Just enough so their stomachs don't growl
Just enough for him to tell the truth when he tells teacher he did his reading
Just enough so that they don't look at my sandaled toes and cringe
Just enough so that my hair and my smell don't scream "homeless lady."
Just enough so that my friends know I love them.
Just enough so that Savvy will someday have something good to say about her mommy when sitting around talking to her girlfriends
Just enough so that they walk into their classrooms clean, even though most times wrinkled
Just enough so that they remember the holidays at home
Just enough so they know I'm serious
Just enough so that they know I'm not always serious
Just enough so that I don't get called into the boss' office--again
Just enough so that I can still fit into my clothes
Just enough so my husband knows he now calms me throughout my day
Just enough to remember to ask my mom about the first night of her new class
Just enough so that she knows she'll always have big sister to fly home to
Just enough to keep the lids on
the jackets zipped
dreaming eye lids kissed
Just enough sleep
Just enough late nights to hear the house breathe
Just enough late nights to hear myself breathe.
I hope
when all is said and done
it will end up that
it was just enough.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
10 G's For Some Double D's
"So did you finally decide what you're gonna do with the money?" I asked when she walked into my classroom.
It was the same question I'd asked her countless times in the last two years. The other teachers and I had had fun trying to guess what she'd decide to do with the $10,000 she'd be inheriting on her 18th birthday from her deceased father.
We'd made sure she had our input.
"College?" one of us had suggested.
"Savings?"
"I know, a trust fund for Nikki! She's only two, by the time she's 18 interest will accrue and..."
We had all learned to expect her 16 (and then 17) year-old eye roll.
"Nope. A car! A month long cruise! Another car!" she'd counter.
Finally, her birthday was a few weeks away.
"Guess," she said.
"The Land Cruiser?"
"Nope."
"The cruise..."
"Nope, give up?" she asked. I said I did because it was obvious she wanted me to.
She drew in a long dramatic breath. "A boob job and a tummy tuck."
"Ha!" Typical of her sense of humor, I thought.
She seemed confused at my response.
She wasn't joking.
"But...you just had a baby. You're 18!!! I-I-It'll all bounce back!" I stuttered.
"Nope, nope. I've tried everything. Sit-ups, diets. I want to look like a normal teenager again. I'm sick of my belly ring jiggling way after the rest of me has stopped moving," she said with a set jaw.
"But you're not a normal teenager. You're the mom of beautiful Nikki..." I said with a sigh. Because of course, she wasn't listening. She had whipped out a stack of brochures and I found myself staring at a bunch of glossy before and after pictures of boob jobs and tummy tucks.
"See, these are the ones I'm getting: The Teardrop Shaped Ones," she said, as if we were chit-chatting about earrings. "Oh, and I'm getting double D's," she added.
I called her mom.
"Oh, yeah, so she told you, huh? Were you shocked?" she chuckled. "I think it's a smart decision. It's like an investment," her mom explained. "A car will eventually go out of style, with a trip all you have left is pictures...but I told her, 'if you look good, mija, you could get a man. A good one.' And then she and Nikki won't have to worry about nothing."
Soon after, the newly minted 18 year-old walked into the classroom with her tear-drops threatening to burst out of a stretchy tank top...one that stopped in the nick of time to show off the taut new navel. She had apparently had enough bling left over for a new belly ring...and a tan.
"Wow," I said.
"I know, huh? You can't even tell I had a baby," she beamed. "I think my dad would be proud."
It was the same question I'd asked her countless times in the last two years. The other teachers and I had had fun trying to guess what she'd decide to do with the $10,000 she'd be inheriting on her 18th birthday from her deceased father.
We'd made sure she had our input.
"College?" one of us had suggested.
"Savings?"
"I know, a trust fund for Nikki! She's only two, by the time she's 18 interest will accrue and..."
We had all learned to expect her 16 (and then 17) year-old eye roll.
"Nope. A car! A month long cruise! Another car!" she'd counter.
Finally, her birthday was a few weeks away.
