What I've Gotten Through

This week, the prompt from Mama Kat's that struck me the most was 1.) What did you go through in order to get out? “The best way out is always through”  (Inspired by  Shatterboxx and some dude named Robert Frost).

I have struggled with demons since I was a teenager.  For a long time, I never thought I would get out.  Addiction and other self-destructive behaviors made it seem like there was no light at the end of the trouble.  But eventually, I did, and I really do credit it to my kids.  Becoming a mom totally changed my life.  I'm pretty sure I would be in prison, dead, or in a very bad way if I hadn't gotten pregnant when I did.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.  I was always a little self-destructive.  I've written a lot about how I was bullied in school, and to deal with it, I started drinking when I was 12 and cutting myself once I was in high school.  But things didn't get really out of control until I met my first boyfriend in community college.  He was disabled and we met when he asked me to help him smoke pot before class.  I should have cut and run, but I didn't.  I liked that he noticed me, and that ego boost was all I needed to get totally sucked in for the next 5 years.

I should have broken it off when he told me he needed me to drive his friends to rob someone for weed.  I didn't.  I should have never looked back after I ended up shut in a closet with garbage bags full of pot while police searched the house I was in.  I stayed. 

He promised me a lot.  His parents were very wealthy, and I got all new clothes, constant dinners at fancy restaurants, vacations, and the promise of a house.  I was caught up in the idea that I could get everything I wanted and not have to work for it.  I didn't know how much it would cost me-I was 18 and incredibly naive.

When he told me I only had friends because of him, I believed him.  He convinced me that I was damaged goods and that no one would ever love me but him.  He was controlling, even when I was in college in Philadelphia and he was in New York.  I drove home every weekend to be with him.  When I wasn't with him, he was constantly calling me to make sure I was too busy to do anything else but talk to him.

It was my first relationship, and I believed it was how love really worked.  Looking back, it makes me sick (and really sad) that I couldn't see how damaging and wrong I was.  I stopped talking to my family because he convinced me they were trying to break us up so I would never be happy.

Things got really bad when the hard drugs got involved.  Have I mentioned he became disabled in the first place because of a car accident due to being high on heroin and whippets?  You'd think one would learn from that.  Anyway, it started with a few pills, then led to coke and heroin, and finally led to crack.

I had a dark few years there, and I don't remember a lot (which I think may be a good thing, although now I have a terrible memory and sometimes people get annoyed that I repeat things a lot, or don't remember something important they told me).

I do remember the crazy drug runs and week-long binges, the lying, the stealing, the selling of prostitutes, the paranoia, the cheap motel rooms, and finally, when things got really bad, the bartering of me for drugs.  It really sucked.

We finally broke up when he threw me under the bus once and for all to save his own ass.  He had asked me to take a bunch of money out of one of his accounts (since he was disabled, he couldn't use the ATM).  His father was furious when he found out, and when confronted, my ex told him I stole the card and took the money out and he had no idea.  Of course, I was the one on the bank's surveillance videos.  I consider myself incredibly lucky I didn't go to prison.

Once the relationship was over, I was so incredibly relieved.  I managed to stay away from the drugs for a while, but my ex kept calling me.  He still needed someone to help him do drugs, and apparently, he didn't care that he almost ruined my entire life (drugs will do that to a person-all you care about is getting more drugs-nothing and no one else matters).  I fell for it and continued to do drugs.

When I met the boyfriend, I finally stopped seeing my ex.  I still couldn't kick the drugs, though, and for a while, the boyfriend and I were spiraling out of control.  Then I realized I was pregnant, and it changed my life.  It did what no rehab could do-make me see that there was something to really live for, something much more important than the pull of any drug.

I went through a whole lot of hell before I came out on top.  I've seen things and done things most other moms who see me walking around with my kids would never guess.  I consider myself lucky for coming out unscathed for the most part.  Yeah, I rotted my teeth with the drugs, compromised myself and my morals, permanently damaged the inside of my nose, and ruined my memory, but I'm alive, sober, and happy.

It doesn't take much for me to look back and think of how bad things could have been.  I could very well have been that homeless crackhead prostitute you see when you go into a bad neighborhood.  I could have been that dead body in the gutter, forgotten by all until some off-leash dog finally discovered me.  I could have been locked behind bars for 20 years.

Instead, I learned what love really is, both the relationship kind of love and the unconditional love you can never imagine until you have a child.  I learned that life is worth living.  I learned that anyone who tries to tear me down or convince me I am not worth it is the one who isn't worth it.  I learned having money can't buy happiness or love.  I learned that real friends are the ones who stick around through good and bad, not just when you do drugs with them or give them shit.  I learned that there are a lot of people who will just hang around you because of drugs and money, and those are people I want to stay far away from.

But the most important thing I got out of it all is that I can get through anything.  No matter what life throws at me, no matter how bad things may seem, they will get better, and I will fight to come out on top of whatever life may throw at me.

On Tattoos and Family

I have a lot of tattoos-14 to be exact.  And I've already written a post about how I have been negatively judged for one of them.  You can read about that here.  So enough about my naked lady tattoo. I'm going to talk about my favorite.

