I recently learned that Beth (from I Should Be Folding Laundry) lost both of her twin baby boys, James and Jake. I can’t even begin to imagine the pain and heartache that she is dealing with every minute of every day. And yet, she has decided to honor her babies by participating in the March of Dimes, March for Babies.
Because my heart breaks for her and because I think what she’s doing is amazing, I wanted to direct you to her donation page.
She did not ask me to do this, I just really want to see her reach her goal.
Thank you.
xoxo
Comments Closed Because I Don’t Want You To Feel Obligated to Say Nice Things to Me.
It’s a beautiful day today.
The sun is shining brightly. It’s warm with just a hint of cool air.
I decided to take Gabby out for a little trip to Target since the puking has seemed to stop. I put on my gray track suit, in spite of the warm weather, because again, that’s the only thing that fits me.
As I pulled my hair back, I could see patches of my scalp due to the thinning hair.
As I put my makeup on, I could see the acne that has invaded my jawline and chin. I could see the one damn droopy eye. The dry, flaky skin. The puffy, dark circles under my eyes.
In all honesty, I don’t recognize myself in the mirror anymore. This “condition” has wreaked havoc on my body.
In the past week, I’ve had more than one person not recognize my voice when I’ve answered the phone. Because it’s not enough that I’m fat, puffy, dry, bald, zitfaced and DROOPY EYED, I have to have Man Voice. (due to the “enlarged thyroid.)
I HAVE MAN VOICE, PEOPLE.
As I walked through Target, I noticed how great all of the other moms looked. A saw one group of moms in particular who had stopped to chit chat. Each one of them were dressed extremely well, with cute hair cuts and pretty fingernails. They were all smiling and laughing and talking about “That one time they were at so and so’s house and ha ha! Isn’t she hilarious after having a glass of wine?”
As I watched them laugh and connect with each other, I felt overwhelmed with a sense of sadness.
I used to be like those women. I used to wear cute little outfits. I used to have friends that I would go out and do things with. I used to love being out in the world interacting with people.
These days, I feel like an outsider, watching everyone else live their lives. I’ve made the CHOICE to be an outsider. Because I have nothing to offer right now– I’m emotionally, physically and spiritually bankrupt.
I feel so alone. I feel so sad. So Ugly. So Tired.
So puffy. My GOD, I am puffy.
As I was making breakfast the other morning, I turned to my husband and said (in my Man Voice) “You know, this thyroid thing has changed me. I don’t feel like the same person. I don’t look like the same person. And I hate it.”
I’m having a really hard time coming to terms with the new state of my health. I know it’s not the end of the world (At least you don’t have cancer, bitch!) I know there are worse things, I do. But– I don’t know how to except that THIS IS MY LIFE now.
I know it will get better, but will I ever be the same? Will I ever want to stop hiding from the world and make friends again. Will I ever stopped being ashamed of myself? Will I ever feel inspired again? Will I ever have the energy to go to Aerobic Dance Class again? Will I ever stop waking up in the middle of the night thinking that “OMG! I’M DYING! MY HEART IS NOT BEATING!”
I sent a message to my doctor 2 weeks ago to ask him to PLEASE IN THE NAME OF JESUS refer me to a endocrinologist, but I have yet to hear back from him. I don’t know how much more I can take of feeling this way.
I keep telling myself to SNAP OUT OF THIS. I keep going to bed with every intention of working out first thing in the morning! But then the morning comes and The Tired overwhelms me. And then I feel horrible about myself for not being stronger than The Tired! For giving into my laziness. For being such a wimp about all of this.
I’m really sorry about this. I’m sorry that I’m still talking about it. I’m sorry that I haven’t figured out an effective way to deal with this. I’m sorry that my husband and my children have to put up with me every day of their life. I’m sorry that I’m being such a big fucking baby about it all.
But mostly, I’m sorry that there’s a big, beautiful world out there and I’m sitting here in my fucking tracksuit crying again.