"Guess," she said.
"The Land Cruiser?"
"Nope."
"The cruise..."
"Nope, give up?" she asked. I said I did because it was obvious she wanted me to.
She drew in a long dramatic breath. "A boob job and a tummy tuck."
"Ha!" Typical of her sense of humor, I thought.
She seemed confused at my response.
She wasn't joking.
"But...you just had a baby. You're 18!!! I-I-It'll all bounce back!" I stuttered.
"Nope, nope. I've tried everything. Sit-ups, diets. I want to look like a normal teenager again. I'm sick of my belly ring jiggling way after the rest of me has stopped moving," she said with a set jaw.
"But you're not a normal teenager. You're the mom of beautiful Nikki..." I said with a sigh. Because of course, she wasn't listening. She had whipped out a stack of brochures and I found myself staring at a bunch of glossy before and after pictures of boob jobs and tummy tucks.
"See, these are the ones I'm getting: The Teardrop Shaped Ones," she said, as if we were chit-chatting about earrings. "Oh, and I'm getting double D's," she added.
I called her mom.
"Oh, yeah, so she told you, huh? Were you shocked?" she chuckled. "I think it's a smart decision. It's like an investment," her mom explained. "A car will eventually go out of style, with a trip all you have left is pictures...but I told her, 'if you look good, mija, you could get a man. A good one.' And then she and Nikki won't have to worry about nothing."
Soon after, the newly minted 18 year-old walked into the classroom with her tear-drops threatening to burst out of a stretchy tank top...one that stopped in the nick of time to show off the taut new navel. She had apparently had enough bling left over for a new belly ring...and a tan.
"Wow," I said.
"I know, huh? You can't even tell I had a baby," she beamed. "I think my dad would be proud."
Friday, August 20, 2010
A Night. Tie-dyed Skies.
We decided to take an evening walk. It was still at least 90 degrees outside, but shades of pink had started to tie-dye across the desert sky and there was at least a breeze.
Paul and my dad walked way ahead of us, while my mom and I walked with the kids.
"Just let them walk ahead," I said, "we won't get lost." I shouldn't, since we were staying at the same time-share in Palm Springs that we'd been coming to when I was still breast feeding Eli under a towel by the pool. People look at me like I'm crazy when I tell them we go to Palm Springs in August, when the temperature could easily topple over 110 degrees. But it's off season and cheaper, and hey, you just make it work.
The place is built around a gulf course, with rolling grassy hills and lakes where ducks shimmy around in.
On the walk back to our rooms the kids started to whine. The breeze had stopped and suddenly it was hotter than hell.
"Carry me!" Savvy whined.
"How come she only gets to be carried?" Eli. He'd plopped down on a curb and said he was walking no further. His legs were sweating, he said.
My mom leaned over and whispered something in their ears. Suddenly the three of them took off running. By the time the rest of us reached the pool area, they had already stripped down to their bathing suits and dripped over to us by the gate: "Ha!Ha! We got in the pool and now we don't have to go to bed at bedtime!" Eli nanni-nanni-nannied, jumping back into the pool.
My mom looked at me with her signature innocent shrug and bewildered eyes. "I don't know...they just got in..."
It was 8:30 and the pool was aglow with white lights under the stars. Occasionally a breeze would blow and tiny white lights twinkled in the swaying palm trees.
It was dive-in movie night, a staff person announced. A pool full of people cheered as this theater-size blow up movie screen was erected right at the edge of the pool. Just like that we were watching, "The Tooth Fairy" from the water!
Paul had gone off to the adult pool, where it was quiet and the pina coladas flowed. He asked if I wanted to join him. "The kids are with your parents," he said.
I looked over at the kids and my parents. My dad and Eli were out in the middle of the pool where Eli (who had quickly gotten bored with the movie) was trying over and over to achieve a perfect flip in the water, the skin on his tummy stretched taut over his ribcage with every try. "Watch, grandpa! Watch what I can do!"