Everyone always asks me about my tattoo on the front of my leg, near my ankle.  It reads "Familie ist Leben, Liebe, Herz, Seele, und Respekt" (this is German, by the way).  I got it in college, when I was living in Philadelphia (at Olde City Tattoo, by Steve Tiburi).  It's for my Oma.  She was still alive at the time, but she has always had such an impact on my life that I wanted to honor her and everything she stood for.  You can read more about my Oma here.

In English, the tattoo would read "Family is Life, Love, Heart, Soul, and Respect."  And for me, that is what rings true.  My family is really important to me.  I was very close to my Oma when she was alive.  And my Grandma was a big part of my life when I was a kid-unfortunately, she suffered from Alzheimer's, and the last 10 years of her life, she wasn't the grandma I grew up with. 

I'm very close with my parents as well.  They live right down the street and they are always there for me.  They watch my kids if needed, buy diapers and formula when we can't afford it, and make sure my kids have presents on Christmas and their birthdays. 

I would have nothing without my family.  My family is my life.  And I wanted to make sure I would never forget that, so I got my tattoo to commemorate what family means to me.

Sorry, I tried to get the whole thing and it took 3 views since it wraps around my leg

This post was written in response to this week's Red Writing Hood prompt from Write on Edge.  If you haven’t figured it out, this week, we’d like you to write a piece in which a tattoo figures prominently. Fiction or creative non-fiction. There is a lot to think about: why someone would get one, what they chose, when they got it, what message does the tattoo(s) send?  You will have 300 words with which to play.
It was really hard for me to keep to the word limit.  There is so much more I could have said about what my family means to me.  I guess I'll have to save that, and the meanings (or lack thereof) behind my other tattoos, for another post.

Not Being Gentle

I don't understand why my kids can't be gentle.  I swear I wasn't like that as a child.  Well, except when I pushed my baby sister off a table when we went to adopt her (she was in an infant seat, and she was fine).  I was gentle with my pets, and my sister.

But not my kids.  I don't know where they get it from.  Maybe it's because I have two boys?  I just don't know.  My older kids, T, and Princess, are so rough and tumble.  I cringe when they play together because I'm sure they're going to hurt one another.  Sometimes they do, but they're usually fine.

My poor Goober gets the worst of it since he's the smallest.  He's old enough to want to play, yet small enough that he can't unless they're gentle with him.  It doesn't happen.  One day, I left the room for a minute, and when I came back, T had Goober in a headlock, and Princess was jumping over their heads.  On the bed.

Then there's the kitten.  I adopted two cats last week, a momma named Cheese, and her 6 week old kitten, who we named Cheddar.  I was wary of getting a kitten, since my kids tend to not be gentle, but I was overcome by his cuteness and couldn't resist.

I'm regretting this decision.  I adore the kitten.  He's playful and Goober thinks he's the funniest thing in the word.  Princess is terrified of him, because when she tried to play with him, he used his claws and she got a little scratch on her face.  But I'm terrified T is going to kill him.  He cannot seem to be gentle.  He's fine with the other cats, who are big.  Not the kitten.

I have to make sure every minute of the day that I know where T is, and where the kitten is, so they are never unsupervised together.  I think T loves the kitten; he always asks me where baby cat is and wants to play with him.  This has resulted in him flinging the kitten end over end across the room, flinging him off the bed onto the floor, and trying to throw him over the railing and down the stairs.  The poor kitten.

No matter how many times I warn T to be gentle and give him time-outs when he doesn't listen, he can't be gentle.  He is rough with everyone, including me.  Princess is pretty much the same, although she can manage to be gentle for a little while when she is reminded.  Maybe it's because she is a girl.  And Goober is too little to know what I mean when I tell him to be gentle.  Surprisingly, he's been the best with the kitten.  They seem to get along.

I hope one day the message will sink in.  If it doesn't, I'm sure my kids will be terrors in school.  T just started preschool, and I will not be surprised when the call comes that he did something rough to someone else's kid.  After all, he only lasted 2 half-days in daycare before they asked me not to bring him back.  I guess that's what parenting is though; trying to instill values in your children and them not listening.  Maybe the message will sink in one day.

Princess' Teeth

So all I've been able to think about this weekend is Princess' teeth.  I am so beyond stressed out about it.  We have a consult with the dentist Monday afternoon, and it can't come soon enough but at the same time, I don't even want to go.

Over the summer, the boyfriend took her to the dentist because she had a couple discolored gray spots on her two front top teeth.  Apparently they were cavities and she had 4 of them and would need 3 root canals and 4 crowns to fix them.  We don't have dental insurance and we didn't have the money to pay for it, so we put it off.

Now her teeth look worse.  I can actually see the cavities on the two front teeth, and the other two teeth have gray spots.  So we have to get it fixed, and I need to borrow money to do it.  I spoke with the dentist's office and they told me she has to go under general anesthesia at the hospital to get it done because she is not a very good patient.  This will cost me $1750 plus whatever my medical insurance doesn't pay for the operating room, anesthesia, etc.

I don't know if I want to do this.  I've read about baby crowns getting screwed up easily and the teeth have to be pulled anyway.  When she's mad, Princess bangs her head on the floor.  I have a feeling she may knock the crowns off if she gets them.

Also, I'm terrified of her going under general anesthesia.  She's only 2 1/2.  Anesthesia can be dangerous.  And it's just her teeth, it's not some lifesaving surgery or something really medically necessary.  I just don't know if I can agree to this.

