Even if you don’t pray

I’m asking for your prayers.

So obviously, it’s been awhile. On my last post, a few weeks ago, I revealed that Snarky Girl (formerly Newbie… still a work in progress) and Crazy Girl are pregnant. Ok… WERE pregnant. Snarky Girl still remains with child, but Crazy Girl? She had her baby at 2:38am on Friday April 10th. At an estimated 24 weeks. She was less than 2lb at birth. And so far, she’s making it. Crazy Girl had messaged me Thursday night…

Ugh have you ever felt so bloated that you couldn’t even feel the baby move but a few times?

Or should I totally freak and head to the hospital?

lol

I literally feel like I’m going to pop

I told her to call the doctor’s office. I frequently made use of the on-call service when pregnant with The Peach as I was high risk and totally neurotic.

She decided to wait it out since she was at work. She went home and took a shower and the cramps started. It got worse and she thinks she might have passed her mucous plug, at which point she woke up her man and had him take her to the local hospital. The little one. With no NICU or anything.

She thought it was already over.

Yes. A boulder. The size of a truck. In the interstate.

They found a heartbeat strong and healthy and she was shocked. Then even more shocked when the doctor checked her and told her the baby was coming. Now. And she pushed. And the doc caught Itty-Bitty with one hand on the bed. And the baby cried. Not loud but she cried. Which is amazing. And then they were able to intubate her and get her lungs fully inflated. And they kept her stable for the 3 hours it took for the NICU transport team from UVM Medical Center to assemble to take Itty Bitty to a real NICU. 3 hours, you say? Yes. Because on Aril 10th, here in VT, it was sleeting and the roads were terrifyingly slippery and slick. And on the way to UVM, there was a boulder on the interstate. A boulder. A fucking boulder blocking one lane of the highway and slowing traffic to a crawl.

And yet she made it. Kicking and punching and pink with a strong heartbeat. And now she’s even breathing on her own as much as one so little can.

Itty-Bitty’s diaper

But she’s tiny. I haven’t been able to see her and I won’t be able to for months since only parents are allowed in NICU and she’ll be there until her due date. Which should have been August. But all Crazy Girl kept saying was, “She’s just so tiny.”

And Crazy Girl and her man… Doing okay. In shock still I think, but hopeful. I told Crazy Girl that only she could have a pregnancy so short. She only was aware of the pregnancy for about 6 weeks. In labor (at least the painful part) for 2 hours.

Now though… Now is where the long journey starts. Because even after the first two critical weeks, there’s a long road ahead for Itty-Bitty. There’s so many things that can happen and she’s so fragile and teeny and God I am so scared for her.

So pray for her. Pray for Itty-Bitty and Crazy Girl and Her Man. Even if you don’t believe in prayer.

Just Pray.

A Brief Rant

So here’s the news… Both Crazy Girl and my newbie BFF from work… Who still needs a Blog name… Let’s call her… Um… Newbie for now… I’m just not clever enough to come up with a good pseudonym for her right now. ANYWAY, Both Crazy Girl and Newbie are preggers. Due within a month of each other. Both unexpected. Crazy Girl is 37 and had basically just thought she couldn’t have kids. Not that she ever tried specifically, she just had a string of long relationships and wasn’t particularly careful about contraception. Newbie never wanted kids and had a one time spur of the moment “oops,” with her husband mind you, and got pregnant. So I get to live vicariously through their new motherhood and hold brand new babies again without risking death (literally) and getting pregnant again myself.

Crazy Girl is doing okay. Her man is a sweetheart and he has several jobs. He can easily quit one of them and take care of their new babe while Crazy Girl continues to work. Things will be tighter for them, but they’ll make it since Crazy Girl also has a huge family who are willing to come chip in and help.

Newbie? Not so lucky. She’s been spending the past few weeks trying to find daycare spots for December. She’s called about 20 or so. No spots. And the one or two that do have spots are charging $1000 or more per month.

So here’s the rant…

Newbie is college educated, as is her husband. She works with me, secure, decent pay… Job. Her husband is a teacher. Between the two of them, they make a very good wage. But due to the expense of daycare and the fact that our job has no maternity leave, just unpaid FMLA (all that means is you can be out of work for an extended period for medical reasons without losing your job), and she’s due in August, right when her hubby goes back to school, she may actually have to quit her decent-paying, middle class job and get a part-time job at night, just so they can avoid trying to get blood from a stone to pay for daycare and still be able to afford to live. Because they’d actually come out ahead that way.