My mom and I sat at the edge of the pool, where Savvy was performing one of her "princess dances" for us on the top step. My mom had gotten the giggles when Savvy tried to twirl and fell backwards into the water.
"Stop laughing, grandma...or I won't dance. any. more," she said, missing another step as she tried to stomp...and toppling into the water again.
I love to see my mom laugh like that. Totally uninhibited throaty laughter that leads to snorts. The kind of laughter that gives my dad his cue: "Stop, Stella, you're gonna pee."
I thought of all the family vacations we'd taken when we were little. I remember thinking that it was worth all the stress of getting there, because soon I'd get to see my mom laugh like that and watch my dad make her laugh even harder. Seemed like so many lifetimes had gone by. Why did everything have to get so hard? There had been so many scars since...licked wounds, broken hearts. It's a testament to what a family could survive, forgive, I guess. Because there we were...a family vacation just like when I was little, only with my husband and two kids. Ha! It was surreal. I squeezed my eyes tight. It was one of those moments you just can't plan and all you can do is try and brand it in your brain, engrave it in your heart.
"Nah, I think I'll stay here," I told Paul. I had pictures to take.
Paul and my dad walked way ahead of us, while my mom and I walked with the kids.
"Just let them walk ahead," I said, "we won't get lost." I shouldn't, since we were staying at the same time-share in Palm Springs that we'd been coming to when I was still breast feeding Eli under a towel by the pool. People look at me like I'm crazy when I tell them we go to Palm Springs in August, when the temperature could easily topple over 110 degrees. But it's off season and cheaper, and hey, you just make it work.
The place is built around a gulf course, with rolling grassy hills and lakes where ducks shimmy around in.
On the walk back to our rooms the kids started to whine. The breeze had stopped and suddenly it was hotter than hell.
"Carry me!" Savvy whined.
"How come she only gets to be carried?" Eli. He'd plopped down on a curb and said he was walking no further. His legs were sweating, he said.
My mom leaned over and whispered something in their ears. Suddenly the three of them took off running. By the time the rest of us reached the pool area, they had already stripped down to their bathing suits and dripped over to us by the gate: "Ha!Ha! We got in the pool and now we don't have to go to bed at bedtime!" Eli nanni-nanni-nannied, jumping back into the pool.
My mom looked at me with her signature innocent shrug and bewildered eyes. "I don't know...they just got in..."
It was 8:30 and the pool was aglow with white lights under the stars. Occasionally a breeze would blow and tiny white lights twinkled in the swaying palm trees.
It was dive-in movie night, a staff person announced. A pool full of people cheered as this theater-size blow up movie screen was erected right at the edge of the pool. Just like that we were watching, "The Tooth Fairy" from the water!
Paul had gone off to the adult pool, where it was quiet and the pina coladas flowed. He asked if I wanted to join him. "The kids are with your parents," he said.
I looked over at the kids and my parents. My dad and Eli were out in the middle of the pool where Eli (who had quickly gotten bored with the movie) was trying over and over to achieve a perfect flip in the water, the skin on his tummy stretched taut over his ribcage with every try. "Watch, grandpa! Watch what I can do!"
My mom and I sat at the edge of the pool, where Savvy was performing one of her "princess dances" for us on the top step. My mom had gotten the giggles when Savvy tried to twirl and fell backwards into the water.
"Stop laughing, grandma...or I won't dance. any. more," she said, missing another step as she tried to stomp...and toppling into the water again.
I love to see my mom laugh like that. Totally uninhibited throaty laughter that leads to snorts. The kind of laughter that gives my dad his cue: "Stop, Stella, you're gonna pee."
I thought of all the family vacations we'd taken when we were little. I remember thinking that it was worth all the stress of getting there, because soon I'd get to see my mom laugh like that and watch my dad make her laugh even harder. Seemed like so many lifetimes had gone by. Why did everything have to get so hard? There had been so many scars since...licked wounds, broken hearts. It's a testament to what a family could survive, forgive, I guess. Because there we were...a family vacation just like when I was little, only with my husband and two kids. Ha! It was surreal. I squeezed my eyes tight. It was one of those moments you just can't plan and all you can do is try and brand it in your brain, engrave it in your heart.