T already had his top 4 teeth pulled due to an accident this spring.  I think this is what I would prefer to do with Princess.  I already know what it entails.  She will be sedated with some liquid medicine.  When she is sleepy, she will sit on someone's lap and get nitrous and a shot of Novocaine, and they will pull the teeth.  It will all take less than an hour (30-40 minutes for the sedative to kick in, 10 minutes to pull the teeth, 5-10 minutes to recover).  And it will cost me $1650.  Then I can get her a flipper if need be so it looks like she has the teeth there.

The boyfriend totally disagrees with me on this.  He wants to get the teeth fixed.  It has been really tense all weekend.  I just don't know what the best thing to do for her will be.  I don't want to make the wrong decision but my gut is telling me to just get the teeth pulled.  I don't want to start a fight with her dad or the dentist, but I think they're wrong.  And I'm the one who is going to borrow the money, so I'd like to think that if we can't agree, I should get to choose in the end.  But I also feel like thinking that way is messed up.

I really just don't know what to do.  I wish the boyfriend would come around to thinking my way.  It's going to be weird at the consultation when we don't agree on what to do.  I wish it could just be over and done with already.  And I wish someone had told me sooner that cavities were contagious.  I really feel like I failed because both T and Princess have messed up front teeth.  Even though we make sure they brush every day.  I'm praying something doesn't happen to Goober now.  I want tomorrow to be over.

NOTE: We went to the appointment and the dentist agreed with me that she should have 3 teeth removed because her roots are resorping.  Tomorrow we have consult with the oral surgeon who pulled T's teeth.  A month after the teeth are removed, she will get fitted for fake baby teeth.  I am happy.  And T now has a gigantic hole in his tooth-he had no cavities a month ago, so he must have smashed it on something and broken it.  I hope it is fill-able.  Also, any parents with kids over 1 who still use a bottle-stop before it's too late.  The dentist told me that is why both my kids have bad front top teeth-the bottle.  Look up baby bottle mouth to see some awful pictures of what it does to teeth.

Labels

I'll admit it.  I label my kids.  I was also labeled as a kid.  I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing.  Maybe it's both.  But it's really hard not to label my kids, and some of the other kids they are in contact with.

I was always the "smart kid".  From an early age, I was at the top of the learning curve.  By 1, I knew over 200 words.  By 2, I memorized poems and could recite the Pledge of Allegiance.  By 3, I was writing and illustrating my own stories.  In school, teachers always expected a lot of me.  And they got it from my work.  But I was also the "shy kid" to teachers.  I would never raise my hand in class.  I never jumped into a conversation.  I didn't do well in groups (unless I did all the work and everyone else left me alone).

It was also a lot of pressure.  If I didn't do well on something, I felt really bad about it.  I had a hard time in 10th grade math and it was the only time I ever failed anything.  I remember being humiliated that I only got a 510 on my French SAT II.

Overall, I think it helped me achieve all I could in school.  I held myself to a high standard because people looked at me as the "smart kid" and I didn't want to let them, or myself, down.  And, well, I've always been shy and I always will  be.  I'm slightly more assertive now, but only when I need to be.  It is what it is.

I do label my kids.  T is complicated.  He's kind of my "problem child," even though I feel really mean saying that.  It's not his fault.  He has the speech problems and it affects his behavior.  He throws bunches of tantrums every day.  He hits and kicks me when he's frustrated.  He punched the baby in the kidneys tonight because I told him he had to either wait until my show was over to watch his DVD or go watch it downstairs.  He's unpredictable-one second he will be lovey and cuddly, then all of a sudden something sets him off and he's screaming, throwing things, hurting people.

When he is behaving, he is the sweetest kid you'll ever meet.  He's always asking questions about everything.  He loves posing for the camera.  He shares his toys with the other kids.  Adults love him because he is adorable and warms up to everyone right away.  He cuddles with me at night and, since school has started, he's been sleeping at the foot of my bed with his dragon Happy Napper.  I adore him.

Princess is my "drama queen" and "Daddy's little girl".  She already has Daddy wrapped around her little finger and can anything she wants from him, usually by throwing a tantrum.  I ignore her.  I'm sure she thinks I'm mean because I don't cater to her every whim like her dad.  She will scream and cry and bang her head on the floor to command total attention from Daddy.  Oh, and she's jealous too.  She'll throw a tantrum if he pays attention to the other kids or me.

When she's just with me and Daddy's not around, she's a little angel.  She is so well behaved.  I can take her to the store or to run errands and she is perfect.  She's the only one of my children who I can take to a restaurant.  It's like she has two totally different personalities depending on who she's with.

The there's Goober.  I really don't have a label for him, but I can tell you that I spoil him.  He is my little baby and in my eyes, he can do no wrong.  I probably spend more time with him than I do with the other kids.  I love having him with me, and I hog him.  His grandparents really don't spend time with him and he's never spent a night with them like the older kids.  In fact, I've only spent one night not sleeping in a bed with him since he was born.

If I could predict it, I think Goober will either become the "spoiled brat" or the "Mama's boy."  Both of those labels are okay with me.  I love my kids.  They are my life.  I don't have friends I go out with, I don't have any hobbies.  I'm home all day, every day with my babies.  I love all the ins and outs of their personalities, even the not so good parts.  So I don't mind labeling them.  I'm sure their labels with change as they grow up.  But one label won't change-I will always label all my kids my "baby," long after they're grown up.

