Almost as though I fell off a wall.
May 3, 2011
Once again I’ve let time get away from me.
Should I talk about the Osama death?
Should I talk about being a home mommy?
Should I talk about the things Molly is accomplishing every single day?
Should I talk about the realization that I’ve been away from my first born for 7 months now?
Should I talk about how things aren’t quite right in my head – I’m too near tears on a daily basis now for things to be right… and at the same time I’m happy in many ways.
Should I talk about all of this?
I guess that’s the problem with having limited computer access – oh, don’t take me wrong – I CAN get on a computer every day if I want to… but it’s upstairs and I’m downstairs and finding enough time to think that doesn’t feel like it should be devoted to cleaning or sleeping is hard… and it means that when I do take a few moments out I’m searching and stretching to make some sense out of the mental notes I’ve added to my ‘rolodex’ the past few weeks.
In short? I’m clueless.
Clueless about what to say.
And what to do.
I’m overwhelmed by small tasks like laundry and cooking dinner and am increasingly aware that I’m just not carrying my weight in the way that I imagined I would.
Being away from Abbey means my views on being here with Nick and Molly have taken a very real, very different tone than they may have otherwise.
It’s hard.
So while the world goes on their semi-political rampages this week with the news of Osama’s assassination and while Molly imitates my funny voices that amuse her so much and while Abbey hurtles towards the end of her middle school years, I wait. I’m just not sure for what.
the new joys.
February 13, 2011
Hi.
First off, let me introduce myself.
I’m Lish – the person that used to write here, that got knocked up, VERY pregnant and eventually had a baby that has been eating up all of her time.
Actually, the baby has been eating everything.
She – her name is Molly – is a comfort eater and apparently I’m the best shaped pacifier in the known universe.
I’d feel flattered, but the lack of sleep just makes my brain mushy and mostly my biological clock just likes to jump out and cuddle her big ole baby cheeks.
I think I could fit her whole face in my mouth if I didn’t think the authorities would consider that child abuse.
But really, can you blame me?
Molly and my husband's creepy toes.
Pay no attention to Nick’s creepy feet. He can’t help it.
Unfortunately for her, Molly has inherited them – luckily they’re cute when you’re only 5 weeks old.
Yep, 5 weeks.
5 weeks since one of the most memorable days of my life.
The Day of Pain.
The day the epidural phoned it in. Which isn’t true, but had they checked me before they’d given me the epidural I’d have had to go au natural – as it was, the thing didn’t kick in until about 7 minutes after she was born, but that just means I didn’t feel my stitches and didn’t have to walk for the first hour or so.
NIIICE.
I won’t really describe the event, except to say that being able to feel enough that I could tell her head was out while her body kicked on the inside is in the category of FREAKING WEIRD.
Now that I’m over feeling like I’m dying, I totally dig that memory.
So far Molly is a dream baby.
She rarely cries, sleeps 4 hours at a stretch, is cheerful and easily entertained and is just so chill about everything that comes up.
I think I could have a million of them just like her if I could avoid the pregnancy bit, but so far everyone tells me that’s sort of a requirement.
Darn it.
So I’m enjoying this staying at home bit.
Though my youngest would trade me for her daddy at every point in the day but dinnertime, I think that bonding with her like this is going to remain on the list of top favorite things I’ll experience in my life.
I wish I’d had this chance with Abigail – but life is life is life.
And life is good.
Busy and very good.
In fact, I’m being paged right now.
For the next thirty minutes or so, she’ll LOVE me.
I can’t feel my toes.
December 7, 2010
The cold weighs on me.
I suppose it does on any southern transplant that finds their way into a frozen Siberia.
It’s a good thing Minneapolis is a civilized city or I would die without food – the nearest grocery is less than a mile from me and that has literally saved our lives.
I probably wouldn’t venture much further in cold like this.
I know, I know.
I’m being overdramatic.
I think it’s my right, being 9 months pregnant, a big baby, and freezing to boot!
There are fun things about the weather.
I love watching the snow fall.
I like waking up to the white everywhere and seeing the kids play in it.