"Nah, I think I'll stay here," I told Paul. I had pictures to take.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Zumba, Kids: Revisited
It was a week ago today when I started to panic.
It was the start of the much feared Three Weeks With the Kids.
A routine was going to be my saving grace, I decided. Sunday night I sat down and drew up a behavior chart (complete with key of what every color meant...stole this from a 1st grade teacher), a schedule...
And still....the panic at the thought of being alone with the kids. With my own kids.
But it wasn't the first time I'd felt that fear. It's been there since the very first night I was alone with Eli in that hospital room, only hours after he was born. I'll never forget the instant the door clicked, and the icy silence that followed. All day there had been people. People bringing me flowers, food. People holding the baby, taking pictures.
And then there were no more people. And I looked over at my new baby, and he looked over at me, and who knows who looked more terrified.
From that night in the hospital on, I have felt the terror grip me whenever I've alone with them.
I am only a little more confident now than I was then, but only because one day I realized what I was afraid of: me.
Not just: what if I don't know what to do.
More: What if someday I just...can't...just don't.
What this looks like is me opening the front door and running down the street, pulling at my hair, shrieking.
The good news is that work is over and I have returned to Zumba. Thursday night I moved up one row in the class...was in the second to last row. It's clear I may get those crazy dance steps long before I master the kid thing.
Once again, I witnessed the phenomena of the hottest chicks in the class: The Front Row Dancers, turn into pumpkins, (A.k.a moms) when they picked up their kids from childcare. The hotter the dancer, the crazier her kids were, it seemed. Coincidence? Of course not! We are all, I think, whispering the same thing to ourselves in class: 'Dance, momma, dance, and everything'll be alright...'
I started thinking about how Zumba is so much more than nostalgia for the clubbing days.
Zumba is The Dance Class for the Rest of Us.
It was like when I ran...(well, participated)...in a half-marathon last year. Just as I was about to quit, when I thought I'd reached down down and found nothing left to keep me going, I told myself: 'remember all those times you were picked last for the kickball team? When you weren't asked to dance at the stupid 6th grade dance? ...and the mother of all remember when's: the time you told everybody you'd failed PE on purpose because you didn't want to mess up your hair, when really you just could not think of failing at yet another sport? Well, don't be a weak ass! Run!'
I managed to hobble across the finish line. I'd like to to think The Rest of Us were redeemed.
And I can't quit now. Second week Alone With the Kids starts tomorrow. When I reach down down and feel like I could find nothing more to keep me going, I hope I remember to take a deep breath and: 'remember that first night in the hospital room, and I thought I couldn't...?'
It was the start of the much feared Three Weeks With the Kids.
A routine was going to be my saving grace, I decided. Sunday night I sat down and drew up a behavior chart (complete with key of what every color meant...stole this from a 1st grade teacher), a schedule...
And still....the panic at the thought of being alone with the kids. With my own kids.
But it wasn't the first time I'd felt that fear. It's been there since the very first night I was alone with Eli in that hospital room, only hours after he was born. I'll never forget the instant the door clicked, and the icy silence that followed. All day there had been people. People bringing me flowers, food. People holding the baby, taking pictures.
And then there were no more people. And I looked over at my new baby, and he looked over at me, and who knows who looked more terrified.
From that night in the hospital on, I have felt the terror grip me whenever I've alone with them.
I am only a little more confident now than I was then, but only because one day I realized what I was afraid of: me.
Not just: what if I don't know what to do.
More: What if someday I just...can't...just don't.
What this looks like is me opening the front door and running down the street, pulling at my hair, shrieking.
The good news is that work is over and I have returned to Zumba. Thursday night I moved up one row in the class...was in the second to last row. It's clear I may get those crazy dance steps long before I master the kid thing.