This post was written in response to a prompt from Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop.  I chose 5.) What’s your stance on ‘labeling’? Were you labeled as a child? Have you labeled your own children? How do you feel about this?

Too Big, Too Soon

My kids are growing up too fast.  Especially T.  He is starting preschool on Wednesday, and it's at the point where I can no longer deny it.  My anxiety has been through the roof this past week, partly due to family problems, and partly due to feeling like my oldest is going to leave me.

I know he's only going to preschool for a few hours a day, and I know he needs it, and he will still need me, but I'm still fighting the feeling of abandonment.  I've struggled with anxiety problems for the past 13 years, and I also have Borderline Personality Disorder, which I know contributes a lot to me feeling like this.

I know he will love preschool.  He went to speech camp for a month this summer and had a great time.  It also helped him be more vocal, which is great.  It is still pretty much impossible to understand most of what he says, though, due to the speech apraxia.  I'm just happy he's even trying to talk.  He had no words at all until after he was 3.

We had to fight tooth and nail to get him into this special preschool.  We still have to fight to get him OT so someone will help him with the behavioral side of things, but it's a start.  I will miss him so much while he is gone.  It just feels different than if he were to go visit his grandparents for a few hours. 

He's old enough to go to school.  He's not my little baby anymore.  I can't remember him as a baby.  At all.  I see pictures and I know he was that little, but I can't specifically remember anything of him as a baby besides giving birth to him.  The next memories I have are when he was close to a year old.  I feel like the time is flying by too fast, and I just want to slow it down to savor every moment.

At the same time, I want him to learn and be able to talk like the other kids.  I want him to make friends and be normal.  He's never had a playdate.  He's met kids at the playground and, since he's big for his age, the older kids wonder why he doesn't talk and won't play with him.  The younger kids won't play with him either because he is always too close to them and doesn't respect their personal space.  He cannot grasp the concept, and, although the other parents understand when I explain, the kids are uncomfortable around him.

I want him to be normal, or at least be around other kids who have similar issues, or who aren't bothered by his.  I want this school to improve his speech to the point where he can go to regular kindergarten.  I've thought about holding him back from kindergarten a year so he and his sister can be in the same grade because she understands him.

I want him to grow up and go out into the world, but I want to protect him.  I'm afraid kids will be mean to him like they were to me growing up.  I'm afraid he won't fit in.  I'm afraid I won't know how to handle anything going wrong with him because I'm such an emotional person, and when I'm upset, I know I'm not at all rational.

But I don't want my fears to affect him.  He doesn't see me crying at night because I feel like I'm going to lose him as he grows up.  He can't see my anxiety behind my forced cheer when I tell him about school.  So, on Wednesday, I'm going to dress him in his new school clothes, with his pirate backpack, and drive him to school.  I'm going to walk him in like all the other parents, give him a kiss, and wish him good luck.  And hopefully, I will make it back to my car before I burst into tears in front of all the other parents.

Seasons of Change- Surving Post-Partum Depression- Red Writing Hood

There have been many seasons of change in my life-the transition from popular kid to outcast, loner who no one spoke with to college student with eclectic friends, miserable and engaged to single and pregnant, drug addict to sober mother.  But today, I'm going to tell you my story of change from post-partum depression sufferer to functioning and loving mother.

It's hard for me to describe how post-partum depression felt.  I'm sure those of you who experienced it can relate, but if you haven't, let me just tell you how awful it is.  I had no bond with T or Princess when they were born.  It was worse with T.  I felt nothing.  I didn't really want to even hold him- it was like someone handed me an alien and was trying, unsuccessfully, to convince me that it was mine.

I went through all the motions, feeding him and cooing over him, but I knew it wasn't supposed to be like this.  And it kept getting worse.  After a few weeks, I started to have awful thoughts running through my head.  I couldn't handle it when he cried.  I would cry and scream at him.

The crazy thoughts got even worse, and one day, I really wanted to throw him out the window.  That is the moment I sought help.  I felt so horrible that I even thought about hurting my baby.  It was awful, and I knew it wasn't really me thinking those thoughts.  I went on medication, and things got better.  I felt like I finally loved T, and the thoughts went away.


Then I found out I was pregnant with Princess, and I had to stop the medication.  I had been such a mess that I didn't even realize I was pregnant until I was showing.  I had to have an ultrasound to determine how far along I was (20 weeks-who the heck doesn't realize they're 20 weeks pregnant?).  I was hormonal and had my ups and downs, but things seemed pretty much okay until she was born, exactly one year and two days after T.  This time, I started medication at the hospital and was evaluated before I left.  I thought I was fine, and the psychiatrist agreed.  Everything changed when I got home.

I wanted to spend all my time with T.  I didn't want to look at or hold Princess.  The boyfriend had to quit his job because I couldn't take care of her.  We moved in with my parents, and for a good 6 months, they completely supported us.  I went back to my part-time job less than 2 weeks after she was born.  I couldn't wait to get away from her, but I missed T.  It was a strange and awful feeling.