I like the idea that my daughters will know what real snowfall is and will be able to make a snowman more than once in their lives.
I also find it odd that the apartment complexes all have their own little machines for ice/snow removal on the pavement. The complex next to us owns their own bulldozer! or backhoe. Technically I think it’s a backhoe, but my brain is really too frozen to think about it much.
My daughter comes to visit in less than 2 weeks and I’ve never been so excited in all my life. There really aren’t words to explain how much you can miss someone until you’re missing one of your children.
Missing Nick was bad – but livable. I found a new normal with our separation that I’m struggling with in this separation from Abigail.
I have not had an adult day where I have not been her parent and very few kid days – I’ve been her mom for half of my life at least and that makes an impact.
So we’re learning something new – hopefully not something forever. I think we’d both go to pieces a little bit at that. I worry about her.
BUT! That’s neither here nor there – we’re not walking down that path today.
Today we’re cold.
Looking forward to her visit.
Putting off Christmas shopping and unpacking.
And enduring Braxton Hicks contractions.
Those painless little contractions that are currently stoving up my uterus and making me want to punch the small schoolchildren outside of my window.
I’m so glad they’re painless.
(Don’t worry, the kids are safe from me, because, as I may have mentioned – it’s COLD out there.)
Pregnancy is progressing. 35 1/2 weeks now means that the time is rushing up on us.
I wish I had her nursery ready or her clothes washed or even enough boxes unpacked to get to half of those things.
But moving has been slow – I’ve been lazy and sore and lazy and tired and lazy.
Nick woke me up panicked that I was going to go into labor without having a hospital bag packed. I have now promised to see to that this week so he can sleep at night.
I wouldn’t want to make it up there without my neck pillow, after all. What a goose.
The hospital is only 2.5 miles away, so this wasn’t a factor I really worried about – I worry more about him having to leave mid-labor because the dogs need to be walked and fed.
This living away from the massive support system I’m used to is not for the faint of heart.
Maybe he should make friends for situations like this?
It’s a thought.
All in all, I’m not quite ready for Ms. Molly’s arrival.
I’m scared that it’s been so many years since I’ve done this and I’m a bit emotional with missing my Abigail…
And I have no idea what to do with the umbilical cord or changing diapers quickly or how to go without sleep when I actually want sleep…
So I’m doing the new mother chickening out thing.
Which isn’t very useful at this point, considering.
So the point being that things are good. I’m cold.
Good and cold.
Leather pants probably wouldn’t help me either.
October 6, 2010
Songs MEAN something.
You can ask everyone around you and you’ll find that there are certain songs that they hear that immediately transport them into a mood, a memory, or even an alternate reality.
Some songs do all of those things.
For instance, I can listen to “Dreams” by the Cranberries and immediately be filled with a cheerful, purposeful feeling.
Edwin Starr’s “War” puts me in a head-bobbing, ridiculously silly mood.
And, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” by the Stones brings to mind many things – frustrating my child when she was younger and begging for new toys, my basic theory on why my custody battle will never stop going or stop hurting, and Mick Jagger in leather pants. Creepy.
I found myself yesterday singing this particular song aloud at my desk. Complete with Jagger facial expressions and vocal stylings.
And by found myself, try realized I was doing so only after getting strange stares and pointed questions.
Le sigh.
You really can’t always get what you want.
When times are hard I try to remind myself of how blessed I am.
A great family, great friends, great job, great life.
But it’s hard.
Hard right now to think of positive things when this never-ending custody battle is draining the life out of me. Dramatic, I know, but as a parent you’re designed – to the core – to protect your children at all costs. Right now I can’t do that.
It’s not even a topic that she would have faced in the Life’s-Not-Fair adulthood school – it’s one of my own making and this total limbo of not having a decision is eating her up.
I seem to be the only one aware of this. Aware that it’s bigger than his rights/my rights. What gives parents the right to screw up their kid in their own selfishness?
Why is the fact that she’s hurting not THE most important thing?
I get tense even typing this.
I’m scared to death for all of us.
I can’t get what I want. She can’t get what she needs.