Once again, I witnessed the phenomena of the hottest chicks in the class: The Front Row Dancers, turn into pumpkins, (A.k.a moms) when they picked up their kids from childcare. The hotter the dancer, the crazier her kids were, it seemed. Coincidence? Of course not! We are all, I think, whispering the same thing to ourselves in class: 'Dance, momma, dance, and everything'll be alright...'
I started thinking about how Zumba is so much more than nostalgia for the clubbing days.
Zumba is The Dance Class for the Rest of Us.
It was like when I ran...(well, participated)...in a half-marathon last year. Just as I was about to quit, when I thought I'd reached down down and found nothing left to keep me going, I told myself: 'remember all those times you were picked last for the kickball team? When you weren't asked to dance at the stupid 6th grade dance? ...and the mother of all remember when's: the time you told everybody you'd failed PE on purpose because you didn't want to mess up your hair, when really you just could not think of failing at yet another sport? Well, don't be a weak ass! Run!'
I managed to hobble across the finish line. I'd like to to think The Rest of Us were redeemed.
And I can't quit now. Second week Alone With the Kids starts tomorrow. When I reach down down and feel like I could find nothing more to keep me going, I hope I remember to take a deep breath and: 'remember that first night in the hospital room, and I thought I couldn't...?'
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Sports Camp
"There he is...right where he always is...either in line for the diving board or in the same corner of the pool. Well, go ahead and go get him."
"No, you get him. He's used to you picking him up," I said.
"That's why you should... (hard sigh and a look of dread)..."I don't want to go through this again...he's going to throw a fit that we're early..."
He saw me before I saw him... ran to me and gave me a sopping wet hug.
Not a frown on his face...
caught myself before the shock could show on mine
I signed him out
he grabbed his backpack, slipped on his flip-flops and waved good-bye to the camp leader.
"We played water dodge ball," he said, slipping his wet little hand in mine. "It's like dodge ball, mommy, except you throw water balloons."
Managed to keep all comments and questions to myself
The sigh of relief I couldn't hide.
"No, you get him. He's used to you picking him up," I said.
"That's why you should... (hard sigh and a look of dread)..."I don't want to go through this again...he's going to throw a fit that we're early..."
He saw me before I saw him... ran to me and gave me a sopping wet hug.
Not a frown on his face...
caught myself before the shock could show on mine
I signed him out
he grabbed his backpack, slipped on his flip-flops and waved good-bye to the camp leader.
"We played water dodge ball," he said, slipping his wet little hand in mine. "It's like dodge ball, mommy, except you throw water balloons."
Managed to keep all comments and questions to myself
The sigh of relief I couldn't hide.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Warning: Rant
Rant #1:
I have soooooo... many fucking writing projects I want to work on for this blog!
Paul took today off since his family is here to visit.
When I got home from running an errand this morning, the kids had been separated, forbidden to be in the same room.
They fight over and about everything. We took a walk this evening and the fight was over a weed.
Eli had picked up a weed off the sidewalk that Savvy said she was just about to grab.
Yeah. Like that.
There is this house we walk by where an older gent lives by himself. He sits shirtless in his garage that is plastered with yellowed pictures of hot air balloons, I'm guessing old calendar picture cut-outs. He wears these huge 1970's eyeglasses that magnify his watery eyes and those glasses are always the first thing you notice. He is peering out of his hot-air balloon garage every time we walk by.
For some reason, it is when we walk by this house that the kids seem to be at their worse. When Eli's whining has reached torture proportions, when Savvy is screaming no!!! and pulling away from me, flaunting to the world her total fucking defiance towards me.
The man never says anything, just slightly nods at us as we pass by.
But he doesn't have to say anything, because in his bug-eyes I see reflected who I used to be:
...the one who used to wonder why someone didn't just shut the kid up.
...the one who used to roll her eyes and recommit herself to never having children when that mom, with those kids were in a long grocery line.
...the one who would rush out of the supermarket sighing in relief that she had the freedom to roll her shopping cart as fast as she could away from the screams and snot.