When Princess was a few months old, I started having the same crazy thoughts I had when T was a baby.  It was so upsetting.  I found  a doctor and got my medication changed, and thankfully, it worked.  I finally loved both my kids.  I found a balance between work and being a mommy, and I enjoyed being with my kids and watching them grow up.

Things were really good until I found out I was pregnant again.  Princess was 9 months old.  I was excited to be pregnant, but physically, I felt horrible.  I went to the doctor and was given the awful news that I was miscarrying.  It totally spun me for a loop.  I felt like I  fell right back to the bottom of the hole I was in right after my kids were born.

My anxiety and panic attacks that I thought I conquered came back with a vengence.  It started affecting my job.  I felt like nothing was going to get better.  Around Christmas, I was having horrible back pain and ended up in the Emergency Room.

I found out I was pregnant again.  I was in shock, and in so much pain that I cried for 2 hours straight.  I didn't know whether to be happy or sad.  When I got an ultrasound, the OB/GYN on call told me that there was a lot of bleeding and an 80% chance I would lose this pregnancy as well.   I assumed the worst would happen and moped around my house for a couple weeks.  I wasn't functioning at work and kept getting in trouble for forgetting to do things that, after almost 3 years, should have been automatic.

I made it past the 12 week mark.  Then I made it past the 16 week mark.  My doctors told me at this point that it looked like a normal pregnancy and I was out of the woods.  I was so elated at that moment.  It was when everything changed, and life was on an upswing. 

I couldn't get enough of my kids.  I wanted to play with them and go places with them and do as much as I could.  I loved the baby that was growing inside of me.  Life was finally great.  Even our apartment flooding when I was 9 months pregnant couldn't bring me down.  I had to temporarily move into my parents with the kids while the boyfriend packed our stuff and tried to clean (I attempted to go back to the apartment one day, and the mold smell assaulted me before I even took 2 steps into the living room.  I ran out of that place, and never went back).

Since the landlords I wouldn't even look at the damage, I looked around for a new place, and found a great 4 bedroom house for rent down the street from my parents.  The landlord liked me so much that even though he already had someone coming that day to sign the lease, he told me that we could move in.  I left my job to get the house ready since the baby was due in a week.  Thankfully, Goober was 10 days late, so I had enough time to paint (it was low VOC, and I wore a mask, even though I HATE them) and decorate the upstairs (curtains are decoration, right?).

Since the rent was so high, we split the rent with the boyfriend's mom.  She lives downstairs, and we have the upper 2 floors.  We share a kitchen downstairs.  So far, it has worked out pretty well.

I went into labor with Goober and stayed home until the last possible minute.  At the hospital, he came so fast after my water broke that they didn't even have time to prepare the stirrups and get all the equipment ready before he was crowning.  I adored him from the second I had him.  It was like a mini vacation in the hospital, and he and I were the only 2 guests.

I stayed home with the kids for 6 weeks.  Goober was never out of my sight.  He will be a year old in 2 weeks and I've only spent one night away from him (there was a bad storm when I was with the other 2 kids in the Catskills, and I am terrified to drive in the rain).

Work didn't work out.  I wanted to be home with the baby.  I couldn't focus, and my boss' illness was making him more and more volatile.  After I forgot one little thing and got chewed out for it, I knew I wasn't going back.  I called out the next day (it was a Friday and would have only been a 4 hour workday), and my boss had my coworker call me to fire me.  I was mad I got fired, but it was also awesome.

I get to stay home with my kids.  I see them all day, every day.  I love being with them all the time.  Even when the older 2 get on my nerves (I never knew how willful toddlers could be!).  I wish I could have enjoyed them as babies like I enjoyed Goober.  Part of me feels I'm hogging Goober from his dad and grandparents because I want to make up for the lack of attention I gave the older kids as babies.  But now I want to make the most out of every minute with them while they're still little.

Surviving post-partum depression is one of my biggest accomplishments.  I transitioned from feeling like a horrible person to being a great mom who, although not perfect, does the best I can for my kids.  I love my life and feel like all the pieces are finally falling into place.


This post was written in response to this week's Red Writing Hood prompt from Write on Edge.
This week, with Labor Day and the end of summer rapidly approaching, we asked you to write about a season of change for your character or you. It can be literal or metaphorical.

Taking a Sick Day

This post will be a shorter one, since I feel crappy and would really rather be sleeping than writing.  Not that I'm really going to get much sleep.  When you're a stay at home mommy, you can't call out of work and take a sick day.

I've tried to do this and failed.  Even with the boyfriend at home, someone still always needs me.  I yearn to have a sick day where I can just lay in bed and throw myself a pity party with no interruptions.  I would even settle for more than 4 hours of uniniterrupted sleep. 

It's not at all like when the boyfriend gets sick. He gets to hole up in a room on a bed or a couch, alone.  He gets all the sleep and quiet he needs.  I make the kids walk on tiptoes and speak in whispers.  When this becomes impossible, we go to the zoo.  Or my parent's house down the street.  He gets to be miserable without the kids around.

When I am sick, however, I find myself schlepping around the house in a medication induced haze.  I also tend to have a child in my arms.  It's not so bad when the baby needs carrying, but trying to keep myself upright while sick with a 45 pound toddler in my arms is not an easy task.
So now I am not only sick, but exhausted.  And my brain is foggy I can't even see straight.  2 of my kids are screaming because they can't grasp the concept of sharing and I need to mediate.

