Smarter than me at almost three

Okay, I’m not saying I don’t know this now, but I sure as hell didn’t know it anywhere near her age.
One of the many benefits of having a mom/grandma that’s a science teacher:

“The idealist walks on tiptoe, the materialist on his heels”

a Malcolm de Chazal quote

If this is true, then color Emberly the epitome of idealism. For the last few months we have been harping on Emberly to not walk on her tiptoes. The constant reminders were becoming tiresome. If you were to make a drinking game out of our harping, even the most seasoned drinker would be on their lips within an hour upon arriving at our house.

It was cute the first few times she’d respond with, “I’m just being like a ballerina, Mom.” Who am I to quash my child’s dreams of becoming the next Clara in The Nutcracker. I mean, she could be my meal ticket people! But before I was even able to cash the yet to be written checks any stage mom deserves while living vicariously through their own more successful and talented children, my Emberly’s dreams were dashed. Her toes were starting to curl in much like the Wicked Witch of the East’s, thrusting her towards OFF-off-Broadway hobbling troll parts. While she does have a cute impish look to her at times, the way bunions run rampant on both sides of our lineage pushed us to a consult with the orthopedic specialist at Children’s Hospital.

My biggest fear was that the doctor would do what most do best and instruct us to just “wait and see.” It’s not that I wanted something to be wrong with Emberly, we’re no Munchausen family, it’s more that I knew something needed to be done. Her big toes were pushing more and more towards her pointer toe. (what is the nickname for the second toe in? Basing it on finger names, one can assume it’s the pointer toe. Let’s stick with that. How could it be wrong?) I wanted to make sure it was taken care of before it became debilitating.

So off we went, a two hour drive one way to see our new best friend. After moving Emberly’s legs and feet seven ways from Sunday, we were instructed to remove all her clothes, minus her underwear (same rules as at home! Parenting win!) and walk with her down the main hall. The doctor joked that it was a good thing she wasn’t 14. Inside, I was relieved that she wasn’t 14 and as okay with it as she was now. Naturally she walked perfectly flat footed the first lap. The doctor then had her race daddy. While most of us don’t tiptoe through the tulips while frolicking, Emberly stood higher than a kite on the very tips of her toes. Nothing was holding her back from beating her father at a foot race.

Several options were thrown out as far as treatments, from surgery to botox. It was agreed that Emberly’s case was minor and mostly habit. So instead of even more costly treatments (and I’m sorry, but my child is not getting botox before her mother!) we agreed upon these:

If you don’t focus on the creepy circa 1970′s clown inspired boots, I think they’re pretty kickin.

Emberly seems to agree:

She has a shortened regimen since we’re mainly trying to break the habit and stretch her slightly tight tendons. Two weeks in these bad boys. Tomorrow we’re going back for a new set. After two weeks in those, we should be golden. Just no mention of the tiptoes, which is easier said than done. She is currently obsessed with informing everyone that she had to go to the doctor because she walked on her tiptoes. I don’t think she’ll be forgetting that anytime soon.

 

Completely unrelated, and most likely inappropriate considering this was a post about my daughter, the 12 year old boy in me couldn’t resist letting everyone know that this is my 69th blog post. teeheehee. Milestones!

A change of course

Things have been a bit down around these parts lately. I’ve been drowning in my own self-pity, hoarse from screaming for someone to notice I’m unhappy. I’m tired. I’m tired of the negativity feeding off the anxiety. Today it stops. It may not be a forever stop, but nonetheless a stop for today. As Charles Dickens so cleverly noted, “Change begets change. Nothing propagates so fast.” (thank you to my friend Kelley for reminding me how therapeutic quotes can be.) If I want my world, my happiness to change, I must being that chain of events with my own change.
Instead of doing what comes naturally to me by focusing on the negative, I am going to start this week by focusing on the positive.

This positivity post is dedicated to the man whom takes the brunt of my negativity in stride, my husband. So for you, my love (did that hurt you guys to read as much as it hurt me to type? I am not the sappy person this post will play me out to be.) these are 10 things I love about you write now:

1. I love your strength, physically and emotionally.

2. I love your dedication to your family and your friends. Once you let someone in to your heart, you protect them no matter what.

3. I love your new-found need for all things sugar. Sure it may be a substitute for something else at the moment, but for now, we share a common love, besides our daughter.

4. Speaking of Emberly, I love that it is obvious you are her father (even when her fiery side rears its head).

(With another budding Buffalo Wild Wings enthusiast in the house, we should probably buy stock in the company.)

5. I love your ability to know when I just need a hug, and your follow through with making that happen.

6. I love the fact that even your calloused hands can lovingly wipe the tears from my face.

7. I love the joy I see in your eyes when Emberly does something to amaze you. It’s truly breathtaking to know that we created something to sensational, together.

