Red Flags, White Flags, Really all the Flags

So, deciding I didn't have enough on my plate, we recently decided to adopt a rescue dog. Not super recently, as she is almost a year and we have had her for half of her life. But in the grand scheme of things, we recently adopting Lucy. 

She's a hot mess of problems. She was abandoned by her mom by a lake in Texas, the people we adopted her from in Grand Rapids could barely be considered an organization where she lived in a cigarette-smoke-filled double-wide with 6 other dogs, some turtles and who knows what else, and three days before we adopted her she apparently had hernia surgery, which the rescue facility did not find warranted even a sentence in the email correspondence we had. Suffice it to say, the poor dog has had a rough go of it. She pooped all over me twice on the ride home from Grand Rapids, threw up, and decided she would take up residence in the boys' bathroom once we got home, as that was the least scary room in the house? 

Lucy is truly a great dog (great in the way that- have you ever had a dog? You love 'em and scratch their bellies and then why are they puking in the house and what did they roll in and can they ever just stop barking at whatever that God-forsaken noise is), she takes so much of the boys' abuse; my youngest is constantly grabbing her face and scratching her chin (is that even a thing dogs like?), and my oldest is obsessed with her. She has definitely gotten me out of my shell, since now I have a RESPONSIBILITY. I take her on several walks a day, and this means I have now met my neighbors (I do realize I have lived here for 3 years and don't know my neighbors- I am not a neighbor-type person. I want to go home and sit in my house. Working retail all your life will do this.).

Today I was taking Lucy for a walk around the neighborhood, the extended version that's maybe 1.5 miles. A side effect of her upbringing is that she is a nervous dog- she hates tarps, meeting new people makes her pee everywhere, and if something scared her at a spot, she will avoid that spot perhaps forever. Sometimes I get fed up with her scaredy cat antics, and today was one of those days. We pass a house that has all those little flags in the yard so as to prevent you from digging into an electrical cable or a gas line, etc. Lucy starts pulling away. I'm saying to myself, "Self, let's make this a TEACHABLE MOMENT. We will HELP this poor dog." So I pull her over to these yellow flags and start touching them and batting at them. "It's just a flag, it won't hurt you," I repeat as I try to pull her closer. She is not having it, absolutely refusing to come any closer, despite my sweet voice and attempts at behavior modification. I keep yanking at her, and she is not graciously accepting my help, so I storm back to the house, muttering about what a dumb dog she is. 

And folks, this is when I realize something- Lucy has been electric-fence-trained by white flags at our house. She had to learn quickly that stepping past white flags meant a zap on the collar. She wasn't naturally apprehensive of white flags, but we trained her to stay away from white flags. Now the neighbor's flags were yellow, but come on she's a color blind dog. And I'm a moron.

I was struck- how often in life do we feel like we know better, know more, can help someone else out by our wisdom, experience, eagerness to help, when we don't realize what their flags are and what they mean to them? I know very well those yellow flags aren't going to zap my dog, but she doesn't. We know we aren't going to cheat on, steal from, abuse, manipulate, lie to our friends, our partners, but maybe they don't see it the same way. They see glaring white flags, warning them of danger. 

Sometimes we need to take a step back from pushing, from assuming we have all the facts, of anger that someone isn't changing, progressing quickly enough, and come to realize that we aren't all knowing and all seeing. We also have our flags. Perhaps we need to extend a little kindness, for we don't know just what flags others are learning to cope with. 

When Life Hands you Big Bad Things

On Wednesday, my husband got a phone call from his dad. He stood up and walked around the living room, "My dad is calling."

"Answer it," I reply.

"No," he says, and he sits, staring at his phone. 

A few minutes later he reads a message his dad sent, that he has named him the beneficiary of a health savings account he has with a small amount in it, with instructions to divvy it up amongst the siblings if anything were to happen to him.

"It sounds like he's going to kill himself," I say. It's just a weird out-of-nowhere message. 

"No," he replies.

On Friday, I get home a little after 11 pm, walk in the door, and take a look at my husband. He looks like a mess. 

"What is it?" I ask him. I immediate start thinking about his brother with the drinking problem, maybe something happened to one of our boys. Panic.

"My dad killed himself."

He walks me through how he got a text message from his dad with his suicide note. I see the messages my husband sent in return. Pleading. Concerned. Desperate. 

His dad left the contact information for his ex, who happens to live in the same area, halfway across the country. He says he called her, he called his grandpa, no one knew what had happened, his dad wouldn't answer the phone, the police were dispatched for a "rescue" mission, and how he had gotten the news around 9 pm that his body had been found and he had been dead around a day.

