell you though…it scared me. I was so happy it was gone.
I went to my (already scheduled) endocrinologist appointment to give blood/drink the glucose of death and then went about the rest of my day.
By Friday afternoon, I was noticing something different. Even with as hectic a morning as I’d had, I, for the first time in weeks felt good. I texted my best friends: I feel like me today. I did. I felt clear headed. I wasn’t angry at anything. I didn’t want to punch a wall. I wasn’t having any side effects. The medication was officially out of my system and I felt great. I have felt good and clear headed ever since then.
Two weeks of major side effects was harsh. However, to be off medication? It was worth it. (I can say that now, since I feel better.) I do not know what will happen in the future. I can’t say that I will never need it again. I can’t even for sure tell you what my choice will be in four more weeks. How will I deal with winter? How will I deal with any major change in my life? These are unknowns for now. However, in the moment? I feel like myself. And that makes me happy.
I dream about Poland.
It’s silly actually, as I’ve never been. Yet, every now and again, I still have this dream that I’ve had for the better part of fifteen years. I’ve pieced together an entire dream in my head, from photos online, random movies and old stories my grandfather told me as a child. I dream of walking down streets I’ve never walked on. Seeing buildings that I’ve only seen in photographs. I dream of meeting family somehow who I well know doesn’t exist. It’s a pipe dream. This I know.
Yet? I still want to go. I want to see the world that my father’s family escaped from. I want to walk down the streets that my great-grandma walked on at my age. I want to search and see if there are any records of them being there. In a way, I want to know where I come from. On my mothers side, every detail is available from the one enslaved boy who came over in the time of the Mayflower. My fathers side is a big blank slate. It appears my family just came into being when they reached Ellis Island.
I’m 31 years old. I’ve had this dream for 15 years. I’ve wanted to go to Poland, even longer than that. Today is the day I start making that a reality. Heck, it may take me five years to save the money for the kids and I to go…but that’s okay. I just opened a new savings account. It’s my Poland fund. Between now and then, I have to figure out exactly where I should go. I have to find a way to know what our last name was before they changed it. I don’t know exactly how to do this yet, but I’ll get there eventually.
One day, I’ll walk the streets of Poland. One day.
1. There is a schizophrenic moth in my living room. I’ve tried killing him about 15 times so far. But he’s too fast for me. He’s making me kinda crazy. Right now I wish I had a crazy kitten to chase him, instead of a sleeping dog who looked at me like I was nuts when I asked her to get the bug.
2. I’m sitting here watching my phone. Have you ever tried to will a phone to ring? I am hoping for good job news. It could be a very long day.
3. According to my ex-husband, potty training didn’t go so great this weekend. As in, it barely went at all. Basically the boy is pretty unaware of his need to use the bathroom. He also seemingly finds it funny when he needs to be changed, say on an airplane. Ahem. (Is it wrong that I laughed and though, thank god it wasn’t me?) We were going to give it another month, but at this point it’s looking like a week. Then we’ll go back into diapers for a while, although we’ll keep working on it. But all underwear all the time, isn’t working out so well.
Last night while waiting in line at a Kohls a woman asked me if I was aware that my eye was crossed. Kinda rude, yes. Accurate, yes. But hello, I am 31 years old, I’m quite aware that my eyes cross, since they’ve done it my ENTIRE LIFE!
At first it made me wonder what in the world is wrong with people. Why the heck does a 45 yet old woman have worse manners than my two year old? Didn’t her mother teach her manners? Didn’t anyone tell her what I tell my kids? That everyone has feelings and some things that you think don’t need to be said outloud? ESPECIALLY RUDE THINGS? Apparently not. She’s not alone in this. People have told me about my eyes my entire life. As if they are telling me something new. As if I am somehow blissfully unaware of my own eyes. At times I’ve been rude back, but mostly I just say, yes I am aware and I move on.
It made me wonder though, what is so wrong with the fact that my eyes cross at times? How is it affecting anyone at all? Why does it matter?
The only answer I could come up with, is that we as a culture want perfection. Or the idea of perfection. Your eyes aren’t perfect, fix them. You need glasses, put contacts in. God forbid one should wear those ugly glasses.Your nose is slightly large, make it look like Lord Voldemort’s. Doesn’t everyone want a non-existent nose like Lord Voldemort? You are too thin, eat. You are too fat, starve yourself. You have two grey hairs, you’d better start coloring your hair forever. Grey is ugly, you know?
Why though? Whose idea of perfection are we trying to live up too?
