I finally was able to upload and organize the pictures from G’s birthday party.
I am a little upset about the quality of the pictures. I wasn’t able to get good shots because I was too busy hosting the party and making sure everyone was happy and fed well. If I wasn’t so over protective of and completely in love with my camera, I would have asked someone else to take pictures for me. The only time I was really able to take pictures was when she was eating her cake and opening presents, that’s why there’s 89 of those. The Wanna Be Professional Photographer in me is slighty pissed about it (Can you tell? It’s 10 minutes later and I’m still talking about it!) but I’ll get over it by the time her next birthday rolls around. Hopefully.
My doctor appointment went better than I had imagined it in my mind. He didn’t laugh, but then again, I didn’t use the term “I’m dying.” Instead, I explained, yet again, how I can’t sleep at night because of the racing heart and feelings of not being able to breath. He said that all of the tests he did last time came back totally normal. So normal, infact, that he used the word “Excellent!”
That can only mean one thing.
I’m crazy.
He believes that I am having panic attacks at night. The symptoms are “classic” and I am “prone to anxiety attacks”. So. He prescribed Paxil, asked me to take it and see if the symptoms go away . He also ordered a “treadmill test” to reassure me that my heart is TOTALLY NORMAL AND EXCELLENT! And? Perhaps? Maybe? He’s going to order a sleep study to rule out sleep apnea.
Here’s the struggle I have now.
I don’t want to take the Paxil. I’ve been off of anti depressants for a few years now. I don’t want to go back on. I don’t want the extra weight. I don’t want the feeling of having to rely on them but most importantly? I am NOT ready to wean Gabby.
Yes, internet, I still breastfeed my one year old. Not that often, pretty much just at night and in the morning, but I’m not ready to give that up yet. I feel like that would be incredibly selfish of me to do that to her.
I realize I need my sleep and that I have to be well in order to care for my children properly, but I can’t seem to bring myself to take that away from her. I get all emotional just thinking about it.
Perhaps I have some issues I need to deal with when it comes to letting go of the breastfeeding. Wait, ME? Have ISSUES? No way! But I can tell you this, the thought of stopping RIGHT NOW so I can take paxil? Makes me feel very sad.
I have no idea what I am going to do, but I hate hate HATE that I have to choose between a pill and my daughters needs.
Am I being overly dramatic about this? Probably. I’m sure she’d be fine if I weaned her, and I’m sure this is MY issue, the finality of it all kills me.
So what’s a woman to do?
I have no idea. I can function without sleep, I’ve been doing it for months now. I’m not so sure I could deal with a screaming little girl who wants The Boob and can’t have it. I don’t think I’m ready to deal with that just yet.
sigh…
What FORTY looks like.
Today, the man I married when I was only NINETEEN years old, turned 40.
Forty.
FOR-TAY.
I still remember when he had hair on the upper part of his head and when we used to “do it” like, 5 times a day (seriously. Five.)
I also remember when he had glasses as big as God.
(p.s. this is the best line ever uttered at a family gathering in regards to the above picture… “Appearing, one night only at the Improv, Antonio the magician. Watch him burn an entire ant hill in less than 10 minutes with his glasses.”)
Here we are, almost 15 years later. He’s balding, I’m fat. How the time flies. It’s crazy. I can’t believe I’m married to a FORTY YEAR OLD MAN and that we have a ONE YEAR OLD BABY GIRL. Just call him Frank Gifford. HA! HA! HA! That was a good one.
Happy Birthday, Fukktonie!! My birthday wish for you is that you stop with the driveby farts that smell like death and disease and that you outlive me because I can not even imagine living in this world without you in it. (But seriously, stop with the farts.)
Because life is so damn hard when someone has to wipe your ass FOR you.
This is what I’m busy dealing with and the reason why I can not compose a decent post.
The girl had gone completely MOODY on me.
She has a vagina, so it was BOUND to happen, but GOOD GOD, baby girl. It’s just lunch, no need for all of the drama!
Funniest part is one minute she’s pissed, the next, she’s hugging and kissing me, telling me “I wah wah” (I love in in “Gabby”.) One minutes she’s cuddling with her lambie, the next she’s biting it and growling at it.
GROWLING! My daughter growls!