His dad had a postmortem text sent to my husband with his suicide note.

I don't know how anyone deals with something like this. This isn't normal. This isn't ok. This is horrible. It's selfish. My husband and his siblings are a month away from mourning the loss of their mom to cancer 6 years ago and now they have to work out their feelings about their dad killing himself. 

He cheated on their mom. He abandoned them. He had a horrible drinking problem. His suicide note talks about how miserable he was, broke, lonely, how he should have never drank.

The siblings keep asking me when the funeral will be.

We met with my husband's grandparents. They live about 10 minutes from our new house. While upset over the death of their son (step-son for the grandma, since my husband's original grandma passed when he was 7), they said they have been expecting this call for awhile now. He's been a hard drinker for quite some time, unemployed, broke up with his one serious girlfriend he had after the divorce. He'd been hinting about it on facebook apparently. Could anyone have said anything to stop him?

My husband wishes he would have answered the phone call. He wishes he could have driven down there, picked him up, gotten him to see some hope. Would it have been enough to stop him from killing himself? Is it a darkness that would have crept back in eventually?

My sister-in-law told me that their dad called three of his children that Wednesday and not one answered. All emailed him back, but not one answered. To be fair, the majority of the time that my husband did answer the phone, his dad would be severely intoxicated, oddly rambling about stuff. What is it like to hear the slow descent into mental illness and addiction? I've only met the man maybe 4 times, once at our wedding. The other three times were when he came into town and took all of his children out to the bowling alley so he could drink while he hung out with them, the youngest sibling being a teenager.

When we met with my husband's grandparents, they said they want to tell people. They want everyone to know and talk about suicide and addiction. People keep quiet about it, about mental health issues. 

We can't even properly grasp the situation. A man has taken his own life. Can we even mourn it? He was a good dad sometimes, when they were young. He got lost in the grasp of addiction. It cost him his wife, his children, and eventually his life. Is it worth it? Is alcohol worth it? Are drugs worth it? Pornography, gambling, sex? Are any of these highs so fantastic that they are worth a life? Do you have a funeral to memorialize an addict? A philanderer? A man who abandons his children? He had no friends at the end, just him and an addiction. The addiction certainly won't come to the funeral.

I'm an outsider to all of these events. When my mother-in-law had cancer, I poured myself into helping, into trying to fix, into praying. But it didn't make me have any more of a right to be upset or feel a loss, because she wasn't my mother. I had her as a mother-in-law for about a year before she died. I mourned her for my husband, for the loss of a grandmother for the baby I was carrying, for all the things she could have been for me and my family. I mourned her for my husband. How do I mourn this man now? I barely met him. I would often run through conversations I would want to have with him, words I'd like to say if I ever had the chance to sit down with him, to discuss the impact he has had on my husband and his siblings. I won't get the chance now. My husband never got to say any last words. At least with his mother, we knew she was sick and that she had limited time. We had the chance to spend time with her, to make a few good last memories. 

And now I am left with a legacy of loss. My husband has inherited a strong cancer gene that killed one parent, and a strong mental health gene that killed another. My little boys have a quarter of each of those in them.

I am at a loss. I don't know how to deal with this.

My husband is in bed, sleeping. It is nearly 11 am. I can't tell him how to grieve. I don't know how I will one day process the death of either of my parents. I am lucky. I am privileged. 

I am left wondering if one day I will lose my husband to cancer or addiction.

One of his brothers has an arraignment next week to find out if he gets jail time for his 3rd DUI.

One of his siblings just got off parole for DUI and has completely changed her life.

One of his brothers just got diagnosed with mental illness and is trying to get out of the fog.

How do you even begin to wade through the process of coping with a suicide?

Things that I just don't get

I don't understand so many things

1. Why do boys hit and wrestle and chase constantly? Is it fun to attack others? Seriously makes me want to drink at about 10 a.m.
2. What is the deal with LinkedIn? I just discovered you can see who you've invited to connect with there. It's seriously embarrassing. I think I've asked people several times thinking each time I'm asking them for the first time. God. I hope once they've rejected me LinkedIn remembers and they don't get a new invite every time. Sweet Lord. Gonna go dig a pit and hide in it.
3. I had a great idea for a plexiglass mailbox. How sweet, right? Do you don't need to go outside to check if you have mail or not. Then a few days ago I realized just how stupid of an idea it was. Are all my ideas this bad?
4. Adult acne. Enough said.
5. Christians that are judgey of other Christians. Or hell mothers that are judgey of other mothers, especially within subcategories, like attachment parents. Ok, you are a good mom. Stop it with judging others. Who cares when the kid is weaned or when they eat their first solid food or when they sleep in a crib. Are we trying? Good job!
6. People that feel it necessary to share their digestive distresses via social media. Do you feel less like puking or crapping if others know you are doing it?
7. I have all the ideas and quippy things to say before I sit in front of my computer. Once there, I'm blank. Nothing. Nada. Definitely could talk at length about the baby just born to some royal or depressing stuff about the upcoming due date of my miscarried baby hooray!!!