In reality, I could do the surgery. But why? It’s a cosmetic surgery. It wouldn’t help my vision at all. It may only slightly help the crossing. I’ve had the surgery once. It was necessary at three years old for me to be able to see. It’s not necessary now. Why should I have a non-necessary surgery, just to please other people? It can’t really harm anyone’s life that my eyes occasionally cross, right? They act like it does. You should have surgery to fix “that” they say, like I have a third ear.
Why though? Why can’t my crossed eye stay? Why is it offensive to people?
We shouldn’t be made to feel bad about our imperfections. Our imperfections are what makes us, us. We should be allowed to celebrate them. They are a part of us, how can they be so horrible?
I think of mine like battle wounds. I’ll tell you quite honestly I’m proud of most of them.
My eyes cross. Most likely because of how sick my mom was while pregnant with me. I was a full placenta previa. She was on bed rest with me the last three months of her pregnancy and was anemic and bleeding the entire time. Back in those days they didn’t catch it as early and I ended up lacking in key nutrients. That’s the theory at least. My mother and I almost died when I was born. This is my battle wound. My crossed eyes are my battle wound. I’m proud of them. It reminds me that I’m lucky. That I could have no vision. Or something else. My eyes remind me. They remind me when they cross. They remind me when I look in the mirror and see my slightly sagging right eye lid. That eye is the worst. It reminds me and I smile.
I wear glasses, because I hate contacts. I also wear glasses because I like the way they look on me. I have horrible vision. I’ve been told it is a miracle that I can see at all. A miracle that my mom found a child eye specialist when I was six months old, instead of believing the regular eye doc who said my eyes weren’t fixable. I’ve worn glasses since 18 months old. I’m rather fond of them. They remind me of that miracle. They remind me of my mom, who didn’t take no as an answer.
Shoulder scars. Three of them from a surgery to fix my shoulder after a horrible car accident in 2002. I am proud of them. They remind me that I lived. That life is precious. That cars can be dangerous and I always need to be careful. It’s a part of me.
I have a scar on my right hand. Five stitches as a four year old, when my then two year old brother accidentally put the car into drive on a hill. It reminds me of that story. The story about me being bossy and telling him to pull the car over if he couldn’t drive it. Of him yanking on the steering wheel and running us into a truck. The truck that saved us from the very busy street below. Five stitches.
I have grey hairs that I mostly won’t cover. Why? Because I think they add character. I’ve earned them this past ten years. I got the first few after the car accident when the constant ibuprofen gave me bleeding ulcers. They’ve continued to appear since then. Maybe it’s a sign of age. Maybe it’s genetics. Maybe it’s because I worry too much. Yet, I don’t cover them. Battle wounds, you see?
I’m 31 years old. I am proud of who I am most days. I celebrate my battle wounds. They made me who I am today. Am I perfect? no. But what is perfect anyway?
1. I own all eight seasons of Charmed. What can I say, I love bad TV shows.
2. I always say that Logan is the reason that I owned own tons of Super Hero Movies…however, now he’s not around and um, I still plan on seeing all the ones that come out this summer. You know, if the world doesn’t end.
3. Sometimes when I can’t beat a level on Angry Birds, I text my best friend Liz and she walks me through it. Other times? I watch the video of how to beat it on YouTube. Yes, I am an Angry Birds cheat.
4. I toss my kids toys that annoy me when they are with their dad. When they ask for whatever it was, I always say, I don’t know…maybe you need to take better care of your stuff.
5. I had a drink last night, even though the label on my PCOS meds says not too. It was a test drink. Luckily I had no problems.
6. I spit my gum out of the car window. I only do it on highways or very main streets though. I do have littering standards. I’ve never littered anything else in my life though.
7. I bit my cuticles. I bit my nails until about six years ago and stopped, but I can’t seem to stop biting the cuticles.
8. I despise talking on the phone so much that I picked our new doctors office for the very fact that you can email them for an appointment.
That’s all I’m willing to admit to. Just in case the crazy old dude is wrong. Which I’m sure he is. If not, well I’m sure I will be able to go to brunch on Sunday without a wait. YAY FRENCH TOAST!!!
Feel free to confess if you need too.
–There are only 12 days left of school. It sneaks up on me every year. Not that it really matters, because Harrison will stay where he is and the girls will go to day camp for the same amount of hours a week. But still. 12 days. No more homework. Later mornings. Knowing that my kids are having fun every day? Yeah. We’re ready.
–One of my favorite new shows from this season was canceled. Off The Map. Man, I adored it. Good story line. Great characters. It makes me grouchy when they cancel something after half a season, without even really giving it a shot. Even worse? They are bringing back Two and a Half Men. Because that makes complete sense. I now remember why I don’t watch the shows that they start halfway through the season. Those tend to be the ones they cancel first.