(I really meant it when I said comments closed, but because my brain doesn’t work right these days, I forgot to close them. Whoops.)
Fanny
When my first born started kindergarten, I had every intention of being a PTA mom. I imagined spending long hours at school, helping out in the classroom, planning various fund raisers and generally being very active in school activities.
But then, my son started school. I got to know the women in the PTA and suddenly, I realized that Parent Teacher Association was just a cover for what PTA really stood for.
Power Trippin’ Assholes.
(If you’re on the PTA at your kids school, please don’t take offense. I’m only talking about the PTA at my son’s school. NOT YOUR PTA.)
Never in my life had I experienced such ugliness in human beings then what I saw in the women on the PTA at my son’s school. They were rude, petty, bossy and man, did they ever love to talk shit about people. It didn’t take long before I realized that the PTA wasn’t the place for me. I decided I’d help out in my son’s classroom and my involvement in school things would end there.
One year, a very good friend of mine decided she was going to try to change the PTA (ha ha ha!) and volunteered to be President. I remember telling her “Look, you know that I love you, but I can’t stand those other women. HOWEVER! Because I love you, I will help you any time you need me. Just be warned– I have NO tolerance for the way the other woman act.”
A few weeks later, she asked me if I would be willing to help her at the book fair.
“Of course!” I told her. “Whatever you need!”
What she needed was for me to volunteer a few hours to help out at the book fair by helping the Kindergarten and first grade students make their book wish lists. Easy, yes?
I got a sitter for Ethan and showed up bright and early on a Monday morning. The first class came in and I walked around helping the little darlings write which books they wanted their parents to buy for them.
While I was helping one of the little girls, we found a book that I LOVED. I called out to my friend “look at this book! How cute is THIS?”
Just then, one of the PTA moms walked in, for the sake of this post, we’ll call her “Fanny.” As in “wears a Fanny Pack.” She was the nastiest one of the group. She looked over at me and I could see that she wasn’t happy. I had no idea why she was mad, but it probably had something to do with my Non PTA ass being there. I ignored her and continued talking to my friend.
“If I had a little girl, I would buy this book for her! It’s just so cute!”
“Ladies!” Fanny said, all Power Trippin’ like. “We’re here to help the kids!”
I looked over at my friend. She had turned white, because she knew that whatever was going to happen next wasn’t going to be good.
“Excuse me?” I snapped back.
She smiled in a manner that made me want to knock her teeth out. “I said we’re here to help the kids.”
“I AM helping the kids.” I said. “I’ve BEEN helping the kids.”
“OH, REEEEAALLY.” She snapped back. “If you’re helping the kids, then explain why you were talking talking to Vicky when I walked in just now?”
I immediately felt a wave of “OH NO SHE DI’UNT” rush over my entire body. Fanny was trying to call me out. In front of five year olds.
I walked over to her, got right in her face (and quite possibly put my finger in her face) and said something like “First of all, do NOT talk to me like I’m a child. Second of all? I am here, volunteering my time. Time that I could spending at home with my toddler, time that I could be doing the 5,000 things that I need to do today, how DARE you walk in here and talk to me like that. I have been here helping the kids all morning. I saw a book that I thought was cute so I said something to my friend about it. I’M AN ADULT, I’M ALLOWED TO DO THAT. YOU’RE NOT MY BOSS AND DON’T EVER TALK TO ME LIKE THAT AGAIN. EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” (And YES, the head, she was a’bobbin.)
I walked over to my friend and said “I’m so sorry about that, but I will not let that women treat me the way she treats the other moms here. I need some fresh air, I’ll be back in a bit.”
I took a walk to calm down. I realize that what she said wasn’t THAT big of a deal, but after a couple of years of listening to this woman boss people around, degrade people and generally just be a complete bitch to everyone, I HAD HAD IT.
When I came back into the room, my friend told me that the woman had started crying. And then? She told my friend that her husband had warned her that one day, someone was going to snap at her and put her in her place, because she was too aggressive (see: bitchy) and that not everyone was going to “bow down” to her.