I want to either get better asap or get a lot worse.  Because if I'm worse, I can go to the hospital.  That's practically a vacation when you have 3 kids under 4.  And even though it would suck to be that sick, at least I would get some peace and quiet. 

Mom Fail- Having a Tantrum

My kids were all having a really bad day.  Goober was teething and wouldn't stop crying because he was in pain. 

It also didn't help that Princess gave him a piece of her raisin bread, which caused his eczema to
flare up.  This meant that every time he rubbed his cheeks, they started bleeding (Goober has reactions like this to all types of fruit, among other things, and his poor cheeks get raw).  It is impossible to stop an 11 month-old from touching his face.  I know; I tried.

Princess needed a nap but refused to go to her room until Daddy came home.  The littlest things were setting her off.  Goober was close to her (even though he wasn't even touching her or poking her or anything).  She wanted another episode of Spongebob, but it was T's turn to pick a show and he wanted Wow Wow Wubbzy.  Every few minutes, she threw herself on the floor, kicking and screaming and bashing her head. 

T wouldn't respect anyone's personal space.  He was poking Princess, pushing Goober, and sticking his feet in my face.  I have a thing with feet.  I hate them.  They gross me out.  No one is allowed to touch my feet (goodbye, pedicures), and I don't like feet in my face.  Even if they're clean.  I have a lot of anxiety with feet.

I cajoled and bribed and threatened, but they wouldn't stop.  I don't blame Goober for any of this.  He legitimately had a right to be crying, but it was just adding to everything else in a bad way.  I couldn't take it anymore.

I snapped.  I was screaming at the top of my lungs.  I don't even think real words were coming out of my mouth.  I grabbed a pillow and repeatedly his the wall with it.  I stomped my feet.  I threw a temper tantrum.

The kids were shocked.  Goober looked horrified as he chewed the comforter.  Princess stopped and stared at me.  T came over and put his finger to his lips and tried to shush me.  My 3 1/2 year-old was being more of an adult than I was.

I calmed down.  I sat on the bed.  I apologized to my kids.  T and Princess calmly went into their room, shut the door, and took naps.  I gave Goober some Tylenol and a bottle, and he went to sleep.  Finally I had peace and quiet.

This post was inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop.  I chose a mom fail moment.

Go Go Power Rangers!

My kids love Power Rangers.  I don't get the appeal.  The new Power Rangers (Samurai) is just as cheesy as the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers that was on TV when I was in elementary school.  In fact, I think Megazord may actually be the same.

I know you're all going to think I'm nuts when I tell you that I actually watch all the episodes.  I think they're ridiculous, but I can't look away.  This is the reason I can tell you that Pink Ranger Mia is a bad cook, Green Ranger Mike has some issues with immaturity, and Decker is hot.  Really, really hot.

Decker, played by Rick Medina

 However, the drawback of watching Power Rangers all day, every day, is that T thinks he is one.  He is convinced he is a ninja Power Ranger.  He is the blue one, or as he would say, "Go Go Ah Ah Boo!" (this is how it sounds when he says 'go go power rangers blue!').  And he does this while pumping his fist in the air.  I, of course, am the Pink Ranger.

T has a bad habit of sneaking up and doing ninja moves on everyone, even poor Goober.  I walked into my room the other day after leaving for 30 seconds to feed my dumber-than-a-brick cat Misty.  I saw T on his back with Goober in a headlock on top of him.  The baby's eyes were as big as saucers.  He was terrified.  I saved him from T's grasp.

"Yah!" yelled T, karate chopping me in the neck.  I was still holding Goober, who started to cry.  So I attempted to get T to calm down.  He proceeded to scream and kick me for real.  I had to run away.

This is the Power Ranger fist pump

The other big problem with Power Rangers is the swords.  Apparently, the boyfriend's mom never got the memo that toddlers and swords, even plastic ones, do not go together.  They were an Easter gift, and a big  hit (literally).

The kids, mid-fight

Princess and T play with the swords all the time, making appropriate Power Ranger/ninja/karate noises to go along with it.  They are not gentle either.  One sword is know held together with packing tape, and on more than one occasion, Princess has gotten hurt.

I don't remember if this was a scream of joy or pain.

There have been other casualties too.  Like a full mug of coffee that ended up all over the carpet.  And the broken plate.  And a chink out of the wood dresser (how does a plastic sword even do that?).

The worst was when T decided I was a Nyloc (the bad guys in Power Rangers Samurai) when I was sitting in bed on my laptop one day.  Usually I will play along and pretend to fall over while screaming "noooooooooo" in slow motion.  But he hit me hard in my side.  I screamed for real and doubled over. He kicked me in the back.  I know he was playing, but he kicked me hard.

My lower back is my Achilles heel.  I am thorougly convinced it is from the anesthesiologist messed up my epidural twice when I was in labor with T (which is why I decided to birth Princess and Goober with no drugs).  Now I have chronic pain that nothing can fix.  I've tried physical therapy, trigger point injections, cortisone injections, painkillers, etc.  Over the past 3 1/2 years, unbearable back pain has landed me in the ER over 20 times.

After the kick, I couldn't move.  I felt like I couldn't breathe.  I'm not sure how much time passed before my sobbing woke up the boyfriend in the other room and he came to help me.  I couldn't get myself out of the fetal position without his help.  I spent the next week in bed.  I know he didn't mean to hurt me, but I was pretty annoyed with T for a few days.