How fucked up is that?

How is it possible that in this “wonderful, free country,” a country in which friends of mine have fought overseas for, a country that purports to be the greatest nation on earth, how is it possible that an intelligent, college-educated, working couple cannot afford to have a child? How is it possible that the only way Crazy Girl and her man aren’t in need of assistance is because her man is quitting one of his jobs to care for their child? In that respect, how is it possible that a hard-working family of four can’t survive with both parents working at minimum wage without food stamps, medical and rent assistance from the government. How is it then possible that Congress can take away these benefits from these already struggling families, middle class or poverty-stricken and complain about the “Welfare culture” in this country?

It’s unfair. And there’s nothing we can do about it. Because Our government is not For the People, it’s For the Rich. So if you don’t make enough money to buy a couple of votes, you are pretty much screwed.

I told you it was brief.

The Importance of Diction

Heh… Diction.

Anyway…

I was sitting in bed with The Peach the other day and (as I am apt to do) I farted.

“Excuse me! Mommy farted!”

To which, The Peach leans over to the right, grins hugely and lets one rip.

“Heehee I sharted too!”

“Fuh-fuh-farted.”

“Fuh-fuh-sharted.”

“Noooo… Fuh-fuh-FARted.”

~scowls~ “Fuh-fuh-SHARTED!”

Ummm… Not. It.

Teenagers and Toddlers

See this? That chunky little arm is attached to my chunky little Peach. That hand? Attached to Princess Punk. That spider on my youngest’s arm? A temporary tattoo, applied by my eldest.

The Peach spent several hours last night, poking and rubbing the spot on her arm, piteously proffering it to myself, The Zen Master, Princess Punk and My Mom.

“Boo-boo?”

“No baby, that’s not a boo-boo.”

“Bee?”

“No, it’s not a bee. It’s a spider. A bug.”

“Gug?”

“Yes baby. Buh-buh-bug.”

“Boo-boo… Boo-boo!”

“No Peach it’s a… Crap. Nevermind. C’mere, let Mommy kiss the boo-boo.”

“MmmmmmmmmAH!” (ear-piercing squeals)

2 minutes later…

“Boo-boo?”

Just when I really start to feel like crap…

Oh Peach, my Peach…

Text message exchange with The Zen Master today…

The Peach was messy today

Um… Ok…

Tried to eat a cracker with a fork in the living room

Set her on the bed left for a minute and she spilled duck sauce on the bed

She. Tried. To. Eat. A. Cracker. With. A. Fork.

Your daughter

Why I hate this bipolar bullshit

So I’m sitting here in my bed, pondering why exactly I feel so shitty right now.

As I’ve said before, many, many, many, many times, this blog is, first and foremost, for me. I use it as a tool to try and make sense of my life, the good and the bad. The breathtakingly beautiful and the sickeningly ugly. And now especially, since my therapist is gone and likely not coming back, I need to get this shit out of my head. So this post? This post is me trying to work out what it is exactly that makes this part of my disease so downright oppressive.

In my ponderings, I’ve come to this conclusion…

I don’t like me when I’m like this.

If I could just push away all of the miserable things that I hate about myself, the things that some part of me knows is just Bipolar making me its bitch, I might be able to ride it out a little better.

The following things happen to me when I’m in a down-swing like I’m experiencing now…