8. Why do people hate commas so much? I love them.
9. Addictions.
10. Horoscopes. I'm a Scorpio. Does that really mean anything? Or what about the horoscopes you get on Chinese restaurant placemats that talk about the year you were born. So everyone born in 1981 is like me? Doubt that. Went to school with a lot of different characters. We shared the fact that we were all walking upright and had opposable thumbs.
11. Celebrity obsession. Reality tv. Guessing baby names for people you've never met and will never meet.
12. What kind of crack do they put in Ben and Jerry's? I need to know. I can't stop eating it. Ok maybe it's my addiction….
13. Hypocrisy.
14. Women's sizing. Like H&M is a different planet. Even Gap and Old Navy are inconsistent between the two and they are owned by the same parent company.

Loads of other stuff but it's time for me to go watch my children pick at their dinner hooray! My youngest has decided he will no longer eat boxed mac and cheese as some sort of protest. More for me, buddy. More for me.

Being Uncomfortable

I've gotten to a certain age where I'm pretty stuck in my routine. I mean, it's pretty easy seeing as I have young children, and children, as they say, are creatures of routine. Happy kids have a routine. We wake up and have breakfast (usually my awesome 7 ingredient oatmeal which my husband is only so happy to help me replicate on days when I do not want to get out of bed), play games or just chill for a bit. Then we do some sort of activity (if it's not the bone-chilling -18 out as it is today, we usually play in the snow) or go to the store for groceries (and coffee). Lunch, followed by nap, then calm after-nap activities, and then something before dinner (either outside, going to grandma's house, or the store depending on what we did earlier). After dinner we do some physical activity involving walking (usually at the mall since it gets dark at 5:30 still), then bath, books, and bed. Bed is always around 7:30-8, wake up is usually between 7:30-8. A very planned out life (or at least the bones of the day are very structured and don't usually get moved).

Unfortunately, this level of life routine has got me stuck in a personal rut. I do the same thing everyday. When the boys are in bed, I would go watch some tv while knitting (or folding laundry), and be in bed by 10. Not much wiggle room, considering the 8 pm bedtime can often slowly leech into 9, as kids want sips of water, or another story, etc. This hour is golden. I don't want to do anything except what I want to do. I've guarded it closely. And it has become a rut. There are so many things I could do in the evening but I want to be lazy.

It's a bit like an analogy I saw in a magazine about clutter (stay with me for a minute, it'll make sense)- by setting down an object, be it mail, random items, laundry, whatever on the areas where things congregate, you are saying that your time now is more important than your time later. You are robbing yourself of that time freedom later. If you had decided to take the extra minute to put the bill where it needs to go (or heaven forbid actually pay it), put the socks away, put the toys in the appropriate bins, books on the appropriate shelves, you wouldn't need to spend the time later to do it. Think of it- if every time you set something down, you decided to put it in it's right home- you would have clean counters. You would have time where you didn't have to sigh about the counters and then spend 45 minutes trying to figure out where stuff goes, what to do with it. Or if you have a spot where laundry piles up- you take off your work clothes and something isn't dirty so you don't need to throw it in the bin, and you are just too lazy to hang it up or find a cupboard for it. This is my life (except I don't work). If you take the extra minute to hang it, fold it, put it away, you wouldn't have the mound of shame looking at you while you are surfing netflix.
So going back to my evenings- I am robbing myself of life. I just want to veg out and be lazy, be by myself, and I need to start doing things. Now see, things make me uncomfortable. I like to do my routine. It's ingrained, it's automatic, and it's comfortable.
I wrote that I took up running (and I will re-take it up once it's safe to run outside again). I have decided to take up yoga as well. I tried yoga once when I was in undergrad; my friend Holy and I went and it was so boring. I was not zen at all. I would try to hold my poses longer than other people, I couldn't zone out. But I guess something has changed in 13 years.