8. I love that you’ll warm up the garage and stir the paint more than it needs to be stirred, just to share that button pushing moment with Emberly.

9. I love that you are the main chef in our house…and you’re not half bad at it either

10. I love that you are helping around the house in an attempt to help minimize my anxiety.

Most of all, I love that you are willing to put up with me and help me through this anxiety riddled darkness while battling your own demons.

XOXO,

Slut Puppy

Something grabs a hold of me tightly

and I don’t like it. I’ve been known to have bouts of depression, hell, look at my header. Hello?! This time, this time is different. My anxiety has been hitting all time highs. Generally it’s focused on my on-call work. I have absolutely no control on if and when I’ll get called to respond, and that’s the worst part. I make myself sick with the anxious anticipation. I try to let it go and just relax, and for a brief minute I’m free. Until I remember what I was stressing about, and then it kicks into higher gear and I feel even more on edge that my five minutes of bliss will cause the universe to punish me with a troublesome call.

It’s sickening and maddening all at the same time. This obsession with having to feel stressed about being on-call in hopes that my agony is enough for the cosmos to keep everyone else just sane enough that an evaluation from me is not warranted. There’s a constant fear of the unknown, that a call will come through and change my plans. A call I’ll respond to that will lead me to fighting with doctors about my decision, dealing with hospitals pleading my case, all leading me to second guess myself and deem my knowledge useless since I have only a Bachelor’s degree and am surrounded by Master’s level and higher. As if to say that my on the job experience is not enough to satisfy the egomaniacs and render my opinion useless. Yet, they will call upon me at 3 am because they have a “crazy” person who is a little depressed.

flow like a harpoon, daily and nightly

This weekend I hit an all-time low. I managed to stress myself out about being on-call Friday night and even more so for the FOLLOWING weekend. The topper to the stress was finding out my husband had made plans, with no regards to me or my plans, to be gone this coming weekend. Mind you, I was originally on-call the first weekend of this month, but kindly rearranged my schedule per my husband’s request upon returning from his 5 days. My anxiety in regards to on-call is at a steady 8 or 9. However, add to the fact that there is the potential of me having to wake my mother across town in the middle of the night to watch Embers so I can respond to a call, we’re moving upwards of 11 on a scale of 1-10. While I’m not upset at why my husband will be out of town, it’s the way he handled the whole situation. That is neither here nor there at this point. Let’s focus on my self-hatred with anxiety.

We had a gorgeous weekend, weather wise, and figured it was time to see how my new golf clubs worked. I had been feeling on the verge of tears all day for no good reason and was hoping a little sunshine and fresh air would chase it away. As we approached the golf course, we noticed there were people on almost every hole. I am not a great golfer, better with alcohol, but seeing as we’re now sober, I was back to being a complete amateur. My self-esteem issues on the front lines, I began to fret about the other golfers catching up to us, realizing I have a horrible swing and am unsure of how my new clubs handle. I freaked myself out on what others would be witnessing, or not because they were most likely enjoying the gorgeous day. But I, I was not. I was stuck in an anxiety riddled freak out that brought every emotion to the top of my very thin skin. Three swings in to our first hole and I declared myself to be over this outing. I was done. I couldn’t suck it up enough to enjoy the beauty of the day, our life, with my family. As I returned from picking up my ball and letting B finish out the hole, Emberly asked me if I was a “crybaby.” “Well, that’s apparently your dad’s impression of me.”

The tension rose and I cried my way home with Emberly joining in in the back seat. My tears from shame, her tears from being pulled away from a fun activity. Arriving home, B & E went upstairs to watch tv, while I pretended the laundry needed rotated. Instead, I bawled. I wept for ruining our afternoon, a perfect set up for great family memories. I wept for the new-found power this anxiety has on me. I wept for knowing that my husband and my daughter were ashamed of me, mad for letting my issues interfere with their good times.

My apologies were met with head nods and questions as to why we had to leave golfing early. My heart shattered into a million more pieces each time “crybaby” was spewed from a mouth that didn’t understand the true weight of its meaning. I spent the rest of the night ashamed that I was not as strong as I once thought I was. I was unable to control the anxiety beast that lives inside. I was weak.

Will it ever stop? Yo, I don’t know

Anxiety and mild mental instability seem to be hereditary in my family. I wish I could control my issues alone, with no medications. And until we either get pregnant and having a baby OR decide to give up on the roller coaster, I will be forced to fight this battle alone, unarmed. I want so badly to be able to switch my mind over to a glass half-full mode, and I think I can. It’s just a long, hard battle that I need to win. I need to conquer this, for myself, for my family, but most of all, for my daughter who deserves nothing but happiness and adventure from her loving mother.