I went looking for her to apologize, because,well, I could have handled it in a more appropriate manner. When I found her, I told her that I was sorry for the way that I reacted, but that I was really upset that she felt it necessary to scold me. She apologized as well, but I wasn’t convinced she meant it. I didn’t care though, really. As long as she never spoke to me that way again, it was all good.
For weeks after that happened, Fanny was always extremely nice to me. However, the other PTA moms wouldn’t even look at me. I found out later that she had told everyone who would listen that she was “scared of me” because “I yelled at her for no reason.”
Ah, poor Fanny. *eye roll*
I do feel guilty that I let my intolerance for those nasty women keep me from serving on the PTA. It was something that I had always imagined I’d be a part of when my kids were in elementary school. I just couldn’t bring myself to associate with a group of women who treated anyone who wasn’t in their clique so poorly. I did what I could do make a difference in my son’s elementary school, by helping in his class weekly. Ultimately, the one thing that was important to me was that I did my part to make my son’s experience a good one and I don’t think I needed to be on the PTA to do that.
That said, I plan on giving the PTA a second chance when G-Unit goes to Kindergarten. She’ll be at a new school and hopefully, they’ll be a lot less Power Trippin Assholery and a lot more Parent Teacher Associatin’ at this school.
Have you had an experience with PTA that you’d like to share with me? I’d love to hear it.
Fifteen.
That right there is my first born son at his First Birthday Party. I remember I started planning that party when he turned six months old. I couldn’t wait for my boy to turn one. I couldn’t wait to celebrate the first year of his life.
Oh, what an incredible year that it was. I loved every minute of being a new mother. Back then, I don’t think I could have understood the moms who write about how hard it is being a mother. It wasn’t hard for me. Sure, there were moments that were difficult. There were times that the crying became overwhelming. But those times with my first born son were few and far between. (The second child? TOTALLY DIFFERENT EXPERIENCE.) That boy was the most laid back, mellow, sweet spirited baby a mother could ask for. And I’m not saying that to sugar coat the experience of becoming a mother at the age of 22. I’m not saying it to be all “children are a blessing!” I’m saying it because it’s simply the truth.
I loved being a mom. I reveled in it. I felt like it was what I was born to do. And I believe it’s all because of the sweet spirit of my son. He was always happy, but quiet. He never fussed much. He wasn’t demanding or difficult. He always seemed content and laid back, as if he was habitually high on The Pot.
Planning his birthday parties has always been one of the highlights of being his mom. I’ve loved watching him enjoy being showered with attention on his big day. I’ve felt pride and unspeakable love as I’ve watched him blow out the candles on a cake. How lucky, how absolutely lucky I’ve been to have another year with this boy. And there aren’t words that can begin to express how I felt watching him walk around school with an orange crown made of construction paper, glue and glitter.
As my son approached teenage-hood, my feelings for his birthdays began to change.. A day that once brought me pure joy and happiness now was mixed with tears and sadness. I suppose that’s part of being a mother– learning how to accept that they’re only children for a season and your job is to raise them to be the best people they can possibly be. But, no one really, truly tells you how difficult and painful it is. People say “enjoy them while they’re little! They grow so fast!” And you nod your head and say “I know! They’re growing so fast!” But, until your teenager fills out his highschool “career goals” and checks the “police officer” box or until he starts locking his bedroom door and coming out all sweaty and red in the face (HOLD ME) you can’t understand how meaningful those words are. “Enjoy them while they’re little” is so cliche, but, oh parents of little ones, Enjoy them while they’re little.
One day, one day you’re just going to look back at pictures of them and you’re going to sob because your heart aches at the same time as it soars. In the blink of an eye, the little baby that you once held in your arms is a beautiful, thoughtful, kind, hilarious human being who you’d want to be friends with even if they weren’t your child because they are THAT AWESOME– but my GOD, what you wouldn’t give to go back in time and hold them tightly in your arms while sniffing their sweet baby breath.