One- I have no flexibility at all. Ow. Man it hurts to work those areas that enjoy sitting on the couch eating Ben & Jerry's. Two- I don't mind it so much. Granted, I still want to be the best at things, but I'm working on quieting the voices. I need to be gentle with myself. I can't be awesome at everything from the get go. Sure would be sweet if I was, but it's just not going to happen. It's ok to be uncomfortable. I laughed last night at class as I'm trying to stand on one foot and do some sort of squat pose. It's uncomfortable to be the baby, learning for the first time. It also puts me in a better space to teach my children. I get upset when I ask them to do something for like the hundredth time and they can't. It is teaching me to have patience with the growing process, to help my children navigate the uncomfortable learning areas, and to show them that they can always be growing, always learning, always changing.

I'm very uncomfortable, but I'm starting to be more zen about it.

I'm a Runner: And no, Nothing was Chasing Me, Thanks

If you are wondering if the world is ending, it may be.

I have decided to take up running.

Shocking, right?


I decided the other day that I hate this anxiety so I'm going to do something that I hate even more than the anxiety and that is running. Oh I hate running. I mean I've never really done it, but the one time I did I ran maybe 200 feet and was like ok, that was fun.

It is so anti-me that I have a funny story.
I texted my husband to ask if he wanted to go running with me when he got home.
He said sure.
He got home and I asked him to go change into his running clothes (as it was getting close to dinner). He comes back in with jeans and a thermal on.
I ask "are you wearing that running?" and he says yes and gives me an odd look.
I ask him to help get the boys' snowsuits on, as it was beyond freezing and I wanted them warm for their trip in the jogging stroller.
"Where are we taking them?" my husband asks, and I reply to the jogging track that's nearby.
"Why?" he asks.
"To go running," I reply because duh I've already said running like eight times.
He thought I meant running errands. Because never in a million years would I run. I loathe it. So we went running and it was pretty pathetic.
Well actually it was beyond pretty pathetic.
It was 17 degrees and felt like 3 with the wind chill. The bitter bitter windchill. And to make matters worse, the track was thick with slushy snow, so very hard to push a stroller on. We made it about half a mile before the littlest boy got cold and started crying.
And also, my husband got a stress fracture from running.
Pretty pathetic right?
ButI got a girl friend to run with me the following day and I ran 1.5 miles (jogged, ok? Geez) without really stopping so that was a success.
Can I walk today?
No not very well.

But I'm going to stick with it. Even though every minute is full of hatred for it.

I'm hoping if I can conquer running, then maybe there's a chance I can mind over matter this anxiety.

Or at least get in shape.

To My Fellow Chameleons

Today is the Super Bowl and I for one could care less. I am not a sports person. When I was in undergrad I didn't attend a single football or basketball game, and I attended a Big 10 school. I did not know the fight song and couldn't sing the school song at graduation. How horrible is that? I was also pretty lazy and apathetic at the time (perhaps now still), with a major case of senioritis which didn't help. My husband is (Thank you, Jesus) not a sports fan. He used to play baseball and occasionally when we had cable he would turn it to little league playoffs or some such for a bit. But overall, he could also care less.
I said to my husband today that I would watch sports if he cared about them. He found that quite laughable, and maybe it is just considering how much I care less about sports (and maybe that is being too generous; I dislike watching sports. It's boring. I know no rules. I went to a Cubs/White Sox game with a friend when I was in early college and I was bored to tears. It just went on and on. Sammy Sosa was right in front of us and I just wanted to go to sleep. Also, my friend and her brother took VERY detailed notes on some scorecard, so calling them fans wasn't doing it justice. Also- I was not able to drink legally then.) However, one thing that he isn't aware of too much- how big a chameleon I am.

Chameleon? What do you mean?

Follower. Adapter. Panty-waist spineless jellyfish. (I was looking for a specific word and googled thesaurus for follower and found that "toady" is one synonym. That just blows my mind in relation to the band- right? Anyone?) MILQUETOAST! Just came to me. Knew that sitting here mindlessly not doing cleaning would serve me adequately.

Anyway, I never thought I was such a follower. I was strong in my beliefs that I was a pretty good person, smart, a good Christian, when I was in high school. I was kind of a geek, boys generally avoided me, which was mostly to my benefit, as I'm sure that whole good-Christian-girl thing would've gone quickly had an actual living boy been interested in charming my panties off. I felt I was my own person and lived by my own rules, but in retrospect I'm sure most teenagers think they are their own person. I lived under very controlling parents and didn't do very much in the outside world, except walk around the mall with my equally sheltered friends.