• I am horrible to my children. This is, first and foremost, the thing that bothers me the most. Because that shit? It lasts. It lasts beyond the depressive phase and my Peach is scared of me and my Princess is angry with me. I am irritable. I am emotional. I am cranky. I yell. I scream. I cry, all triggered by inconsequential things like Princess Punk leaving her clothes on the floor in her bathroom, or The Peach playing in Fairy Dog’s water bowl. I will Fucking. Lose. My. Shit. And I don’t want them to touch me. For some reason, When I’m in this state, I am… Claustrophobic? My children seeking affection becomes a heavy responsibility, more than I have to give. I feel as if they are sucking the life out of me and I literally recoil when they reach for me. Which makes me feel awful. And like I’m the worst mom in the world. Because what mom doesn’t want a hug or a kiss from their children? Fuck me, now I’m crying. Did I mention how much I hate this shit?
• I am not quite as horrible to my husband. He is, by his very nature, giving. So I very rarely feel like he is taking something away from me, something that I am desperately trying to hold on to, like say, my humanity. But, because he is so caring and understanding, I am completely and utterly neurotic. Because I imagine that I am considerably unpleasant to live with when I’m like this, and the thought of him going away makes me physically sick. I am less claustrophobic about affection from him than the girls. That makes me feel bad too. I have not been able to understand why I can hug my husband like this but if Princess Punk runs a hug blitz or The Peach tugs on my shirt hem, pleading to be picked up, I start to hyperventilate. See? This is why I write this. Because reading back over this I just solved this particular quandary. Children need attention, affection, demonstrations of love. They need to feel secure and protected and loved. I can’t deal with that. That kind of emotion, and the ability to demonstrate it easily, escapes me. The unfathomable burden of that basic need is too much for me to bear. The Zen Master? He gives. That’s what he does. He quietly gives himself to me and he doesn’t care that I don’t have access to anything within myself to reciprocate. Despite that, I am still mean. I am snippy and critical and then immediately weepy and apologetic. And if he should deign to do any more than give me a hug or chaste kiss, if I feel like he is getting “romantic,” I have the same reaction that I do with the girls. Over the years, he has learned where my limits are and if he pushes against my ridiculous limitations, he accepts my rejection without complaint.
• My already limited capacity for social interaction is reduced to nearly nothing. If necessary, I am able to engage with others. I can greet people with a smile and even hold a brief conversation. I hide the mantle of apathy laying precariously over the river of volatile emotions threatening to break through and erupt, destroying any semblance of a relationship I’ve had with whoever is in the blast zone. And I can feel the cracks separating and will awkwardly excuse myself before running into my office, or the bathroom, or anywhere there is no one else and cry until the cracks shift together again and I can at least appear normal. I can occasionally manage to shift the conversation to my girls, because despite my reaction to their physical closeness, they are my life and joy and they will thicken the mantle and allow me to be me for a brief period of time.
• I hide. I am angry and bitter and I just don’t want to speak to anyone.
• I am weak… I am, by nature, a fighter. I have pushed through and overcome many, many difficulties in my life. But when this hits me, I become a weak, whiny, sniveling victim and I can’t stand myself or the self-pity that plagues me. I feel worthless and stupid and mean. And because this is what it is, I feel like I’m always this way.
• My brain ceases to function logically. I have trouble completing sentences, I forget what I’m doing and I frequently catch myself staring off into space at nothing at all, thinking about what I should be doing and wondering why I’m not doing it.
• I don’t care. I’m lazy and unmotivated and can push myself just enough to go to work and get enough done that my coworkers and supervisors can’t complain. I don’t clean, I cook rarely. I eat when my hands start to shake. I brush my hair when enough of it comes out of the braid that it gets annoying. I shower if I have to, which is not often as long as I keep the important areas clean. That was an overshare. I don’t care. If it wasn’t for The Zen Master, I’d be sitting on the couch, in a dirty nightgown, surrounded by dirty dishes, looking around at a room strewn with toys and dog hair and various objects The Peach has obtained and then discarded in the middle of the floor. And I really just wouldn’t give a shit.

That’s pretty much it I think. Whatever. I’m just riding it out. Grabbing the brief moments when the real me pokes through, when The Peach does something exceptionally cute or Princess Punk does something exceptionally funny. Letting The Zen Master anchor me in reality and away from the abyss looming not too far in the distance.

So although it is hard to believe, it’s not always like this. And it’ll be okay. Just waiting for me to come back.

Nope… There it goes.

I sat down at my keyboard, all set to write a post and and then…

~poof~

Gone.

Stupid brain.

Guess I’ll talk about my day. Which is probably going to be kinda whiny. Sorry.