(I have a tradition of taking their pictures first thing in the morning on their birthday. I want to remember EXACTLY what they looked like the day they turned a year older. This was taken at 6:45 this morning.)
Happy 15th Birthday, Nunu. I love love love you and as sad as I may feel about you being another year closer to adulthood, today, I celebrate you.
I celebrate the day you came into my life.
I celebrate every memory we’ve made together.
I celebrate your love of music.
I celebrate your kind gentle spirit.
I celebrate everything that makes you the beautiful person you are fifteen years after the first time that I laid eyes on you.
Because That Pretty Much Sums Up The Suckage of My Life This Week. (But If I Had a Picture of Almost Hitting my 80 Year Old Neighbor With My Van, I Would Have Totally Went With That One Instead.)
This past week has been rough.
I’ve written several posts only to delete them immediately because honestly? I don’t know how many more times I can write about my deteriorating health before people stop reading this blog.
But, this is supposed to be about my life, right? And right now, my life is consumed with health problems, right? So, what’s a bloggah to do?
My frustration with my health and my inability to talk about anything other than it is at an all time high. Just when I think I’ve taken charge of things (diet coke, be gone!) and that I can resume to live my life as normal,I find myself in urgent care, having an EKG and being told that I there are “irregularities” with my heart that are fairly common, but “problematic” because of my low thyroid. Suddenly, I realize that ultimately, I have limited control over my body and sometimes, doing everything that I can still isn’t enough.
It’s depressing.
But not nearly depressing as I’m sure it is for you to read this crap all of the time. I want you to just go ahead and try to imagine how much fun it is to be my husband. You can’t even imagine, can you?
I do have a bit of non-health related news to share with you before I put you all out of your misery. In addition to giving up diet coke and every day trips to Starbucks, I am thinking it’s time to give up The Cussing. You see, I thought I was doing a really good job at NOT cussing in front of my children. I have a pretty foul mouth, especially when I’m driving, but I tried to tone it down when my two year old daughter started shouting “GO FASTER, DUMBASS” at passing cars. I stopped saying dumbass and replaced it with “you jerk!” However, it was brought to my attention that I’ve not cleaned up the language as much as I thought when I heard the following words come out of my daughter’s mouth a couple of nights ago.
“I’m going to kick you in the ASShole, Brother.”
I immediately knew that she had learned it from me because she put an extra emphasis on “ASS”, just the way that I do.
You don’t need to tell me how awful it is that my THREE YEAR OLD says Asshole, I already know. I actually felt really dirty when I heard her say it. I honestly thought I wasn’t saying it when she could hear me, but, you know, I was wrong. I’ve vowed to clean up my mouth and stop saying asshole.
Let’s just hope that no one cuts me off in traffic and then turn around and give ME The Finger, because if that happens (again!) I’m pretty sure that a big old ASSHOLE will slip right out of my mouth. Man, I have a feeling giving up that word is going to be harder than giving up a lifelong addiction to The Diet Coke
But if someone had died, I was totally going to blame The Internet.
“You can go ahead and taste it.”
“Oh, it doesn’t have raw egg in it?”
“Well, it does, but The Internet assured me you won’t die from a little taste, so go ahead.”
“I CAN! REALLY! OK! THANKS!”
Oh, have a taste she did.
And I think she was just a LEEEEETTLE bit excited about it because she almost ate the spoon whole.
I think she liked it. Or more like LOVED it and can’t stop talking about how good it was and how she wants to make more cookies tonight so she can “taste it again.”
The funniest part of the entire thing really wasn’t how SHE responded to it, but rather how her brothers reacted.
So, her brothers and 14 and 10, right? Right.
They came walking in and were all “OMG MOM SHE’S EATING RAW COOKIE DOUGH OH NOES SHE’S GONNA DIE HELP!”