Maybe to a degree I am my own person, but when it comes to love, I am such a follower.

Two of my exes were musicians. So I attended quite a few open mic nights, listened to indie music, read the appropriate periodicals, bought the correct gear for holidays, etc. One would have assumed I was a music fan (hell, I thought I was). And then I met the husband. He is not a musician, not a sports fan, kind of a video game nerd. I took up video games for a brief time, but I'm sooo less a video game nerd than I am a musician nerd. Living in a small northern town means relatively few bands travel this far north, husband with no musical interest means no desire to accompany me to concerts that involve a road trip, and children mean little to no free time or spending money to travel to aforementioned concerts that I would attend alone. Because the convenience factor is nil, I am not into music anymore. Granted I could listen to podcasts and download concerts and buy cds etc etc but I have no time. I have no money. I also have a weird apprehension (if you can call it that) to new music. I hate listening to music that I have never heard. Even was I was a crazy Incubus diehard fan, when they put out a new CD it would take me getting ready to go to their concert and wanting to know all the songs to get me to crack the case. I hate not knowing lyrics, not knowing if I like it or not, and wasting time listening to it several times if I don't like it. How weird is that? I might be the only weirdo with that disorder. But to get back to the point- he doesn't like it so I don't like it.

If he liked sports, I'm sure I would be hosting Super Bowl parties and making cupcakes in the team colors. If he was a golfer, I'm sure I would take up golf.

Maybe our problem as a couple is pure apathy in either direction. He wants to sit and do nothing. I want to do whatever he wants to do. When he wants to do nothing, I'm upset that he wants to do nothing. It's a vicious cycle.

I'm getting to be too existential in my old age. I over think everything. I think about everything. I also worry about the things that I think. I worry that I'm wasting my life. I think about all the things I could be doing- I could be like Taylor Swift and have a million friends and be involved and do everything and have a fantastic life. But hell that is a lie. I cannot motivate. I can't get myself to exercise on a daily basis. I can't bake fantastic creations for my family. I don't decorate our house. I don't have hobbies. I don't think this is normal. I'm convinced that if I only got enough sleep that I could do more but I'm starting to think that "more sleep" doesn't actually exist. I know I just have to go and do it, whatever the thing is that I want to do.

But what do I want to do? I need to meditate and find my inner purpose or something. How do you even go about doing that in your thirties? I can't Eat Pray Love myself to another continent or even to a day trip. I ask for signs from God but maybe He wants to point people in the right direction who are actively walking with Him. And I'm doing many things but actively walking is not one of them.

This is an incredibly rambly blog post. Mostly, it's like my thoughts. I have a lot, they are often disconnected or loosely connected, and they are usually a little depressing.

Did I mention my husband has been pushing me to join the military as an officer? Sure, I would love to serve my country and make a difference, but I have absolutely no desire to kill, to get yelled at, or to be deployed. I like to think go myself as an intelligent person, but who knows how smart the military would see me. I'd love to be in intelligence, but I might only qualify to work in the HR department or something menial. And to top it all off- having to run? Ugh. Really? Plus, 9 weeks away from my boys. Although to be honest, the thought of time to read by myself, write by myself, BE by myself sounds pretty fantastic. However, to be realistic I'm sure there aren't hours to myself every day to pursue the whole Hemingway thing. I could be wrong. But the husband is pressing this because I have applied to so many (so very very many) jobs and haven't gotten called, emailed, interviewed, nada. I wonder if there is some virus in my resume that deletes the ability to email me. I've considered this as a possibility. He feels disheartened that no one is out there caring. Ha- guess how I feel about it, buddy. Answer- NOT GREAT. But not sure if giving up my life for 4 years or more is exactly the next logical step. If any of you have answers- let me know.

I'm gonna go clean, since cleaning seems to be my only talent right now.

Creativity is Dead

I fear that perhaps I am best suited to be a stay-at-home mom forever. I'm just too thoughtful. It works well for being a mom of young kids, not so much perhaps for the working world, and definitely not for having "adult relationships".