Last night, on the way to pick up the girls from My Mom’s, I got a call from Her Majesty, begging and pleading to spend the night there. She said My Mom had agreed to let The Peach stay too as long as Princess Punk watched her. Then I get there and only The Princess is staying. Which was kinda annoying. But I was tired and worn out and not really wanting to talk to anyone so I just acquiesced and went home, giggly toddler in tow. The house was a disaster area which was simultaneously amazing and annoying, considering it had been completely clean less than 24 hours prior. But I really didn’t give a crap anyway and I went to lay down in bed and play mindless games on my phone. The Peach was her usual grabby, wiggly, in-your-face self and subsequently irritated me to the point that I yelled at her so loud she cried. And then I let The Zen Master take her and I curled up into a ball and cried too. Because I am an asshole and I made this cheerful, exuberant, happy, beloved child unhappy and probably even scared. He brought her back in, freshly changed and jammied and the first thing she did was scoot over to me and lean her head on me and pat my boob. Which made me feel better and worse at the same time. It was a comforting gesture although her hand placement was a bit awkward. She was resistant to sleeping but finally passed out to the point we could transfer her to her own bed.

This of course did not last long. Long enough for me to just fall asleep. Not sure what time it was she woke up actually, but The Zen Master and my self were so comatose that we both stood awkwardly by our bedroom door for about 30 seconds trying to figure out exactly why we were both standing there before we realized that the hysterical screeching coming from down the hall was in fact, our offspring. She had clearly been crying for several minutes before we woke up and her cries had morphed into terrified screams which took her a good 10 minutes to recover from. At that point, there was obviously no getting her back in her own bed, so the spastic child bedded down with us. At 3am, I woke up for the 23rd time after being pummeled by a wildly flailing limb, sat up, turned around and saw a spider on my pillow.

I spent the remaining 2 hours before my alarm went off trying to sleep on the couch.

The Peach was bright and cheerful this morning. After being changed and dressed (by her father), she marched over to the counter and said, “zh zhoo?” Seeing the rather puzzled expression on my face, she yanked out the ever-present binky, pointed even more emphatically and said, “cah-coo?”

“Cracker?”

(emphatic nod) “Righyee!” (squeal and applause)

I handed her the PB&J cracker sandwich and stood there and watched with some amusement as she meticulously pulled the two halves apart and intently studied each side with a tiny frown on her face. Apparently they passed inspection because she stuck them back together and took a bite.

At this point, Fairy Dog decided he wanted to get to his dog bowl and swept past her in his customary flustered haste and knocked the cracker out of her hand and onto the floor.

Let me just pause here to say that this child has been witnessed eating items from off the floor, ground, high chair seat, in between the couch cushions, under the couch, Fairy Dog’s own food bowl and one time, because we were across the room and not fast enough to stop her, directly out of Fairy Dog’s mouth.

Anyway… The cracker hit the floor where she looked at it with astonishment. Then she looked at me. And then, as if someone had just stomped on her puppy, she Put on The Pout and wept. When I briefly suggested that she just go ahead and eat it, she looked at me with violence in her eyes and screeched, then wailed, “NAH! Nuuuuuhhhh…” More sniffling and The Pout.

And then she was fine.

Took her to My Mom’s house and tossed her on top of the unconscious teenager sprawled across the couch. And even in my current state, she made me smile… First, when she snuggled into her big sister (a brave thing considering the perpetual cloud of funky that seems to surround The Princess) and sighed hugely. And then, when I asked her, “Where’s Mima?” My Peach pointed up the stairs;

“Uht-tays?”

“Is she upstairs? I dunno? Where is she?”

(quizzical shrug)“I doh-nah?”

Then she clomped into the living room and looked under a table. “Noooo… I doh-nah…”

Just one table. Nowhere else in the room. As if My Mom was limited to under that one table as a hiding spot.

My Mom finally came downstairs where she was enthusiastically greeted by The Peach, promptly led over to the pantry and handed a fruit cup. Can’t say the kid doesn’t know what she wants…

Then I got in the car and headed to work, shut my door and attempted to push through The Numb and The Tired to just work. I actually managed to put on a cheerful face when forced to physically interact with coworkers and even talk to people somewhat. But mostly I just hid in my office. Because I knew if I interacted too long, the mask would slip and someone would ask, “Are you ok?” And I’d crumple.

So I worked.

And picked up the girls.

And went home.

And posted.

And that’s it for today.

Wondering if the holiday tomorrow will help the mood.

Guess I’ll find out.

Um… My kid?

Last night The Peach had a boogie in her nose. And because I am The Snot Nazi, I took my (only slightly dirty) napkin and wiped her nose. And then I said…

“Mommy got the boogie!”