Oh, the drama! I can’t even stand it. And I can’t even begin to imagine what is in store in the coming years, especially the years in which SHE GETS HER PERIOD AND CRIES ABOUT EVERYTHING AND ANYTHING AND SLAMS DOORS AND THREATENS TO NEVER EAT AGAIN BECAUSE SHE HATES ME FOR BEING SUCH A HORRIBLE MOTHER!
It’s a good thing that girl is so damn cute and that it’s almost impossible to get mad at her because of her dimples and the fact that she is ONE YEAR OLD AND ONLY HAS TWO TEETH! I mean, I’d be tempted to throw her out back with Willie and Asshole dog were it not for her incredible cuteness. THE MOODY IS TOO MUCH TO DEAL WITH, PEOPLE.
Special Sauce with Extra Cheese, because you ALWAYS get extra cheese on your birthday.
12:18am, a year ago, my daughter took her very first breath.
I laid eyes on the daughter I never thought I’d have.
My husband wept as he stared at the little girl he had always dreamed of having.
At 12:18 am, after 24 hours of labor, our worlds were forever changed.
For the better.
In ways we’d never imagined.
One year ago, today, Gabriella Mercedes made her grand entrance into this world, weighing 8lbs, 5 oz and having a head full of thick, shiny, black hair that the nurses would lovingly refer to as “a wig.”
One year ago, today, I gazed into the eyes of the baby who would rip farts like no other baby girl ever born. (I HAD to mention The Farting. The Cheese was starting to choke me)
A year ago, today, I fell in love, for the third time, with a child of mine. A child who did not have a penis, who was without balls, for this child was a girl. A beautiful, amazing, soft, sweet smelling, tender, wrinkly, chunky, darling, abolutely perfect little girl.
I am humbled and I am honored to call myself her mother.
If she could read this (and she totally could if I had taken the time to teach her because, baby girl is a genius!) I would say these words to her right this very minute…Happy Birthday, Special Sauce. I’m so glad you came into my life. I needed you, I wanted you and I’ve loved you deeply for as long as I knew you existed, before I had even laid eyes on you. You’re such a beautiful girl, in so many ways. I even find your poop to be precious. THAT’S how much I love you, sweet girl. Thank you for the incredible gift of joy you have given to me, to your father, to your brothers and everyone else who has had the pleasure of knowing you for this past year. You simply are the best thing that has happened to The Four of Us. I love you. Keep on farting, because Fizarts are funny and mommy LOVES The Funny.
But not as much as I love you.
How quickly the time passes and how easily I am reduced to a ball of cheese
I’m currently working on the details of Special Sauce’s first birthday party.
One year old.
In just two days my baby will be one.
Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was nothing more than a Panty sniffing, walking uterus?
Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was furiously rubbing my nipples trying to induce my labor?
(Before I continue with this post, I must interrupt to say something about that post I just linked. THAT POST is one of the reasons that I love my blog. Had it not been for this blog, I totally would have forgetten that my husband actually told weeks before I had my daughter that he wanted me to make sure I took a shower right before we left for the hospital so that his daughter would be born “out of a freshly clean twat.” How I have not yet ripped his balls from his body, I do now know. Ok, on with the post.)
Wasn’t it just yesterday I was pissing myself whilst walking at the mall trying to make the baby come out already?
The reality of a year having passed by so quickly is overwhelming me and I must warn you people. The Cheese? It is oozing from inside of me. This blog will be DRIPPING CHEESE, so if you don’t like The Cheese, or if you’re allergic to The Cheese? You might not want to visit for a while. Because it’s going to be All Cheese All The Time for a while.
Sand in my ‘giney
I’m conflicted on which direction to take this post. My heart wants to go with The Cheese. My mind wants to go in a completely different direction.
Let’s start with The Cheese, shall we?
I love that picture.
I’ll cherish that picture and the memories that go with it for as long as I live. The memories of my children laughing as the waves crashed onto their backs, of Gabby holding me tightly as the water crashed onto the shore, of yelling at my son for walking on the sheet with his sand soaked feet and then laughing as he walked away because a)I’m a psycho mom b) he is a big, adorable dork…
Now, let’s go with what my mind is begging me to say.
“Dear Internet, I’d like you to meet My Arms. Don’t be scared to say hi, they may not be as friendly as Sunshine, and I realize they’re size might be a bit intimidating, but seriously? They’re harmless and just want someone to love them.”
See how I can ruin such a beautiful thing with my negative attitude?
But seriously? Did you see My Arms?!
Hey, at least I don’t have a Hairy Mole on my back. That would have totally ruined the picture.