So now I'm seriously considering karate lessons for T.  I swear he already knows how to do some actual punches (from what I can remember of my short karate career in college).  He will definitely love it.  And I think it will be good for him.  Then he can be a Power Ranger for real.

Don't Judge Me!

I despise how people are so judgmental, especially women.  That's not to say that I haven't come across men who inaccurately judge, but more on them later.  Women are crazy and fickle and mean, and I don't understand them, even though I am one.  Sometimes, I don't even understand me.  This may be why I can count my friends on just one hand, and my children never have play dates with other people's kids.  I hate to admit it, but I judge people too.  But I absolutely hate it when people judge me, especially because it's usually over something really trivial and stupid.

I get really upset and annoyed when people judge me as a person and a mother by my tattoos.  This happens very often.  I have 14, and I got them all before I had any kids.  And I do not regret a single one. My mother hates my tattoos and always wants me to cover them up or get them removed.  I don't mind her nagging because she's my mom.  The boyfriend wants me to cover up when we go out to a nice restaurant.  This doesn't bother me either.  I get the fact that it may be inappropriate to have my mostly nude pinup tattoo showing when we are going somewhere fancy.  However, I'm not going to cover it up all the time, and as far as I'm concerned, it's too damn bad if I don't know you and you don't like it.  That's your problem, not mine.

Yeah, I also have the boob tattoo-but it's mine and the boyfriend's initials, people

Don't assume I'm a bad parent because I have tattoos.  You can look totally conventional, wear a business suit, and abuse your kids and be a horrible person.  My tattoos have absolutely no bearing on my ability to parent my children.  I'm a good mom, and if you know me, this is obvious.  And the tattoos are mine, not my kids', so why do you not want your child to play with mine?  Are they lesser beings because of me?  The way some people think is ridiculous.  I don't judge you for wearing ugly/too tight/inappropriate clothes or jewelry, so don't judge me just because I have tattoos.  However, if you are going to judge me because of this, I really don't want to know you anyway.

I also hate that people judge me for not breastfeeding my children.  Even in the hospital right after birth, the nurses were chastising me.  Really?  I didn't know it was the end of the world.  I was surprised when even strangers came up to me in public while bottle-feeding my children and pretty much equated bottle-feeding with bad parenting.  Seriously people, you don't know my story so don't jump to conclusions.  I would have loved to have breastfed, but I couldn't.  It's not that I didn't try hard enough or have enough desire to either.  I have breast hypoplasia, also known as tubular breasts.  I had them surgically corrected when I was 20, so they look normal now, but I couldn't breastfeed.  It was mortifying in school to have my breasts look like they did.  And it was sad I couldn't breastfeed, no matter how hard I tried.  No amount of pumping would get more than one to two ounces out of each breast.  And you know how it feels when you are breastfeeding and you need to pump, and your breasts get really hard an painful?  The bottom half of one breast felt like that all the time.  It sucked on so many levels.  My oldest son, T, lost over 1 1/2 pounds before his first doctor's visit at one week old when I tried to breastfeed him.  It wasn't okay, and I tried for 4 months to up my milk supply, and I never happened.  So I don't appreciate the negative feedback about something I am physically incapable of doing, thank you very much.

Stop judging me on my clothes.  I'm tall, and I like to wear cute shoes, even if it's just to the grocery store.  Don't gawk at me and nudge your friends because when I'm in my heels, I'm 6'2".  It makes me happy, and I do it for me, not you.  Same with my makeup.  I love makeup, especially bright makeup.  It is not unusual for me to wear 3 different eyeshadows and fuschia lipstick.  I do it because I feel glamorous and sexy with it on.  I'll admit that some days it is a little over the top, but I didn't ask for your opinion, so don't give it to me.  I hate unsolicited advice.

This is pretty typical-bright, bright, bright!

I also hate it when random people judge my kids.  I went to the Bronx Zoo one day when T was about 2 1/2.  When he didn't want to be in the stroller anymore, I put him in his backpack/baby leash.  And people were nasty to me about it.  Sorry I don't want him to run away or get lost.  He has behavioral and emotional issues and throws awful tantrums.  He can also get violent when he's angry, and he has no concept of personal space.  I've found that the personal space thing really bothers most other children, and I don't want him running up to you and poking your kids.  Just because your children are 'normal' and have no delays doesn't mean all kids are.  That said, I'm not going to keep him home all the time because of this.  There was a grandmother at the zoo that same day with 4 of her grandkids.  One wasn't behaving and started to scream and cry.  She grabbed the kid's face by his chin and threatened to whup him if he didn't stop.  When she let go, the kid had red marks on his face.  No one who saw this batted an eye.  So you can be borderline abusive in public to your kids and it's okay, but I put a baby leash on mine and I'm a bad mother.  What the hell is wrong with people?

Now I'll get back to men.  They judge too, and it's pretty much the opposite of how women judge me.  Having a pinup tattoo on my arm does not mean I'm a stripper, or easy.  No, I do not want to go out with you or go home with you.  Do you treat all women like that?  Same with my heels and makeup.  Just because I'm out somewhere and put together doesn't mean I'm looking for a guy.  I'm here with my kids, thank you.  Leave me alone when I tell you to.  I'm not playing hard to get, I just want to get away from you.  And even if I didn't have an awesome boyfriend and did want a date, it wouldn't be with you.  I don't go for old, grungy, hairy biker guys or young, obnoxious wannabe-rappers.