No, seriously, they were freaking out because [little voice]I have forbidden them from eating cookie dough for their entire lives[/little voice]. Seeing the way that they reacted did make me feel a little silly for having denied them one of childhoods greatest joys. (The Licking of The Spoon.) However, I really felt that I was protecting them from death at the hands of raw eggs! Crazy? Maybe. But really, I love my kids and want them to live, you know?
I explained to them that I had told Gabby she could taste the cookie dough, because “a little bit isn’t going to hurt her.” (But, I can’t lie, it HURT ME to say that.) Then, I told them that they could have a taste too.
I wish you could have seen their faces.
They were like “are you SURE we’re not going to die from salmonella.” And I was all “I’m pretty sure you won’t die from having a little taste.” And they were all “like, HOW sure?” And I was all “JUST TASTE IT ALREADY.”
(*insert joke about “paying for my children’s therapy” here*)
And so they tasted it and guess what?
Nobody died.
I don’t know that I’m ready to let them have at it every time I make cookies, but I suppose a little taste every once in a while is fine.
I think.
Maybe.
I haven’t decided just yet, may have been a one time deal because no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking that the raw egg is going to kill my children.
But hey, it’s a step in letting go and not being such a Paranoid Freak of a Mother, yes?
Dear Body,
(If you pay any attention to my sidebar, you may have noticed a linked titled “learning to love my body”. That’s a letter that I wrote to my body on May 15, 2006. I am re-posting that letter today for BlogHer’s “Letter to my Body” initiative.)
Making peace with you, learning to love you is harder than I imagined it would be.
You gave me my beautiful children, my three beautiful children. It should be easy to love you for that reason alone. I do love you for that. I do.
But, my God, I hate you too.
I hate you because I am a slave to you. I hate you because there are so many things in life I’ve not been able to do because of the fears and insecurities I have about you.
Your sagging breasts embarrass me.
Your gaping hole of a belly button repulses me.
Your stretch marks humiliate me.
Your loose, hanging skin infuriates me.
The excess fat that you continue to hold onto so tightly angers me.
My husband loves you. He desires you. He thinks you’re beautiful. Sexy, even. I don’t understand how he can feel that way. I truly do not.
I want to feel the way he does about you. I want to love you. I want to love looking at you, or at the very least, not want to puke when I look at you.
It’s hard to look at you without crying. Especially when I compare you to other, beautiful bodies. Or to the way you used to look.
You used to be so beautiful.
I know it’s not fair to compare you to other women, or to your young self. But it’s hard not to. Everywhere I look, I’m bombarded with images of bodies that look nothing like you. It’s hard not to feel like a freak of nature when all of the images I see look so completely different than you. I once saw images that looked similar to you. It was a campaign for “real beauty” and I cried with joy and suddenly didn’t feel like such a freak. But then? I heard people talking about how ugly those bodies looked and how they were repulsed by what they had seen, and how those women had NO business taking pictures in their underwear because no one wanted to see all of that and suddenly, my tears of joy turned once again to tears of shame and hatred towards you.
I’ve become more comfortable with “The Clothed You.” I would have NEVER taken Aerobic Dance Class in the past because I would have been too ashamed and self conscience of my Lumpy Ass, or the Jiggly Arms. But after having shed a few pounds, I have learned to accept my Clothed Self.
But when the clothes come off, HATE HATE HATE what I see.
I’m tired of hating you, of fighting with you, of wishing you were different. So very tired of wasting all of my energy in that way.
I just wanted you to know that I don’t want to hate you or be ashamed of you anymore, I’m just completely lost as to how to NOT feel this way anymore.
But I’m working on it. Be patient with me.
(photo removed.)
Party in the Back.
One of the hardest things for me to deal with regarding how my body has changed due to The Hash&trade is the havoc it’s wreaked on my hair.
My hair used to be very important to me. I would spend a great deal of money to have it cut and colored. I wouldn’t think twice about dropping a wad of cash on products to keep it healthy and full of shine.