–I have a new grill. By have, I mean my step-dad brought it down and left it and I’m now claiming it as mine. I love it. It’s easy to use and easy to clean. I’ve used it three times already this week. Last night, after watching an episode of Barefoot Contessa, I made bruschetta on the grill. Did you know that you can do that? I surely didn’t. Everything is better on the grill.
That’s pretty much all I’ve got. It’s Monday. That’s a good reason for just about anything today right? It’s Monday?
Mother’s Day…man in some ways it’s such an annoying holiday. Very Hallmark. It makes people feel bad about themselves and their life and I’ve never liked that part of it.
It’s easy for me to say that though, because I have a great relationship with my mother and I have three kids who I absolutely adore. I know this. I understand how lucky I am. I know it’s not easy for a lot of people. I know it, because I have that issue on Father’s Day. However, we’ll get to that next month.
Being a mother is the most important thing to me. Most of the time it’s the only thing I feel even half good at. As a child it was the only thing I really wanted to be. I work harder at it than any other thing in my life. Maybe we all do. Maybe that’s just part of being a parent.
Because I work at home, I don’t have to get dressed in the morning. Yet, for my girls I half do it anyway. Snce I no longer need to walk them in, I make sure my face is clean, my hair is up and my shirt is clean. I do this for them. Because I don’t care, but they do. Because they want me to look semi-presntable. It’s important to them at nine and six years old. So I do it. My son doesn’t care if I walk him into daycare in yoga pants. My sweet boy doesn’t care what he wears much less anyone else. I concede for my girls.
Because that’s what we do.
We make lunches and get snacks when we just want to watch TV. We read more and more books to our kids, even though we likely can’t remember the last book we read to ourselves. We get up early on weekend mornings and feed small people, when we’d rather sleep.
We work the shittier job because it allows us more working time at home, which at times can actually be helpful since kids are freaking petri dishes. We clean up after them. We clean them up when they get sick. We put out own illness aside when they are sick.
We get up and rub backs at 2am when someone has a bad dream. We get more water for tiny kids who we know will then be up to pee an hour later. We go and sit at dance, soccer, swimming and t-ball for hours a week…even though we take none of those things. We buy toys that make noise because it makes them happy. We buy candy that makes them turn into lunatics because we know it passes. We spend our weekends driving kids from one birthday party to another.
We play board games that we despise and play whatever game they’ve made up, even when we know we need to be doing other things. We go to Disney movies and have no clue what else is possible playing in the theater. We watch the same episode of a show or the same movie over and over and over again. We argue with tiny tyrants about which blue cup is acceptable to them. We argue with bigger tyrants about sundresses not being acceptable attire in WINTER BAILEY!
We do it because we have too. We even do it without too much complaining.
Mostly though? We do it because we love them. Because they are our babies and we adore them. Because we know that they deserve all of this and more. So much more. And that my friends? Is what being a mother is really about. It’s not really about the day that happens to be this coming Sunday. It’s about what we do every single day. I am not just a mother on Sunday. I became a mother the first time that stick showed a plus sign, a little over ten years ago. Every day since then, I have been a mother.
This Sunday, I will celebrate my mother. Because she is amazing and deserves it. I will celebrate my kids, because they are amazing and deserve it. I will be happy to just be with them, the three little rugrats who made me a mother.
I hope all of you have a fabulous mother’s day. One filled with breakfast in bed, flowers and cards. One filled with smiling happy kids.
This summer I’m going to find a new job. Or a new career. Or both.
This summer I’m going occasionally eat DQ ice cream for dinner.
This summer I’m going to make bedtimes later for the girls.
This summer I’m going to take my daughters on sushi and movie dates. I’m going to take my kids on dates, one on one. I’m going to take my son to the zoo aquarium and my daughters to malls and museums.
This summer I’m going to go to BlogHer. I’m going to hug old friends and meet new ones. I’m going to go to parties and actually attend a few sessions this year.
This summer I’m going to finally meet my best friend Lu in person.
This summer watermelon, cherries and strawberries will fill my fridge.
This summer for the first time in years, I’m going to host the 4th of July BBQ at my house.
This summer I’m going to buy a baseball cap and stop sunburning my head. I’m also going to carry sunscreen on my person at all times. I’m going to try and act like I live in the Mile High City for the first time in four years.
This summer, I will make slushies a regular occurrence. I will make cupcakes for no reason and buy Popsicles often.
This summer I will make fun for my kids, despite the fact that they have to be in day camp. This summer I will have fun, despite the fact that I have no time off of work.