How’s that for looking at “the bright side.”?
I’m glad I didn’t let My Issues keep me from going, because, the kids loved it and I had a good time.
Notice I didn’t say a “great time?” It’s difficult to go to the beach with a baby.
Difficult, but totally worth it once you get home, upload the photos and realize just how lucky you are to have such beautiful children who enjoy every minute of the life you helped give to them.
Taking “stepping out of my comfort zone” to an entirely new level
My anxiety level tonight is EXTREMELY HIGH.
You know how I’m trying really hard to ““Step out of my comfort zone? Remember how I was all
“I’m no longer letting The Fat win” and I was all “This is about me living my life no matter WHAT size I am! Life is too short for that nonsense!”.
But then I was all “but if we’re talking about going to the beach, or any place where a swimsuit must be worn, that’s not considered “nonsense” because HELL NO am I ready to display my ass at the beach yet.”
Well, guess where I told my sister I would go with her tomorrow?
I’ll give you a hint.
It rhymes with “peach”.
WHAT WAS I THINKING WHEN I AGREED TO THIS?
I called my sister tonight to tell her that I am “totally freaking out about going and Oh my God, what am I going to wear because I am NOT wearing a bathing suit of anykind in public!”
“What do you want me to say?” She asked.
“Nothing,” I replied, “I just needed you to know that I’m on the verge of a panic attack here and I really do NOT want to go, but I am GOING TO GO.”
I am tempted to chicken out and use My Favorite Excuse, “I have nothing to wear!” That’s a legitimate reason! But, that would be a lie because I still have this little swimsuit/hide the chunks and lumps number from a couple summers ago (and yes, I was 3 months pregnant in that picture and yes, it still fits me and YES, that means I’m still fat and yes, that’s totally the reason I’m freaking out very badly at this very moment.)
I keep telling myself things like “Go for your kids! They LOVE the beach! Do it for the Children.” “No one cares what you look like, they’re too busy caring about what THEY look like, so get over yourself (and the size of your thighs!)”
It doesn’t matter what I say, the truth is I am so terrified of going that I feel a little sick to my stomach. Pathetic? Yes, it is and I know this. I can’t control how I feel, but I sure as hell can control how I deal with these feelings and I promised myself that I would “deal” by packing up the kids, the chairs, the sunscreen and the cooler full of drinks and driving my enormously huge ass to the freaking beach.
If you look up cute in the dictionary…
I’ve only seen a couple pictures of my husband as a baby, and only ONE of him as a child. So, when my mother in law gave me this picture today, I freaked out at the cuteness and I started crying. CRYING! And I still cry everytime I look at it.
I CAN NOT STAND HOW CUTE HE IS IN THAT PICTURE.
I can’t stop crying because of how damn cute he was and how cute he still is and how I can’t believe someone that damn cute grew up and fell in love with ME.
NO WONDER OUR KIDS ARE SO DAMN CUTE! LOOK AT THAT FACE.
I can’t explain what I feel when I look at that picture. It’s like, everytime I look at it, I get all crazy inside and say things like “Oh my God! That little boy grew up to be the father of my children!!”
When I look at it, I see a little bit of Andrew, a whole lot of Ethan and I see GABBY’S MOUTH!
That little girl right there used to dream of the man she’d marry and of the beautiful children that man would give her and of how happy those children would make the two of them and how they’d grow old together and watch their grandchildren play on their front porch while they sat in their porch swing holding their little, fragile old hands… And OH MY GOD, that cute little boy right there is that man!
Why in the hell is that one little picture of my Little Beaner turning me into a giant, emotional CHEESE FACTORY?
Why is it making me want to run to him when I see him and kiss him all over and tell him that I love him so much that it hurts because OH MY GOD HE WAS THE CUTEST LITTLE BOY I’VE EVER SEEN BESIDES THE TWO THAT CAME OUT OF MY VAGINA!?
I have no idea, but man, he’s not going to know what hit him when he walks through that door because I’m going to jump on him, wrap my legs around him, kiss him all over and tell him that I feel like the luckiest woman in the world to be married to THE CUTEST MAN IN THE WORLD.
The bubbly affects the typie
THe great thing about not being able to sleep at night for fear of dying because your heart races and you feel like you can’t catch your breath is that you can totally drink a glass of wine to “relax” and not get judged because who would judge someone who can’t sleep atnight if she wants a glass or 3 of wine?