And yet there I was, the old me: peering out of plastic '70's eyeglass frames, shaking her head at the new (twitchy) me.
I think of all the progressive bullshit I've read in parenting magazines. What could I have done to prevent their behavior from elevating to such proportions? How about some positive reinforcement, huh?, worker mom?
But the magazines don't tell you: what do you do if your kids
are like mice before a trap:
always manage to grab the cheese and be long gone wayyyyyy before the thing goes snap!?
Deep breath.
Rant #2:
Because I'm a teacher, I get home early from work, but do I really get home early from work?
It takes so long to emotionally leave my teen mom who has recently become homeless with her infant.
Or how about my brilliant foster girl who is being treated like fucking Cinderella by a 24-year-old foster mom?
I have just enough juice left to sit and do homework with my (of course) resistant son.
I say a silent prayer that Savvy won't want to play her favorite "school day," where I have to be one of the students among her dolls, andget time-out if I yawn.
I try to forgive myself for being sooooo grateful when bedtime comes. But by the time I am at the bottom of the stairs after putting them to bed, I am riddled with guilt and regret. What could I have done differently to make it a GOOD DAY?!
Deep breath.
On a positive note, I am thankful for my molar that broke, oh, about a week ago.
No, wait, listen! I'm not wallowing.
I think I've lost one or two pounds because it hurts really bad now to eat, even with Advil.
But this is good news. Tomorrow I am going to the dentist...and might be able to squeeze into skinny jeans for the occasion.
OK, I did warn you this would be a rant.
P.S.: Dewi, if you read this: I haven't been able to send you an email...an error always occurs!
My email address is: LaSavvy1@hotmail.com.
I'd love to hear from you!
I have soooooo... many fucking writing projects I want to work on for this blog!
- But working at my high school's graduation...
- and then there was my birthday...when I had one of the most humiliating interviews I've ever had in my life (story for another post)
- and preparing for weeks for the class at Whittier College I will be teaching TO ACTUAL GROWNUPS!!!!!...
Paul took today off since his family is here to visit.
When I got home from running an errand this morning, the kids had been separated, forbidden to be in the same room.
They fight over and about everything. We took a walk this evening and the fight was over a weed.
Eli had picked up a weed off the sidewalk that Savvy said she was just about to grab.
Yeah. Like that.
There is this house we walk by where an older gent lives by himself. He sits shirtless in his garage that is plastered with yellowed pictures of hot air balloons, I'm guessing old calendar picture cut-outs. He wears these huge 1970's eyeglasses that magnify his watery eyes and those glasses are always the first thing you notice. He is peering out of his hot-air balloon garage every time we walk by.
For some reason, it is when we walk by this house that the kids seem to be at their worse. When Eli's whining has reached torture proportions, when Savvy is screaming no!!! and pulling away from me, flaunting to the world her total fucking defiance towards me.
The man never says anything, just slightly nods at us as we pass by.
But he doesn't have to say anything, because in his bug-eyes I see reflected who I used to be:
...the one who used to wonder why someone didn't just shut the kid up.
...the one who used to roll her eyes and recommit herself to never having children when that mom, with those kids were in a long grocery line.
...the one who would rush out of the supermarket sighing in relief that she had the freedom to roll her shopping cart as fast as she could away from the screams and snot.
And yet there I was, the old me: peering out of plastic '70's eyeglass frames, shaking her head at the new (twitchy) me.
I think of all the progressive bullshit I've read in parenting magazines. What could I have done to prevent their behavior from elevating to such proportions? How about some positive reinforcement, huh?, worker mom?
But the magazines don't tell you: what do you do if your kids
are like mice before a trap:
always manage to grab the cheese and be long gone wayyyyyy before the thing goes snap!?
Deep breath.
Rant #2:
Because I'm a teacher, I get home early from work, but do I really get home early from work?
It takes so long to emotionally leave my teen mom who has recently become homeless with her infant.