This summer will be great. Whenever it finally gets here. Snow tomorrow? Really Colorado? Really? Ahem.
What are you excited about for summer this year?
He loves to spring the hard stuff on me at random times. My brother, he’s good at that.
We’d been hanging out at his house for a few hours. I’d played with his dog and kitties. My step-sister had come and gone. We were getting ready to go out to eat when he said it. So…I know more about our brother. Which brother I asked? (Legit question. As we have a brother that we don’t see (his family is his drugs) and a step-brother monster that I choose not to see.) The brother we have never known, was his answer.
*silence*
Oh that one. The one my dad helped create, yet never cared a second for. The one my step-mom said had been given up for adoption at birth by his mother, in Sweden no less. That brother. Huh. For a minute I considered just changing the subject. Of course, my curiosity never lets me do that. Okay dude, tell me.
What she (step-mom) told us was complete bull crap. He wasn’t adopted. His mother kept him.
I am not surprised by any of those things actually. You’d think I would have been. But no. I know my step-mom is a liar. Even in a drunken rampage of everyone’s emotions she can still pick and choose what she says.
But then he dropped the bomb. He lived in the Valley his entire life.
For those who don’t know? The Valley is the San Fernando Valley in California. It’s a large part of Los Angeles. Mere miles from where I grew up. Say 15 at most. I have relatives who live in The Valley. I spent a lot of time there as a child. Apparently my little brother lives there. Always has.
Here’s the thing though. My bro and I? We’ve (since finding out ten years ago) always wondered how we could find him. Now, we know where he lives. We know people who knew his mother back then and all logic tells us that they know her now. At least they could tell us her name and we could search her out.
I’ve spent ten years trying to remember her name, as I do remember her. She was a passing figure in my dad’s life for a month or two when I was five years old. Yet, I can’t seem to remember.
We talked about this the entire walk to dinner. We talked about finding him. About knowing him. About the probability that he’s the spiting image of my dad. We wondered how tall he might be. If he has other siblings. What he’s done with his life. All valid questions.
Except for one thing. He’s 25 years old. (Or maybe 24. Hard to know exactly.) He’s never come looking for our dad or for us. There is a very good possibility that he was raised by a man who he believes to be his dad.
While we know that in time we could get the right people drunk and find out his mother’s name and locate him…the true question is, how do we ruin someone’s life like that? Just because we want to know him, doesn’t mean he’d want to know us.
We have no answers. We may never do a thing. Maybe just knowing he was raised in the same area as we were, is enough. That he wasn’t given up in Sweden. Maybe knowing that he’s alive and could easily locate us if he wanted too, is enough.
I know how to be a good sister to my bro. We were raised together. I know what he means when he says something odd. I know he’s the only person more stubborn than me and that’s saying a lot. I know that when he calls me late at night, he’s lonely. I know that he’s one of the hardest working men in this world. I know that he tells everyone he doesn’t want kids, but will make an amazing dad one day. I know him. He knows me. We are very close.
We decided to sit on this decision for awhile. Maybe a few years. We both said, we’d let it go for now. Until we have an answer to the question, if it were us, would we want to meet us? Would we want two adults showing up and claiming to be long lost siblings, if we’d never been told our dad wasn’t our real dad? If we knew nothing, would we want two strangers ruining the life we thought we had?
Until we know, we wait.
Do you ever wonder what happens to people? The ones who fall off the Internet? The people you consider friends, who are there one day and not the next?
I had this friend a few years ago. Kim. Ponytails Kim. She and I were close for say six-seven months. The last four months of my pregnancy to Harrison and a few months after. She may not know it, but she helped me get through that pregnancy. Her humor helped me get through what was a very rough pregnancy. She cracked me up on a daily basis.
She has three girls, each a bit older than each of my kids and we’d trade funny kid stories. We’d chat on Gmail thought out the week. Every day, I looked forward to talking to her. She was, at the time, my life vest.
Then one day, when Harrison was maybe two month old she was just gone. I tried emailing her. Nothing. I waited a bit and tried again. Nothing. For a long time I worried that something I’d said had run her off. Then I started wondering what could have happened to her. Still, all this time has passed and I’ve never seen her around again.
I still hope that she shows up one day.
She’s not the first and I know she won’t be the last. Blogging is a hobby for most of us and after a time, people tend to get bored with it. They close up shop. Sometimes saying goodbye, sometimes going away into the night, never to be seen from again. I’ve been doing this a long time. 2005 was when I started blogging. I’ve seen more people come and go than I can even begin to tell you. But the ones who just disappear? I always wonder about them.
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