Is that a mole or the Tasmanian Devil?
September 16, 2010
People take things for granted.
They really do.
We all know someone with cancer, we almost take a diagnosis for granted – not that it’s less horrible, but we’re inoculated from that immediate bone-deep fear for that person that used to accompany a diagnosis because of the knowledge that there are tons of medicines available to help treat and prolong life for an individual with cancer.
That’s not to say we aren’t afraid, sometimes VERY afraid, but being a layman on the outside of the medical field, we assume, many times incorrectly, that there exists some sort of magic drug that will help cure this person that we love.
The most misunderstood cancer?
Skin cancer.
So common. So overlooked.
We ignore warnings heralding the use of sunblocks for years, tanning in the tanning beds to make ourselves look skinnier or prettier – just better overall.
We basically thumb our noses up at biology, assuming, as we young folks do, that everyone is exaggerating about the risks.
Sure, there’s a harsh story every now and again – some young mother with 2.5 children that contracts melanoma and dies at an early age because she just didn’t know. Didn’t understand.
But that’s not about US. That’s about HER.
We use sunblock for a week or two after hearing her tale and immediately forget in the months following.
How fucking arrogant we can be.
Texting while driving.
Junk food for every meal.
Tanning bed worship.
All sort of a ‘Fuck you!’ for the gifts that we’ve been given in a body that truly is a miracle. Fat, thin, old, young – our body gets us through the day to day bits that we demand of it, with few complaints considering.
My mom recently did a full body scan at her dermatologist’s office. She’d thought about doing one earlier in the year but hadn’t liked her doctor and had shopped around. Months later she jumps into this VERY invasive search of her body and ends up with a few biopsies to show for it.
The diagnosis?
Early stage melanoma, just on top of a lymph node.
Stage 0, requiring ONLY surgical removal and follow-up scans every 3 months for 2 years.
The prognosis? Excellent. 100% survival rate – not really a big deal in the world of cancer, but the truth is, she found this insidious little monster only by accident.
She’s a freckled woman – moles and freckles cover her entire body. One looks pretty much the same as another and more than anything, she was just curious about the scan. Being in her fifties means she has age spots starting and the concern was more a flitting thought than a real worry.
A few times she thought of cancelling the scan – who wants to have their… gasp!… girlie areas poked and prodded when they never see the sun anyway?
Most of the spots biopsied were harmless – we’d never noticed them before and other than the icky shape biopsies leave in your skin, we’d never notice them now.
But the melanoma was a surprise. A spot on her neck – not raised, not really eye-catching when you consider the ABCDE’s of skin cancer, turned out to be the main culprit. Just under her ear, we’d noticed it, but hadn’t thought much of it.
As it turns out, timing was everything.
Had she had the scan done earlier in the year, the spot wouldn’t have been there – it showed up over the summer.
Had she chickened out, it would have deepened and become a much more serious problem, especially considering the location.
How many people put these things off indefinitely?
How many people, like me, never think of doing something like this in the first place?
Wake up.
It’s no joke.
Common or not, curable or not, cancer’s a hellish dance partner.
My mom’s going to be absolutely fine – a bit scarred, but none the worse for wear.
And I personally don’t want to be the next idiot who took my health for granted and found out later that I’d pay for my ignorance with a much more serious fight.
Play it smart, folks.
The Sink or Swim Method
September 13, 2010
I’ve been thinking a lot about the paths in my life that I’ve meandered down.
Some going forwards, many going backwards, some going really nowhere at all.
For me parenting has been one of those winding paths.
I don’t think that you can become a mom in your teenage years and not go in a gazillion different directions trying to find the Right Way.
Life surprises throw you curve balls and it’s a measure of character just how you field those when they reach you.
I made a semi-joke on another blog today (on a very clever blog post by one of my newfound favorites, Fierce Beagle) about Nick and I handling this pregnancy with the Sink or Swim Method – a joke that doesn’t even come close to the juggling and planning that is going into making sure this child’s life is a bit smoother than Abbey’s.
You see, I had to sink or swim with Abbey too – but entering adulthood at 16 is far different than dealing with an unplanned pregnancy at 30.