Oh, the shine. It was so very important to me.
I had pretty hair. It was thick, smooth and very straight. I loved to get cute, stylish cuts. I loved my hair, I really did.
Until I started losing it. And it became course and dull and FRIZZY.
I took that the night before I was supposed to get it cut by MY STYLIST.
You see, I had an appointment scheduled with My Stylist on Tuesday at 10:30. I was so excited. I was going to cut it all off and get a fresh new look! But, here’s the thing. Somehow, between the time I woke up in the morning, to the time it was supposed to leave for my appointment, I FORGOT ABOUT IT.
I realized around noon that I had missed the appointment and felt all desperate inside, so I went online and googled “hair salons in my city” and found one that had 5 reviews and they were all very positive! People said things like “I love the atmosphere and all of the girls do great work!”
So I called and asked if there was someone who could take me as a walk in and they said “yes! come on in!”
I walked in all hopeful because FIVE AWESOME REVIEWS!! I walked out hopeful still because although I wasn’t too happy with what I saw, I thought “surely, it’s just the way that she styled it! Nothing that can’t be fixed with a thick round brush!”
Riiiiiiiiiiight.
I tried. The Lord knows that I tried, but I couldn’t get the cut to make any sense at all. Basically, it’s like two different cuts on one head of hair. Or something like that, I don’t know, I CAN’T EXPLAIN IT, so, let me just go ahead and show you.
That is the part that I tried to fix, because WHAT IS THAT? HELP ME UNDERSTAND, INTERNET.
Again. WHAT.THE.HELL?
It’s like she took the scissors and cut one layer at the top, added a little fringe and said “that’ll be $40, please.”
I’m trying to find the positives to having a Cut That Makes No Sense.
Hey! At least I can still wear it up!
Or! If I want to get really crazazy, I can do a Faux Bob.
I know that “it’s just hair” and “it will grow back!” But I just wish I hadn’t let her cut so much off because, what if it takes FOREVER to grow back, with the hashimotos and all? (There. I said it. I’m afraid it won’t grow back.) I probably should just go have the “party in the back” cut off and get a cute short ‘do, but the ROUNDNESS of my face is stopping me from doing that.
Maybe I’ll just go buy a fancy Banana Clip from Target and wear it up in style for the next 6 months while I wait for it to grow out.
*edited to add*
I think The IDEA of the style is great. It’s just poorly executed. I think I may do whatWhoorl suggested and go back to my stylist and have her blend the layers. That just may work (and if it doesn’t. I’m totally chopping it off). Man, it sure is going to suck having to face her and admit that I cheated on her.
Hairstory.
Guess who HATES HER NEW HAIRCUT SO EFFING MUCH that she came home and tried to fix it?
I know and yet… Scissors.
Why did I let a stylist that I didn’t know cut 5 inches off of my hair? And why did I let her put “short layers?” And why do I have two complete different hair cuts on my one head of hair???!
Shit.
If I had to title this one, I would title it “As The Thyroid Burns.”
Last week I started a higher dose of my thyroid medication (because the dose I was on was ineffective.)
I’m feeling rather frustrated and confused that after a week of taking a higher dose, I feel worse.
I don’t know how that’s possible, but it’s true.
My husband asked me how I was feeling now that my meds were adjusted. I could hear the hope in his tone. “You doing better, baby?” He asked with a smile on his face.
“No.” I said, fighting back tears.
I should have lied. I should have said that I feel SO MUCH BETTER! Because, honestly, I don’t know how he tolerates me anymore.
I feel as though I owe everyone in my life an apology for being so damn annoying. I really do.
There is so much that I want to say, but it’s all so boring and redundant and annoying, so I’ll just say that I’m not doing well and I don’t know that I’ll ever be well again because that’s how it feels this very moment. It feels very Soap Opera Serious and I actually want to say things like “The Hash&trade has robbed me of my life. I WANT MY GOD BLEEPING LIFE BACK.”