Or how about my brilliant foster girl who is being treated like fucking Cinderella by a 24-year-old foster mom?
I have just enough juice left to sit and do homework with my (of course) resistant son.
I say a silent prayer that Savvy won't want to play her favorite "school day," where I have to be one of the students among her dolls, andget time-out if I yawn.
I try to forgive myself for being sooooo grateful when bedtime comes. But by the time I am at the bottom of the stairs after putting them to bed, I am riddled with guilt and regret. What could I have done differently to make it a GOOD DAY?!
Deep breath.
On a positive note, I am thankful for my molar that broke, oh, about a week ago.
No, wait, listen! I'm not wallowing.
I think I've lost one or two pounds because it hurts really bad now to eat, even with Advil.
But this is good news. Tomorrow I am going to the dentist...and might be able to squeeze into skinny jeans for the occasion.
OK, I did warn you this would be a rant.
P.S.: Dewi, if you read this: I haven't been able to send you an email...an error always occurs!
My email address is: LaSavvy1@hotmail.com.
I'd love to hear from you!
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
"I'm Coming Out..."
The end of May marks my two year anniversary on anti-depressants and I thought I'd celebrate with some red wine and a "coming out" post.
This is what happened:
Savvy's birthday was coming up, her first in The New House.
I decided it had to be memorable.
My sister gave me "that look" when I told her I'd stayed up for several nights making paper flowers.
"...because there's this place called Michael's where you can buy..." she said in her typical smart-ass, little sister way.
Nope. They had to be handmade. Memorable, remember? I learned how to make them on the internet.
along with flower shaped sandwiches
"worms in dirt" pudding cups
and even butterflies made out of tissue and construction paper. (Not as easy as YouTube made it sound)
I ran around decorating, frosting, cooking...floating on a high.
I can't even tell you if anyone offered to help. I would have said no. When I'm like this I'm shocked someone might think I might need it.
I heard it went well, the party.
by the time the party rolled around, I had already started to crash. I'd gotten only a few hours of sleep each night that week, which contributed to the floating down, down, down feeling that marks the beginning of:
Going Under.
By the end of that week all the typical stuff started happening.
Listening, talking, touching...it all started to dull. It's like trying to do all these things through gauze. It looks like something's right there, but when you go to touch it, hear it, listen to it, it ends up it's really layers away...
And then my gums started going numb. This particular characteristic doesn't always happen when I'm slipping into a deep depression, but when it does, I know it's gonna be bad. No exercising, writing, talking in the world would work. All these things in my "tool box": useless.
This sequence pretty much sums up the rhythms of my life since college, when the depression began to become debilitating:
(It still pisses me off when I think of all the things I screwed up because of "it."
I missed weddings,
funerals,
parties...
I much rather people think I was self-absorbed than "down")
that I could sleep it off--no matter how long that might take
and wake up and shake it off
go on like nothing happened
This particular time was the first time it had hit me so bad since I had the kids
It became very clear that I was not going to be able to do this mom thing
in such a state.
I no longer had the luxury of self-medicating, sleeping for days, locking myself in a room until I was presentable again.
Nothing's more frightening than the thought of being unable to be a mom to my kids
and so here I am two years later
it's like I finally started living my life
On Saturday I watched my kids playing in the waves
digging a hole in the sand to make a fort for protection against the world
(wouldn't that be cool)
and I had to turn my head so they wouldn't see me cry
B.M. (before meds.), an outing like that would have surely hurled me into a deep one.
My mind would flood with taunts about my inadequacy to compete with all those "real moms."
who remember suntan lotion
and snacks.
Christmas, birthdays, vacations...I feel like I'm actually there now, not watching the Happy Normal People through that gauze I was telling you about.
Things aren't perfect, of course.
I still go under, but I could feel the meds. lifting me up long enough to scramble and grab my tool box.
Many times it pisses me off that I have to be dependent on chemicals to make me "normal."
like right now I am having a glass of forbidden red wine
because this is really hard to write.