At 30, I define my pregnancy as unplanned simply because I hadn’t penciled it in to my schedule – hadn’t yet made the decisions and sacrifices needed to choose to parent again. But I was conscious of biology and knew, on a subconscious level, that it was just a matter of time.
At 16, my pregnancy was unplanned because EVERYTHING was unplanned. Even the act that provided my fertile self a baby was unplanned. Heck, my afternoon SNACKS were unplanned.
And so I entered parenthood completely clueless – and am continuing through parenthood so incredibly grateful that I am blessed with the family I’m blessed with, that Abbey and I had the support needed PSYCHOLOGICALLY to ensure that she hasn’t had to pay for my lack of planning. I had to work hard, 2 or 3 jobs at a time to handle the monetary part of parenting, but I KNEW I could do it because of my support system.
Now, with this pregnancy, everything has changed.
Oh, not the support.
My family is still here for me, but this time my support has evolved.
I’ve added age and wisdom, a husband, a TON of in-laws, a maturing and wonderful daughter, and more than anything, I’m in a different place mentally.
I’ve grown up.
And even though I’m still completely clueless – now starting all over after having separated the two pregnancies by slightly more than 14 years – it’s almost a joyful cluelessness. The problems that I face with this child will be entirely different than the heartbreaking problems that go along with missed chances and opportunities of growing up as a child raising a child.
It’s bittersweet, knowing that I have a chance to fix many of the wrongs from the first time around – not merely the parenting mistakes that we all make, but the mistakes that come from following your hormones at 15 and having a child pay that price with custody battles and therapy appointments.
You see, she and I did play sink or swim.
And we continue to swim, though more in a dog paddling sense than the assertive breast stroke sense.
But our life is changing.
With this second pregnancy, to sink or swim means that we’ve decided I’ll stay at home. It means we’re questioning our priorities and our quality of life choices in order to provide more support for my two children from this point on. We’re going to continue to drive that 14 year old Mustang, to continue to budget shop, to continue to pray to avoid medical surprises. Our children will have a better foundation now – while we are still energetic enough to provide it – and less of a financial push later on, when they may very well need – or hope for it.
They’ll have to sink or swim based upon their choices too. Colleges and car payments, relationships and faulty judgments. And making that decision for the two of them has been scary.
Weighing the benefits of this life versus the life with the shinier cars and splashy vacations that we all want is petrifying. Choosing the road that is (now) less travelled is petrifying.
Everything about standing on a fence, knowing that a large gust could send us to either side – either make it or break it – is petrifying.
But I think we’re doing the right thing.
Sometimes the good in life stems from the sacrificing versus the spending.
Erin spoke on her blog of the American Dream and while Nick and I may never have that, I think we’re defining our own dream, bit by bit.
He may be bald with stress by the time we figure out if this will work or not, but we WILL figure it out.
We have to.
Because you see, I much prefer swimming to sinking.
I signed up for WHAT?
September 2, 2010
Preparing mentally for becoming a Stay At Home Mom (yes, that should be capitalized and perhaps even shouted!) has been one of the most challenging things I’ve ever had to do.
Mainly because 1, I never thought I’d be in the position to be a SAHM and 2, everything about baby #2 is a surprise – including that I’m having a baby #2.
After all, my first child is a teenager and only minutes away from riding off into the sunset with a college diploma in one hand and the world on a string in the other.
Being faced with this upcoming change in circumstances has caused me to question a good many things I know about myself.
My eating habits, for instance. You could say that I’m a person to whom eating a balanced meal means eating a plate full of junk food balanced properly on my lap.
With the last year addition of my husband, Healthy Hunk, this meandering version of nutrition no longer flies as acceptable behavior. He wilts if he doesn’t have enough good food in his diet and nobody wants to see a giant Italian man wilt in their presence.
Plus, apparently Italian babies require meat, potatoes AND vegetables in order to grow large, strong Italian eyebrows. And who am I to stand in the way of the Bert-like eyebrows my child’s heritage so claims as her DNA-like right?
And Laundry.