Last night while laying in bed, I asked my husband what he thinks happens to your soul when it dies. Does it float up (or out) to heaven? Are you instantly transported to heaven? Is it like waking up from a dream when you don't remember what happened but obviously some time has passed? I was thinking these things because who doesn't ponder death before bed, right? Totally normal. I was thinking about the number of people I knew who have died, and the number of people I was around right before death (I was thinking about the horrible "death rattle" which if you are unfamiliar with, thank God). I was in the room when my grandfather died, and I wondered if I had been paying more attention would I have noticed his spirit leaving his body? I was with my mother-in-law just hours before she passed, and definitely into the alive but not alive stage.
But regardless of my weird pre-sleep ponderings, my husband took awhile to answer and finally guessed that they just go into waiting because we are all waiting for the return of Christ. "So Heaven in empty, or just filled with pre-Jesus people?" and he eventually got annoyed with my questions. He replied that he certainly doesn't think about things that have no answer.
And that's where being a stay-at-home mom for life comes in. All I do is think. I think about this and I think about that. I think about them and I think about me. I wonder what if and why and where and how come. If I had done one thing differently, or made a different choice. I'll spend hours on wikipedia looking up bubonic plague and side effects of common drugs (like ibuprofen) and birth defects and celebrities. I have so many questions. I'm curious.
It seems that most of the world despises curiosity. Mind your own business.
My son just spent the last 20 minutes telling me about ghosts. You need to walk quietly or you pop their dreams, he tells me. And they definitely are "mean ones" who steal your toys when you are asleep.
This is the kind of world I can get behind. Not ghosts, but make believe. Questioning things. And even if its silly, then why not? Silly is better than sad. Make believe is better than anxiety.

Here's to the silly ones.

How to: Get your Home Clean(er)

Pre-germaphobia, I was pretty messy.

Messy may be an understatement- just ask my mom. When I lived at home, she would always shut my door when she had guests. It was embarrassing. I didn't care much. It's not like it was dirty per se, more messy. Stuff everywhere. When my mom got rid of the encyclopedias to get new ones, I took the old ones and put them in my closet. Cuz you never know when you need to look something up. Encyclopedia- this means google before google was invented, for all of you kids.
Flash forward to parenthood, where I gave exactly two craps about the state of my house. Now it was dirty too, well at least dirty dishes. I knew someone who cloth-diapered and they would remove the kid's diaper and throw it towards the hamper pile of cloth diapers and cloth wipes, wipe diaper cream on the kid's butt with their hand, and then go about their business, dirty cloth diapers near a giant pile of dirty cloth diapers in the middle of their living room, butt cream on their hands. That's dirty. Mine was more like toys everywhere, clothes everywhere, crumbs everywhere, and piles of dirty dishes.
When I found a job, we hired a babysitter to cover the gap time between when I went to work and when my husband came home, generally never more than 4 hours. We hired her with the mindset to entertain and play with the boys, and to not clean. This was probably the ideal job, since we were paying her $10 an hour to play and chase after some kids, while I hear most parents want the nanny to cook and clean and on and on. So our house was a pit (to the degree my mom told me I should apologize about the state of the house every time she came over) but I didn't care. And then came the sickening when my fragile concept of childhood illnesses was realized and the anxiety stepped in.
So now I have a very clean house. Granted, there are still signs that children live here. Like right now, there is a pile of giant bubble wrap on the living room floor. There is an empty wrapping paper tube that has been brandished as an instrument of pain-infliction, and I see a sock under the couch. But for the most part, tidy. How do I keep it tidy? How can you start an adventure of tidiness? It's not that hard. You definitely don't need to shoot for anal retentive as I have. But to have a house that is clean enough you don't mind if a friend stops by, your inlaws, or even the mailman, that would be ideal.

HOW TO:
Have a tidy house

First, learn this mantra: It is up to me. I have mentioned this before, but my rude awakening of parenthood came when I realized that it was up to me. That toilet paper scrap on the bathroom floor would only be picked up by me. The grape that is under the cabinets by the sink would only get picked up by me. That sock laying under the couch will only be picked up by me. Maybe you are one of the lucky ones that has a husband that enjoys helping around the house, or at least has a strong sense of guilt. Mine has neither. And seeing as how he lets me stay home (for the moment), I try to do all the other crap. And also- news alert- men and women have different standards of cleanliness. My husband will "do the dishes" by placing whatever in the dishwasher that he can without too much thought, run the thing, and leave the kitchen. I am strategic to get all the dishes in before I run the dishwasher, put the leftovers away, and then I wipe up the counters, the dining room table and high chair, clean the high chair tray, clean out the sink. That to me is cleaning up after dinner. My husband has stated that I don't need to fold his laundry and should just cram it in the drawers or heap it in the closet. Like I said- different standards. and because of these standards, I know that if I want my husband to go to work and not look homeless, I have to fold his laundry. If I want my jeans to stay the right size, I need to do the laundry (surprisingly, men, hot is not a good setting for all clothes).

