I’m Available For Parties!

On Tuesday I had to go see an ophthalmologist.
(There is something weird happening in my right eye that leads to headaches that my doctor feels I need to have checked out. CT Scan next month. FUN!)
He did some weird things to my eyes that didn’t hurt at all, but totally freaked me out (numbing the top layer of my eye, what?) When he was finished, he didn’t see anything wrong with my eye, but wanted to do a few more tests to be sure. He had to go get the nurse, so he did something kind of dangerous.
He left me alone in the room with his computer. The computer that had my medical history. As soon as he left, I got up to look.
Right there on the screen was my medical history.
The thing that stood out right away was something titled “Problem List.”
You guys.
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The thing is– that’s just a snippet of the list! (Look at the scroll button! So much scrolling!) I wasn’t brave enough to scroll. Too afraid of a) getting busted by the doctor for playing on his computer b) finding out new things that I didn’t know was wrong with me!
I GET IT, MEDICAL RECORD. I’VE GOT PROBLEMS.
And one of them is GERD.
I’m never telling my doctor about the peeing when coughing. I don’t need to see that on the list.
This is why my doctor calls me “a fun mess.” you guys.
Except, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing fun about GERD.

I Guess What I’m Trying to Say is That I’m Tired of Feeling Intimidated to Write On My Own Blog

I still remember the first time I found “blogs.”
I had followed a link from a weight watchers chat room. The blog was written by a woman named Melly. Ordinary Morning, was the name of the blog.
It was 2001.
It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen on the internet.
Granted, I had only been on the internet for a total of *maybe* 3 months, but still, MOST AMAZING THING.
Here was this young, single mother, writing openly and brutally honestly about her life. She was smart, beautiful, devastatingly funny.
I found myself wanting to get to know Melly. I wanted to hear more of what she had to say. “I think we’d be great friends!” I’d think to myself as I would read her words.
I started clicking her links and those links lead to new blogs that, yet again, BLEW MY MIND.
I wanted to know these people! I wanted to be in on their “inside jokes!” But mostly, I wanted to write and put my words out there. Maybe someone could relate. Maybe I could make someone laugh.
I love to write. I would most surely love to blog!
I won’t go into the entire history of how I finally got my blog up and running but I will tell you that a complete stranger was kind enough to answer all of my blogging questions and help set up my very first blog on blogger.
I had a blog.
And I started writing in that blog.
And people started reading.
(One of those people was Melly. And I was right. We became friends. The best of friends. She even came to California (twice!) to visit my family.)
I would write stories about my boys, who at the time, were only 9 and 4 years old.
I was mommyblogging before mommyblogging was a “thing.”
I would suggest you go into my archives and see what I was writing about, but my archives are painful to read. I was going through a severe depression and writing through it all. I wasn’t thinking about “attracting marketers” or “My brand.” I only cared about telling my story, as painful, ugly, honest, and sometimes hilarious as it was.
I showed my stretch marks to the world before there was a movement online to do so. And I took the hell that came along with that. People telling me to keep that shit private because “no one wants to see your disgusting body.”
I was just this stupid girl putting it all out there because it felt right at the time.
It felt safe. There was this core group of people reading. And we were all friends. Kathy. Joelle. Mikey. Wendy. Statia. Trish. Robyn.
But things started to change.
Suddenly, what I was doing had a name. “Mommy blogging.”
And then people started fighting because HOW DARE YOU PUT ADS ALONGSIDE YOUR STORIES ABOUT YOUR CHILDREN YOU DEVIL CHILD EXPLOITER I HOPE YOU DIE IN HELL1!!11!%%!!!!!%%@#
And now people are all “DON’T GO BAREFOOT AT CONFERENCES AND DON’T DRINK WINE OUT OF SIPPY CUPS BECAUSE YOU ARE PROFESSIONAL WHO MUST BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY!”
And I’m all on twitter going “come see pictures of my daughter’s first hair cut!”
Blogging as I know it has changed.
And I just can’t keep up. Because this blog isn’t a business. This blog is personal.
I just want to keep writing about my life. About my kids. About my struggles with health and weight and body image. I just want to write.
I feel like a complete misfit in blogging, which is so weird because I’ve been doing this since 2002 and what the hell?
Blogging is a business! Build your brand! YOUR BRAAANNNNNDDDD!
There’s no denying that I’ve been given some pretty amazing opportunities through blogging. (Interviewing the cast of New Adventures of Old Christine. Meeting Tony Hawk.) And that still amazes me. But that’s not WHY I do it. That will never be why I do it.
And suddenly, it feel like– if that’s not why I’m doing it, why even bother?
I used to be able to sit down and write a post about the most trivial things– like my trip to the doctor’s office yesterday, for example– hit publish, enjoy the comments and move on to the next post. Now I doubt every post. “This isn’t good enough” “no one will care about that” “People are writing about HEALTH CARE REFORM AND YOU’RE WRITING ABOUT PEEING WHILE YOU SNEEZE YOU ARE DOING IT WRONG.”
I also used to be able to write about important things, like depression or body image and feel safe. Feel like it mattered. Like by writing my story I was helping people and that people were helping me by reading, by sharing their stories. I know that is still true, but sometimes? I feel like the stories aren’t being heard because we’re all too busy about traffic and page views and twitter followers and OUR BRRRANNND.
And that’s fine! It’s wonderful that women are finding success because of their blogs– I mean it, it makes me so proud. But also? A little sad. Sad that those of us who are just here for the writing, for the stories, for the good content are feeling so out of place and irrelevant.
I don’t even know where I’m going with this anymore other than to say I’m struggling with blogging right now and I hope that by writing this out I will be able to make some sort of peace with it all and stop over thinking this shit and JUST START WRITING AGAIN BECAUSE I MOTHER FUCKING LOVE TO WRITE.