Turn off the lights, and I’ll glow…my heart will fight this. The fire inside will lead the way.

5 days.

In the grand scheme of things, 5 days is but a blink of an eye. Last week, however, after finding out he wanted to do the 5 days, the anxiety and anticipation of today felt like eternity. In the moment, these 5 days feel like the entire world, like each ticking second is lasting an hour. Each hour is lasting a week. On the other side of these 5 days is still a lifetime.
A lifetime that has purpose, meaning. A lifetime that should be better than the lifetime before these 5 days. And yet, my stomach is churning, my eyes constantly watering. What is to come of the after? Where will these 5 days take us?
There’s the hope of a new beginning, a new life together. A life full of happy and family and memories. All my stomach can comprehend is the lifetime of pain.
What if it doesn’t get better? What if this time isn’t it?
Will he still love me after? Will he still want to fight for us?
Will we be able to tolerate each other without the maladjusted coping skill that will be banned from us after these 5 days?
I don’t know. I can’t know. All I can do right now is focus on living through these next 5 days. Holding out hope that our scared, weeping souls will find peace and a new life…together.
5 days.

Decking the halls…or half the tree

After waiting what felt like weeks for Britt to finally move his luggage from his hunting trip (mind you, he never did. I just moved it downstairs and out of the way. I’m sure it would be next fall before he finally unpacked!) I decided it was time to put up the tree. I was sure to bring all of the needed supplies down from the attic while Britt was away. I could not have him impeding on my decorating! I had just finished watching 4 hours of Hallmark Christmas movies, I was in the zone.

I had successfully set up and lit the tree and was beginning the tedious task of unwrapping all of the ornaments. The tree was going to be gorgeous. Then it started. The questions.

“Mom? What’s this one?”

“Mom? Where’d you get this one?”

“What does this one say?”

“Um, Canoe! It just says Canoe.” Oy, thank god she can’t read yet. AND a special thank you to my good friend Devon @MamaCheaps for giving me this conversation starter. I can’t wait for the day when Emberly asks, “Mom, what’s a douche?”

“Is this one mine?”

“Where does this go?”

“Can I help?”

Well sure. I’m obviously not in my right mind and think that her helping is a GRAND idea. Hell, it will keep her busy while I finish up the actual decorating.

So smart, I am. ::eye roll::

The first few ornaments were proving to be unsuccessful. “mom, this one goes right here.” on the branch right next to the ornament placed before it. Attempting several times to teach Emberly about symmetry and spacing, I gave up. And so our tree looks like this:

When Britt returned home, he asked me if we were going to “fix” the tree. It looks perfect to me!

 

The annoying thing about digital

Pregnancy tests, that is. I’m not going to rant about other wonderful types of technology.
Anyway, the annoying thing about digital pregnancy tests is that you only have two options for results: Pregnant and NOT Pregnant.
I know what you’re thinking, “um, that’s how all tests are Amanda. Only two possible outcomes.” But you’re wrong. Boy are you wrong. You see, with a standard +/- test you not only get the Positive or Negative options, but you get a third amazing option: the option of wasting hour upon hour of detective work. You get to analyze every particle in the window searching, begging for a fleck of blue (or pink depending on your test) in that illustrious | part of the +. Sure it *looks* negative, but those damn second lines can be fickle, only appearing when they’re good and ready. Yes, with a non-digital pregnancy test, you get to rival the skills of Sherlock Holmes looking for the answer that in your heart you truly want.
But no, some jackass thought it would be so cool to try the digital test.

In COMPLETELY unrelated news, to the point where I feel horrible posting this in the same blog post but you know by now I’m too lazy to do two separate posts:
I want to personally thank all of the veterans, young, old, past, present, and future, along with their families, for their bravery, sacrifice, and dedication in protecting our freedom. There isn’t a day that goes by that I am not grateful for all that every single one of you do.
I hope all of those who are graced with the day off of work take some time today to reflect on what this holiday is truly about.

I hate you

As a mother you know that sooner or later those words will be hurled at you in a fit of anger. You brace yourself for how you’ll respond, how you think it will make you feel. You believe that knowing what you know now compared to when you were younger that you won’t be hurt by it as much. You’ll hold strong and know that the words are not true and only being used to hurt. You never expect it to cause you more pain than a 36 hour labor with no epidural. And yet, that’s exactly how it felt when Emberly told me she hated me. We had been home for no more than 2 hours after being gone for 5 days. She didn’t understand the power of her words. She didn’t know that saying those three words would make my world crumble down around me. No, she just thought that was an appropriate response to not letting her play with something. Something so miniscule I don’t even remember what it actually was I was not allowing her to do.