Second, work smarter.
There is always a way to do something that will save you hassle. The trick is to figure out what you want to do and how you can best achieve it. For example, if I am doing laundry (which involves a trip to the basement), I make sure to take down things that live down there. The boys are always dragging toys from the basement up, and there are certain ones that are just basement toys (it will save you trouble to designate certain toys to certain areas). I know when I'm heading downstairs and I see imaginext toys on the floor, to grab a few and toss them in the basket. When I get downstairs, I unload them and start my wash. On the way back up, I grab empty glasses, spoons, trash, whatever I can quickly see on my path back upstairs. Why would I make special trips to the basement to sort and clean when I can just do it as I go? I have a little counter space by the basement stairs where I also place things that live downstairs (like my husband's tools, stuff that needs to go in the pantry) to grab for trips downstairs. When I have to go pee, I check the kitchen counter for hair clips, socks, loose toys, to place them in the appropriate room on the way there. Sure, it takes me an extra minute to get done what I need to get done, but it saves my sanity. And it goes back to my first rile- it's up to me.

Three, get storage.
We have a man cave (furnace room with storage room off the side) that had built-in shelves. I bought bins and a label maker, and what a smart decision that was. If you have more than one child, this will save you trouble. After baby #1 grew out of 0-6 month clothes, into a bin they went with a 0-6 month label. Maternity clothes met a similar fate. Clothes that I sized out of while pregnant, clothes my husband sized out of while I was pregnant, all went into labeled bins. Winter coats and boots, etc. Saves so much time. I then got bins for the boys toys. Many sized bins, and see-thru- VERY important that they are see-thru. Like kind items, such as legos, dinosaurs, trains, all have their own bin. I need a better storage system for them at the moment, but they are stacked up behind a baby gate so they can't be completely dismembered. When we are playing downstairs, we get out a project, like trains, and play. When we are done, in theory, the toys go back in the bin and order is restored. I have bins in my youngest's room, for smaller items and ones that don't group together as well. These are the "toy" bins. If we are upstairs and the boys want a toy to play with, we head in there and they get to pick a couple to play with for the day. Eventually they end up on the bookcase in the living room or on the floor, and I eventually herd them back into their bin.

Four, have spaces for things to live.
Be realistic. You can clean and you can put away, but there is realistically no way you can keep everything packed up and clean and tidy at all times. Especially if you have kids. So you need places for things that you use to live when they are out. Because the floor or the couch or the counter is a terrible spot for things to just hang out. We have a low bookcase in the living room that I actually bought from Urban Outfitters when they were re-doing their displays. It was $15. Can't beat that. THe boys know thats where they put their toys. That is the home of stuff.

Five, cut yourself some slack.
You are only human. Have some time to sit.

Sleep Debt

When you are a college student, it's totally normal to stay up for 24 hours or more to cram for a final or write a few term papers, and then, in a heap of exhaustion, sleep for a day or two.

Parenting, my friends, is nothing like that.

Oh except for the staying up long hours part. Not the whole sleeping for a long time after part.