Laundry, for me, is a very necessary evil punctuated by bouts of wrangling jeans over door frames for maximum drying capabilities and separating anxiety when faced with the prospect of washing too many new clothes without the salt-filled pre-soak.
Adding this stereotypical notion that Laundry will now be part of my Official Duties as a SAHM has thrown me – even though I rarely will allow anyone else near the stacks of dirty laundry for fear that they’ll do it their way and NOT mine.
How many other stereotypes of SAHMs are there that are waiting to bite me on the toe?
Cleaning? I’m to take care of a helpless ankle-biter AND keep the house spotless? Time travel truths must rest in the arms of all of the Stay At Home Moms that accomplish this task, because my memories of newborns don’t include the many hours of inactivity needed to maintain a spotless house with 2 dogs, 1 husband and 2 children.
Regular meals? People like to eat REGULARLY? And I’m to cook those? Have any of you seen what cooking for me entails? Long shopping trips, fresh herbs, homemade ingredients and 2 hours of preparation? And I’m to do this over and again? Not just for special occasions and holidays? BALANCED MEALS?!!
And I’m supposed to do this and maintain the household without catching anything on fire, chopping my husband into stew, losing the baby in the laundry pile, hanging the dogs by their toes or stuffing a teenager into a trash compactor?
I seriously hope my husband can pay me enough for a post-work-day massage.
It’s cooler with my head in the sand.
August 30, 2010
The custody date was scheduled today.
October 26th.
3 days after my baby girl’s birthday.
2 years, 6 months, and a few days after I put this entire thing into motion.
I’m exhausted just thinking about it.
I don’t know what’s going to happen next.
I don’t have any control over how my life turns out around this bend and that scares the shit out of me.
Logically I know Abbey will be better off with me. I’m every inch her parent and always have been – through the sick days and the stubborn days and the school conferences and the homework-filled evenings.
I’ve earned the right to be her mom every day – but even more than that, besides my rights, SHE has earned the right to not have the questions and comments constantly follow her about who takes care of her and where she belongs.
She will tell anyone, outside of her dad and stepmother, where she wants to be and that does my heart good.
She doesn’t want to move and neither do I, but life throws us curveballs.
I only hope ours takes us through this next bend together instead of heartbreakingly separate.
I’m not sure my baby girl would handle that well… even the thought of it leaves her in nightmares and wandering to my room at night for a cuddle.
She’s tired of words being put into her mouth, tired of always feeling pulled in two directions and I wish I could fix that for her.
She’s tired of the guilt trips and I’m tired of her putting me on the line when the truth is that she doesn’t want nearly as much to do with the other half of her family as they do her.
But I wouldn’t be able to tell them that either and so I don’t blame her for taking the easy road out.
Maybe one day she won’t have to feel so put in the middle.
And maybe one day I’ll grow taller to help lower my BMI.
Stripes!
August 24, 2010
5 months along and rounding quite nicely!
Don’t even THINK about mentioning food to me.
May 10, 2010
There are fun things about being pregnant… but they don’t happen until you’re a bit further along than I am.
I’m only five weeks, guys.
Five weeks and though the morning sickness has not hit with a vengeance there are mornings like this one… Where I’m not sure if I’m going to vomit or cry, when nothing tastes or smells like it’s supposed to and where my ability to deal with people has gone totally down the drain.
I’m really. really. really. uncomfortable.
The rain outside has turned the entire city a dim sort of grey and I would love nothing more than a nap. A nap where my stomach and my boobs cannot move an inch.
Ah. The things that make me happy right now.
It’s how I spent much of my weekend.
And is not at all how I get to spend next weekend, when my husband will join me in the Memphis area and tell me that I need to move around more and nap less.
Right before I punch him in the face.
Actually, he’ll more than likely be 100% understanding, as he’s been great 99% of the time during my pregnancy so far (a whole 5 weeks in) and has even surprised me in some of his opinions on things…
But.
Because he did this to me.
And because I feel so icky.
I want to punch him in the face.
It’s nothing personal and I mean it with all of the love in my heart.
This is just… first trimester pregnancy talk.