I hate you!

I’ve uttered those words to my parents numerous times during adolescence. Adolescence not toddler-hood. Not at a time when my parents were my world and I wasn’t influenced by what my friends had or were able to do. I feel horrible for the way I acted as a teenager, and this just solidified how much of a b*tch I truly was back then. But now, hearing those words for the first time out of my 2 1/2 year old, I feel sucker-punched all over again just playing it back in my mind.

I hate you!

I quickly responded in a stern yet caring tone. We don’t say that. Those words are mean and hurt people’s feelings. You made mom sad by telling her that. Why is this a conversation I’m having at this point? Immediately Emberly’s eyes welled up with tears. Her world crashing down around here knowing that she hurt someone she loved. At the same time my heart breaking into a million more pieces for the pain she’s feeling. I didn’t cry. I stayed strong. I held her and explained to her that we should be nice to others with our words, even if we’re angry about something. We need to learn on expressing ourselves.

And then Britt returned home. and I cried. It wasn’t until I had to utter out-loud the words she said to me that I realized just how much weight three words could hold.

She hasn’t said it since, only returning to her usual You’re not invited to my birthday party stance. Which feels better. The moment I’m left to dread is the moment she hears those three words spoken to her and realizes the impact they had before.

You know that place in your brain?

The one where there aren’t always great thoughts and a fantasy world exists that may not be better than your life now, but sometimes it feels that way. The place where you just want to blare songs on Spotify the entire day. Songs that most would be annoyed to hear over and over and over again, but tug at your heart making it weep, letting you know that you can still feel even if it is somber. Well, that’s where I am.

I would love to write about them here, but sometimes the scariest part is admitting to those feelings. Then I feel bad that I am even having thoughts that I’m not comfortable with sharing. I wonder if I’d feel better if I just let them out. Would others jump on board and admit their horrible truths and their longings? Would people politely agree with me while thinking in their head, “what.the.fuck? Who would ever admit to thinking that?!” Would putting actual words to those thoughts, pummeling them into the atmosphere, only fuck with my kharma? Would I actually get what I’m wanting? Would I then be happy? Would I be a horrible person?

Most likely, I’ll bury myself even deeper into this recess and continue drowning my heart in the ocean that is sad songs. I’ll daydream of blaring these songs while I drive down a lonely highway gazing longingly out the window. If I’m lucky, I’ll stumble upon a song that I forgot about. A song that reminds me of who I am. A song that lifts my spirit and gives me no choice but to belt the lyrics with a grin on my face and a twinkle in my eye.

Maybe I need to switch back to Pandora. At least then I’d be given the chance for their musical elves to give me just a song or two that let me taste the sweet nectar that is already obtained happiness.

There’s no bigger rejection than the absence of that second line.

I know we haven’t been trying for #2 (hehehe) very long. Yet, it’s still taken longer than any of my sisters’ pregnancies to get that annoyingly immediate mood enhancing plus sign. My problem is that I should not be allowed to purchase pregnancy tests. As soon as they’re in my hand, I have this deep seeded need to pee on them immediately. They can’t just sit in that bottom vanity drawer in the bathroom and wait patiently until AFTER my period is due. No. For some reason I think every time that I’m going to be that miraculous person where I’m able to determine my pregnancy just days after ovulation.

Then there’s the obsession with reading and rereading the directions, as if this brand of tests is somehow different from the hundreds of others already used. And you know immediately. No matter how many times I check that stick, the true results are immediate. The positive or negative reading appears before the test line does. The 2 minute wait is bullshit. And yet, I still recheck for the next 2 hours just in case that second line decides to pull through. Not even a faint line to keep me going. Just another rejection telling me I have another month of waiting and heartache.

Another month of trying to time it right while still making it enjoyable. Another month trying to come to terms with the fact that my body just doesn’t like to do things on it’s own. But another month closer to getting the medical interventions that are most likely necessary for me to get that second line.

Every month, the hope that my body will pull through for me. That I’m not broken, I do deserve this other life. Time and time again, another month where I’m slapped in the face with a single line that makes me question fate. Is there some cosmic reason for the absence of a second line, of a baby? Is the world trying to tell me something I’m just too blind to see?

Still, every month brings me closer to that October deadline to keep the grandchildren a year apart in school. Maybe the world’s trying to help me not have to make the decision to hold my second child a year before starting school, all for the sake of a family phenom…six kids in six consecutive grades.

So I’ll take this rejection and give myself some grieving time. Then I’ll dry my eyes, grab my Emberly and hug her until she won’t let me anymore. Then I’ll sneak in one more little squeeze and be happy with my one true love in life.