Next Up: Manicures by Nail Painters

On Friday I took my daughter to have her hair cut at a Real Salon. I decided it was time to stop putting her through the torture that is Haircuts By Mommy and let a professional do it.
She was thrilled about getting her hair done in a “big girl salon for women.”
On the way to the salon she asked question after question about she should expect. “Oh, Mommy! I can’t wait to meet my hair saloner!” she said. “I hope she’s going to make me look SO BEAUTIFUL!”
Waiting for her “hair saloner.”
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So! Excited!
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The consultation
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Her favorite part– the wash.
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Admiring the finished cut
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That was the best $25 I ever spent.

It is Very Tempting to Title This Post “Hugs, FTW!”

Every once in a while the sound of my husband getting ready for work early in the morning will wake our daughter up. Usually, she’ll ask him for a drink, or to quiet down and then she’ll crawl back into bed and fall back asleep.
This morning, she woke up at 4:30 am and never went back to sleep.
I knew that this meant REALLY bad news later that afternoon when she came home from school. A Tired My Daughter is a GRUMPY My Daughter.
After I finished picking up all 3 kids from 3 different schools (hate! driving! so! much!) I decided to make a quick trip to Trader Joe’s to get a few things for dinner (and also- pumpkin butter.) This wasn’t very smart parenting. I knew my daughter had been up since 4:30 in the morning. I should have went straight home and put her down for a nap. But, I also knew that if I didn’t go to buy groceries, we’d end up ordering a pizza or some other unhealthy food for dinner. So… to Trader Joe’s we went.
By the time we got home, my daughter was physically and mentally exhausted.
My husband was home from work, so I asked him to take care of her so I could get back to work.
“Please, put her down for a short nap.” I asked.
15 minutes later I hear crying from the kitchen.
“But, daddy! I want to make strawberry juice!”
“No, sweetie. You can’t smash the strawberries to make strawberry juice. Mommy bought strawberry lemonade. Why don’t you drink that?”
“BUT I WANT TO MAKE STRAWBERRY JUUUUUUUICE” she cried, as she ran down the hall towards my bedroom.
She walked up to me and started crying. “daddy won’t let me smash the strawberries to make strawberry juuuuice.”
I was annoyed.
Annoyed that my husband had not put her down for a nap. Annoyed that my daughter was whining over SMASHING STRAWBERRIES. Annoyed that no one seemed to care that I was working.
I took her by the hand (ANNOYED!) walked her over to my husband (ANNOYED!) and asked him to kindly PUT HER DOWN FOR A NAP BECAUSE SHE IS SO TIRED AND I HAVE TO WORK AND PLEASE DO IT NOW. (ANNOYED!)
Oh, The Drama!
She started crying and saying mean things like “I don’t like your face, Daddy!” Completely out of character, for her. She adores her daddy and never talks to him like that.
“You don’t talk to your father that way!” He snapped back at her.
“But I don’t like you with your glasses! They’re ugly!” She cried.
I knew that the things she was saying were completely out of line and unacceptable, he had every right to be upset.
I also knew how exhausted she was.
I got up to intervene.
I pulled my husband aside.
“Be gentle with her.” I said. “She’s very tired.”
He seemed confused. Did I not just hear the way she was talking to him? Did I not think it was inappropriate?
“I know what she was saying wasn’t okay. But I also know she woke up at 4:30 this morning and is a complete mess emotionally. She’s exhausted.”
He couldn’t wrap his mind around what I was saying. In his mind, her behavior was unacceptable and he had every right to scold her.
He picked her up, put her in her bed and walked out.
A few minutes later, I heard angrily flipping around in her bed.
I didn’t like what I heard. She WAS being bratty. What she was doing wasn’t okay. I could have been upset with her. I knew I needed to go into her room and deal with her. But I wasn’t quite sure how I would handle the situation.
I took a deep breath.
I walked into her bedroom.
I laid next to her on her bed. Instead of scolding her, I wrapped my arms tightly around her tired little body. She fought it at first. But then, she melted into my arms and broke down.
“I know, sweetie. You’re so tired. You don’t feel good. It’s okay, mama. Just close your eyes.”
She wept softly into my chest as I ran my fingers through her shiny, long hair.
Within 5 minutes, she was asleep.
I could have went into her room when I heard her flipping about angrily in her bed and shouted at her to “STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!” But I chose to go with a loving embrace instead. Because, as unhappy as I was with the way she was acting, I knew that was what she needed.
Today I learned that sometimes when our children push us away the hardest is when they need our gentle, loving arms to hold them close to us the most.