...you know how people are
there is still this stigma surrounding depression:
suck it up, you're just being a baby
at work if people know you're "medicated", side-long glances at meetings tell you they attribute any mistake, etc. to your...ahemmm..."condition"
I know because I used to think the same way
about those high-maintenance "depressives" (eyeroll)
who can't get it together.
I like to think of myself as a bad-ass
and taking happy pills didn't fit with the image.
A two year anniversary,
though,
of getting you're life back,
that's something to celebrate and not be ashamed of
and so
I'm coming out...I want the world to know...
This is what happened:
Savvy's birthday was coming up, her first in The New House.
I decided it had to be memorable.
My sister gave me "that look" when I told her I'd stayed up for several nights making paper flowers.
"...because there's this place called Michael's where you can buy..." she said in her typical smart-ass, little sister way.
Nope. They had to be handmade. Memorable, remember? I learned how to make them on the internet.
along with flower shaped sandwiches
"worms in dirt" pudding cups
and even butterflies made out of tissue and construction paper. (Not as easy as YouTube made it sound)
I ran around decorating, frosting, cooking...floating on a high.
I can't even tell you if anyone offered to help. I would have said no. When I'm like this I'm shocked someone might think I might need it.
I heard it went well, the party.
by the time the party rolled around, I had already started to crash. I'd gotten only a few hours of sleep each night that week, which contributed to the floating down, down, down feeling that marks the beginning of:
Going Under.
By the end of that week all the typical stuff started happening.
Listening, talking, touching...it all started to dull. It's like trying to do all these things through gauze. It looks like something's right there, but when you go to touch it, hear it, listen to it, it ends up it's really layers away...
And then my gums started going numb. This particular characteristic doesn't always happen when I'm slipping into a deep depression, but when it does, I know it's gonna be bad. No exercising, writing, talking in the world would work. All these things in my "tool box": useless.
This sequence pretty much sums up the rhythms of my life since college, when the depression began to become debilitating:
(It still pisses me off when I think of all the things I screwed up because of "it."
I missed weddings,
funerals,
parties...
I much rather people think I was self-absorbed than "down")
- Start feeling more pep than usual
- Can't believe how much I'm capable of and how great life is
- I'M ON TOP OF THE WORLD!
- I start to teeter-totter from so way up high
that I could sleep it off--no matter how long that might take
and wake up and shake it off
go on like nothing happened
This particular time was the first time it had hit me so bad since I had the kids
It became very clear that I was not going to be able to do this mom thing
in such a state.
I no longer had the luxury of self-medicating, sleeping for days, locking myself in a room until I was presentable again.
Nothing's more frightening than the thought of being unable to be a mom to my kids
and so here I am two years later
it's like I finally started living my life
On Saturday I watched my kids playing in the waves
digging a hole in the sand to make a fort for protection against the world
(wouldn't that be cool)
and I had to turn my head so they wouldn't see me cry
B.M. (before meds.), an outing like that would have surely hurled me into a deep one.
My mind would flood with taunts about my inadequacy to compete with all those "real moms."
who remember suntan lotion
and snacks.
Christmas, birthdays, vacations...I feel like I'm actually there now, not watching the Happy Normal People through that gauze I was telling you about.
Things aren't perfect, of course.
I still go under, but I could feel the meds. lifting me up long enough to scramble and grab my tool box.
Many times it pisses me off that I have to be dependent on chemicals to make me "normal."
like right now I am having a glass of forbidden red wine
because this is really hard to write.
...you know how people are
there is still this stigma surrounding depression:
suck it up, you're just being a baby
at work if people know you're "medicated", side-long glances at meetings tell you they attribute any mistake, etc. to your...ahemmm..."condition"
I know because I used to think the same way
about those high-maintenance "depressives" (eyeroll)
who can't get it together.
I like to think of myself as a bad-ass
and taking happy pills didn't fit with the image.
A two year anniversary,
though,
of getting you're life back,
that's something to celebrate and not be ashamed of
and so
I'm coming out...I want the world to know...
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