Yeah, thats’ what I thought.
The thing about nothaving drunketh of the wine in a long time is tahat one forgets how much one can have witouth “overdoing” it. You know what I’ms aying?
I think you do.
I don’t understnad why more people don’t be inviting me out do things with. Serioulsy. I am a Party On Two Legs, people. Let’s take today for as an example, shallw e?
At lunch with my sister and our children, I thought I’d “scoot over” so Ethan could have a seat. I had Gabby in my arms and I thought “I have plenty of room, I’ll just scoot on over” but I was so wrong because I actually was sitting at the end of the booth and had absolutely no room and my non chalant litlte scoot turned into me plopping straight on my ass WHILST HOLDING MY DAUGHTER IN FRONT OFTHE ENTIRE RESTAURANT. Let me draw you a picture since I haven’t done that in a while. (but let me stop laughing first because MAN, was that funny!)
You get the idea, I think. How could you not with that perfect illustration?
And to think that there are people who DON’T wnat to be my friend or at least not admit to it by taking me out in public.
I was going through my photo colletion tonight beacuse what else is one going to do when they’re afraid they’ll die in their sleep because their heart races besides drink a glass or so of wine and look at pictures/?
Man, I really do have th e greatest photo collection.
Especially in the “self portrait” category.
Haaaaaa.haha.
Ok. DId my hair REALLY just “happen” to fallin front of my face, covering one eye, or was I, maybe, PERHAPS, trying to look sexy in my husbands striped shirt?
Hmmmm.
I think I’m going to put together a set on flickr called “trying to be sexy or just acting completely natural and totally not trying to be sexy at all?”
This would be my second entry in that post.
Trying to be sexy or just taking a picture of “my hat” and totally leaning over because I wanted you to see the hat, not becausei was trying to show a little cleavage and IT’S NOT MYFAULT IF I LOOK SO CUTE BENT OVER!?”
you decide.
Oh man, this could be so much fun. No wonder people make fun of me all the time! It’s fun and easyto do! ha!
But seriously folks, no more wine for me.
Thank you and goodnight.
A perfectly good example of what happens to your brain after THREE.
“I have three kids.”
“Three kids”
“I am the mother of THREE.”
It’s been almost a year since I’ve been able to say that and it still feels weird coming out of my mouth.
T-h-r-e-e.
“Why, Yes, I’ve pushed THREE skulls out of my vagina!”
I used to laugh at People With Three Kids.
“HA!HA!HA! I only have two! And they wipe their own asses! And they go to school all morning so I have the ENTIRE DAY to myself! Hahaaaaa!”
Three.
Uno.Dos.Tres.
Last night, Tony and I were discussing the fact that Gabby is almost a year and still not walking. Both of my boys were walking by 11 months. (Andrew at 10, I believe). And man, we couldn’t have been happier because THEY WERE WALKING BEFORE ALL THE OTHER BABIES! Because, in case you haven’t noticed, parents get competitive about that stuff.
With her? I am not trying to rush her. I know how fast they grow. My First Baby is TWELVE WITH HAIRY BALLS people. I never imagined the day I’d say that would come so quickly. Ok, I never imagined I’d say that, EVER, but still. I don’t want my little girl to grow so fast, so if she crawls til she’s 2? I DON’T CARE.
One skull. Two skull. Three skull.
THREE.
Besides, I wouldn’t care to learn how to walk if I were her! I mean, What’s the point of walking when she can sit on the couch and drink Green Tea Frappucinos all day long?
That’s right, one of the skulls that passed through my vagina is addicted to Green Tea Frappucinos.
Raising An Addict is fun!
Fun and a LITTLE scary, because, well, Look at her eyes!
She’s possessed by The Bucks. And DON’T YOU DARE TRY TO TAKE IT AWAY FROM HER.
PROOF that she hates it when you do that.
Lucky for you, my camera doesn’t have sound because if it did? YOu would have heard The Scream of Death as I pryed it out of her hands and you don’t have to tell me what a bad mother I am because I gave it back to her as soon as she screamed because I already know that but man, it’s hard to not give into that girl because THAT FACE and yeah, I know she’s going to own me and I’ll regret it, but, again THAT FACE so leave me alone about it already, PLEASE?
I have no idea how I went from skulls exiting vaginas to asking you to “please stop telling me how to raise my children!”
My THREE children.
P.S I’m ok, just really busy , but thank you (you know who you are) for checking up on me.