So just stop judging people over every little thing.  Frankly, it's none of your business, and you should focus on your own shortcomings instead of the ones you perceive in others.

Baby Love!

My kids are growing up too fast.  T is starting preschool in a few weeks.  We fought and finally won at getting him in a therapeutic preschool to address his speech, behavioral, and social issues.  I can't believe my baby is leaving me for school so soon.  Princess is smack in the middle of the terrible 2's, and she doesn't let me forget it for a minute.  And Goober, well, he will turn 1 in less than a month.  Where did my little babies go?

T as a baby-January 2008

 I love everything about babies.  I loved being pregnant, and I love how newborns fit into the crook of your arm and will peacefully stay there all day.  I love how babies smell, even when they poop (yeah, I know that's kind of gross, but it's true).  I love watching them drift off to sleep as I feed them a bottle.

I also know I'm looking back on my kids being babies with rose-colored glasses.  I suffered from postpartum depression with T and Princess.  Thankfully, I was okay after I had Goober.  If you've never had PPD, let me just tell you that it is awful.  I felt like a terrible mother.  I had horrifying thoughts constantly running through my head. For weeks, I didn't have a bond with my children-they were like aliens I was forced to take care of.  I was mean to the boyfriend when he tried to point out that I wasn't acting right.  Even though deep down I needed help, I did not want to accept that anything was wrong with me because I wanted to be the perfect mother.  Now I realize that no one is perfect, and once I finally sought help and bonded with my babies, everything was incredible.

Princess as a baby-January 2009

Goober was kind of my make up baby.  I bonded with him immediately when he was born.  It was pure bliss.  I adore all 3 of my kids, but the bond I felt towards Goober when he was born was absolutely incredible.  I have doted on him every minute since his birth.  He is with me 24/7.  I hog him from everyone, including his dad.  He has slept in the bed next to me every night since he was born, even though this got me in trouble at the hospital (the nurses are so anti co-sleeping, it is nuts).  I am terrified of him growing up.  I cried when he started walking because it meant my baby wasn't really a baby anymore.

Goober and me-September 2010

I've actually thought about having another baby since I love them so much, even though I know this is totally irrational.  I can barely handle my kids now, and can't imagine how difficult it would be with another baby in the house.  Plus, I can't afford it-all 3 of my kids are still in diapers, and between that and the cost of formula, let's just say it's expensive.  Not to mention that the boyfriend would kill me if I got pregnant again.  I'm pretty sure he is done for good with having babies.

That won't stop me from dreaming about another baby, though.  But until that time comes, I will squeeze every last drop of baby enjoyment from Goober before he really grows up into a toddler.

I've lost my mind and want it back.

This is my first time blogging, so please be nice to me.  I just discovered Twitter and some wonderful mommies who blog, and it inspired me to take some time for myself to write.  I haven't written much of anything since I had kids, which is funny, because I majored in writing in college-screenwriting to be exact, although looking back, this seems to have been a ridiculous choice.

I am now a stay at home mommy, and before that, I worked in a medical/dental office.  I got fired after 4 years for calling out of work one day because my boss was going crazy (seriously, he had awful medical problems and his medication made him like Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde) and I needed time to think about whether or not to quit.

Anyway, that is the past, and I've been home with my babies for 9 months and it's awesome.  But it's also really hard for me to have gone from working so much to being around my crazy kids all day.  My oldest son, T, is 3 1/2, has a severe speech delay, and will be starting preschool in September.  My daughter, Princess, is 2 1/2, has Daddy wrapped around her little finger, and throws tantrums whenever she doesn't get her way.  Goober is the best baby in the world.  He is 11 months old, and the love of my life.

My boyfriend and baby daddy is a computer programmer who loves making mods for Counterstrike and is obsessed with World of Warcraft.  This drives me nuts.  I like WoW also, thanks to him, but I play for an hour or two a couple times a week when the kids are asleep and I need to unwind.  He plays for hours, all night, every day.  And then he sleeps all day. Unfortunately, Princess has adapted to his schedule, being such a Daddy's girl and all.  Fortunately, the boyfriend will soon be starting a new job, which is actually his old job, working as a painter and powerwasher, 9 hours a day, 6 days a week.  I am looking forward to this and it can't start soon enough.

Oh, and did I mention we share a house with his mother?  Rent is expensive, and we are poor, so we split the rent and the house.  She has the downstairs and we have the upstairs.  We share a kitchen downstairs.  She works from home selling antiques, but I really don't see her much.  It stinks we can't afford to live alone, but sharing a house with her is better than cramming the 5 of us into a studio or one bedroom apartment (which is really all that would be in our price range unless we moved).

All of these things together make me feel like I'm losing my mind.  I love my kids, but they are a handful and a half.  I'm still not used to being home every day and only leaving the house to go to the store or the park or the zoo.  I don't even change out of my pajamas some days.  I no longer interact with people my age-my days are spent watching cartoons and playing with a million toys with my kids.  But it's great, and I wouldn't trade it for the world.