I Guess What I’m Trying To Say Is That… I’m Sorry, Twitter

Today, for the first time in years, I suffered a massive panic attack.
(I blame Carbonite. More on that later…)
In 2003, I suffered from severe depression and almost debilitating panic attacks. Things got so bad, that I had to take an unpaid leave of absence from work and attend out patient group therapy.
One of the things that I learned in the weeks of therapy was how to deal with panic attacks. So, when I felt this panic attack coming on, I knew what to do.
I tried calling friends. No one answered.
I talked out loud to myself, saying things like “this is JUST a panic attack. You’re going to be fine.”
I took deep breaths.
Then, I did something I kind of regret.
I took it to Twitter.
I’m sure that people probably thought I was being a drama queen, but it was a genuine cry for help. Lucky for me, someone heard and called me. Unlucky for them, I was in the midst of the attack.
If you’ve never suffered a panic attack, you have no idea how awful and frightening they can be. I had hyperventilated to the point that my entire body had gone numb. My legs, my arms, MY FACE. I couldn’t speak, I was shaking, my heart was pounding.
When the phone rang, I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered anyway. As humiliating as it was to answer the phone WHILE HAVING AN ATTACK, I knew that talking to someone could help calm me down. I won’t go into the details of the call, but I will tell you that I was embarrassed and apologized a lot. This wonderful soul was kind and understanding and I can never thank her enough for her kindness.
It took me a couple of hours to recover fully from the emotional and physical effects of the attack.
Of course, I am now slightly alarmed that this could happen again. It’s been so long, I thought perhaps I would never have one again. Now, I’m wondering– do I need to see my psychiatrist again? Would it be wise to ask for medication to prevent this in the future?
I don’t want to overreact. I know this was brought on by a very specific event. (Losing a TON of photos that I *thought* were backed up on carbonite, but, apparently, NOT. Because did you know that if you delete files from your hard drive, Carbonite then deletes those same files 30 days later? Which makes me ask the question– BACKUP SYSTEM, HOW? I suppose it’s my fault for not reading all of the fine print. I suppose I shouldn’t have assumed that a backup system meant all of your files were backed up, even the deleted ones. But, seriously, isn’t that the point of having a backup of your files? So if they are lost or deleted, YOU HAVE A BACKUP OF THE FILE? Stupid, me!) But I can’t help but wonder if this is something I need to speak to a professional about again. Maybe?
We’ll see.
If you follow me on twitter, I do apologize for the trainwreck tweets. I truly wasn’t trying to be a drama queen, I was legitimately reaching out for help. But, even still. AM EMBARRASSED.

.17.

This morning I woke up feeling mixed emotions.
On one hand, I was excited and proud.
On the other, I felt like I had been punched in the gut.
Every year, I write about the complex emotions I feel on this day. Every year I write about how bittersweet this day is. The day I became a mother.
17 years ago.
17 years.

Before I woke him up this morning, I studied his Almost a Man face. Not a trace of the little boy who I used to hold tightly in my arms. “He looks so much like his father now. Where did the time go?” I thought.
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Then, strangely, all of his “firsts” came rushing to mind. His first breath, his first time sleeping through the night. His first tooth. His first steps. His first words. His first day in Kindergarten. Then, I thought of all of the firsts still to come. His first job, his first paycheck, his first broken heart.
How lucky I am. I have this incredibly kind, hilarious, talented son that I’ve had the pleasure of raising for the past 17 years. His possibilities are endless! His future is bright! It’s very exciting and I should be SO DAMN HAPPY.
And I am. I truly am.
At the same time… wasn’t it just yesterday that I was cradling him in my arms while rocking him to sleep? Wasn’t it just yesterday that we were discussing who his favorite Power Ranger is? Now, we’re discussing prom and his future in law enforcement.
You can understand why my heart is so conflicted, yes?
By the time I climbed in the van to take The Birthday Boy to school, I was a bit of an emotional wreck. “My baby is almost a man! My heart can’t take this!” I thought to myself as I watched him climb into the car.
*****
“You need a haircut.” I said, as we were pulling up to the school.
“I can’t get one, mom.” he responded
“What do you mean you can’t get a haircut?”
“I made a bet.”
“A bet? Oh Lord…”
“If I get a bowl cut, Jordan is going to give me $10.”
I think I said something like “you realize if you get a bowl cut, you’ll have to shave your head to fix things, right?”
“I know, Mom.” He said, in a Very Annoyed Tone.
I wished him a Happy Birthday as he got out of the car.
“That pretty much sums up the experience of having a 17 year old son right there.” I thought to myself.
And then I laughed. And I laughed all the way home.
Because, my son is 17 years old. And while while 17 year olds think they’re so smart and know more than you do about life, he’s still just childlike enough to agree to a bet that involves GETTING BOWL CUT.
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Happy Birthday, my sweet baby boy. I do love you more than you could possibly even begin to understand.