To which she responded by promptly sticking her finger in her nose.

So… We don’t want to encourage this. Really. But I laughed, because it was funny. And because my children are comediennes and absolutely thrive on laughter, The Peach decided to up the ante.

~sigh~

Yup. Mine. I very nearly peed myself.

Birthday? What is this “birthday” of which you speak?

I guess I turned 34 yesterday.

I think I’m going to pretend I turn 34 this weekend. Because yesterday was not really a birthday kind of day. Nothing majorly bad, just an overall crap kind of day.

I got a nice “Happy Birthday” from The Zen Master, a grinning-around-the-binky Peach and grumbles and general pissyness from the teenager. About 90 minutes after I left the house, I got a short text message saying happy birthday from her and several of her friends, one of which I didn’t even know. Woo. I had an all-day training in Burlington. Since Burlington parking is kinda shitty, I used all of my quarters to put an hour on the meter for an 8 hour day. Then, I had to walk about a half a block to get to my destination. Which is no sweat. When it’s not raining. And I’m not wearing a white blouse. Awkward. Anyway, the training itself was pretty interesting and I came away with some new insights and a better appreciation for what I do. I also met a young woman about my age (probably a few years younger) who had Type 1 Diabetes. And we got a chance to chat and she assured me that most kids with Type 1 (teenage girls in particular) go through a rebellious “Screw this” phase and this too, shall pass. I have always known that in the back of my mind, Princess Punk is still finding a way to deal with The D-Monster in a way that makes her feel like she has some kind of control over her own body. But it was still nice to hear it from someone who is on the other side of that canyon and has become a healthy, well-adjusted adult.

Lunch was a so-so grilled cheese sandwich and a diet coke for a whopping $14. Ridiculous. I should be able to recoup some of that with a meal reimbursement at least.

After the training was Princess Punk’s behavioral therapist. Since I was literally right around the corner and since Ms. Punk rarely participates in the session anyway, I just went by myself in order to save gas. We had gone through a crisis on Friday involving some potentially self-harming behavior on the part of The Princess and had seriously contemplated taking her to the hospital. After a lengthy talk and some attitude adjustments by both The Princess and myself, we nixed the idea of taking her anywhere as a crisis call. I did, however, call JO (the therapist) and explained the situation in order to get a little bit of guidance. So our visit on Tuesday was kind of a wrap-up of the Friday debacle and an overview of the remainder of the weekend which was actually pretty good. Of course, getting out of the car at her office, I stepped into a small lake with my little ballet flats and spent the next several hours squishing and squelching in a rather uncomfortable way.

Then I headed home. I knew The Zen Master hadn’t taken anything out of the freezer for dinner and he agreed to pizza which I planned to pay for with my credit card since I had no money in my checking account because payday isn’t until Thursday and this past paycheck was the mortgage. But then my card got declined and I had to call My Dad and ask him for money when I knew they didn’t really have any either.

I got my yearly birthday message from R which is always good for a smile. Princess Punk had left a bunch of vibrantly pink rhododendrons from our bush outside and a card saying,

“For your birthday Peach and i are not here! WOOP WOOP! mima said it was fine for Peach and I to come. love you forever have a nice night. Love You! -Princess Punk and The Peach p.s. the flowers are from me from outside!!”

That was very nice and also made me smile. And while I missed my girls on my birthday, I did get snuggles with my hubby.

Not exactly conducive to romance…

Unfortunately, I didn’t get to enjoy a lot of alone time with my husband because I passed out approximately 45 minutes after I got home, right in the middle of Breaking Bad. Oh well, I didn’t want to see Walter in his tighty-whiteys again anyway. That man has more time on screen in his undies than a Vicky’s model.

It was nice to sleep with The Zen Master sans Midget.

I got a wake up call at 5:30 this morning from Princess Punk advising me that she needed her insulin and a set change before I went to work.

 

 

~grumble grumble~

 

 

So not a fantastic day. And although I did have a few bright moments, this weekend is supposed to be mild and sunny, dinner with The Zen Master’s gay best friend, Mr. Fabulous and his new boyfriend, no soccer games and Vicky’s Semi-Annual Sale with a $50 gift certificate that I’ve had since Christmas.

So I am making a proclimation that yesterday was not my birthday.

I pick… Saturday.