When #1 was a baby, he was a fuss. I remember reading about the "witching hour" that babies had before bed, but #1 fussed from 4- 11pm every night. Every. Night. It would be walking, patting, nursing, patting, walking, bouncing, rocking, nursing, patting, all the while, his mouth is open and just fuss crying. Never ending fuss crying.
And don't think I tried everything to make it stop. I gave up dairy. I gave up soy, corn, cruciferous vegetables, anything I read online that could possibly cause gas. Pretty soon I was eating next to nothing that resembled delicious or edible food, and he was still crying.
Your mind slips into an unhealthy place. You finally get him down after a certain rock-step combo in the hall, so the next night you keep trying it, thinking that was the sleepy time magic. Foolish you. The sleepy time magic was you wasting 5 or more hours and crying a half dozen times before the screaming midget decides to give up the ghost.
And then the topper- he refused to sleep for longer than 3 hour stretches. For 18 months.
That's impossible, you say.
No friend, that is very possible and exactly what happened.
At 8 every night I would be tucked in to bed next to the cosleeper, waiting for the next time #1 would pop his eyes open and demand to be fed. Do it quickly, and he might go right back to sleep. He slept right next to me so I could easily be awoken 6 times a night. The thought of having to roll out of bed and go to a separate room was enough to end me.
Luckily, I didn't have many friends during this period. There's something about being in the depths of misery- a self-created misery, mind you- that is very isolating.
Sort of like right now, but that's a different story.
I was so awash in sleep deprivation that I decided a second baby was a grand idea.  I think I had a few months of longer than 3 hour stretches of sleep, but luckily I didn't enjoy them as I was enormously pregnant. And also nursing up until 2 months before I gave birth (nursing while pregnant: it's very possible). And then you repeat the cycle with a second baby (although to be fair, #2 was so much sweeter temperament-wise- still had a witching hour though- no baby is perfect).
I took a job and worked evenings, and it only took a few weeks before my husband had them sleeping in their own rooms. Definitely a miracle. Granted, once again I didn't necessarily appreciate it, as I was working 60-80 hour weeks, getting home at 1 or 2 in the morning, and those sweet boys still woke up at 6-7 every morning.
The sleep doesn't happen now as much as it should. Some nights the boys aren't asleep until 9 or longer, depending how long #1 calls for me or plays around in his room. I NEED at least an hour to myself to unwind- dare I say I DESERVE it. So maybe 10 is the earliest I get to bed. I'm plagued by the "who is going to wake up in the middle of the night" fear, as it strikes when you least expect it. Some cries. Someone had a bad dream. A few weeks ago #1 had horrible leg cramps that had be sleeping next to him and googling furiously, worried that these were indicative of something beyond growing pains. As he writhed in pain, I definitely was not sleeping. The night before he asked to sleep with me as he was snuffy, and it turns out infected with hand foot mouth (again), so two nights in a row with minimal sleep. And we can all guess what happens after that- sickness. Oh it's not a hard pattern to predict. I'm still nursing a horrible night cough some 3 weeks later, and for 2 weeks me and the boys did nothing all day. We stayed home while it poured rain, and we played iPad and watched movies. It was very unproductive but man do viruses take it out of you. I only guessed at hand foot mouth by the sores in the back of my throat (and my husband's coworker's family caught it about 2 weeks later at the germ tree in the mall, and then my husband caught it last Friday).
You should go to bed earlier, you tell me. Yes, yes I should. There are a lot of things I should do.
I am so lazy.
Well maybe not in the traditional sense, since my house is crazy clean.
But I am so lazy. I want to sit and do nothing. I'm so sleep deprived and it doesn't appear to be getting better. I am getting SO much more sleep now than I did when #1 was a baby. It's fantastic. But it still isn't a full 9 hours. Man wouldn't 9 hours be great. I've convinced myself that if only I could get an hour or more of sleep I would be motivated. I would be super mom. I'd bake and do crafts. I'd write while the boys napped instead of laying down and fussing around on my phone. I'd write thank you notes and letters to my friends. I could research. I could read my Bible. But instead I see the end of lunch coming and I just say a silent prayer that they will nap and let me just be still.

I'm in serious sleep debt. There is no 18 hours of sleeping to try to recoup.
I guess there is only mental fortitude.
And today is a Wednesday folks. That Saturday looks mighty far away. And for you other stay at home parents, every day is a work day, so Saturday is a myth we tell ourselves.
Isn't parenting fun?

What are tips that motivate you? How do you get through sleepy days?

THIS PAST MONTH SUCKS

Ok, perhaps all caps is unnecessary.
But truly come on universe.

I sat down with a friend yesterday for a cup of coffee (and wine, whatever, don't judge) and told her all about my life lately.
It's incredibly jarring.
I hate opening up to people because it's just very depressing.

Not that my friend would have in a million years expressed that. But really, when you are dealing with some crappy things in your life, you hate to scatter your crap everywhere. I almost want to lie or just omit the truth because it brings others down.

"How are you?!"
"My husband lies to me about his drinking!"
"Whelp see ya later."

See? Not very fun.

"How's the job hunt?"
"I've applied to over 30 jobs in the last 2 months and the only people who want to hire me offer $10/hour. I can't get a babysitter for that."

Or even more fun,
"How are your kids?"
"You mean the one that I just miscarried or the two that have been clinging to a respiratory virus for the past 3 weeks keeping us homebound?"

Who wouldn't want to hang out with me?

And I keep buying wine with the expectation of partially drowning my sorrows but then my damn husband drinks it all before I can.

I told my friend I want to start a church for broken people, for honest people.
I'm tired of fake.
I'm tired of lying.
I'm tired of people acting like everything is grand so they don't give a bad image to Christianity.
Well guess what? Anyone can have crap happen to them- good people, bad people, saints or satanists. It is inhuman to smile while suffering. That's why it's called suffering. Isn't it better to reach out to people instead, to say "I am hurting" and "I need help" instead of pushing them away and trying to rely on your own strength?
Whatever, I should take my own advice.
Instead I have been hibernating in my house so as to not cough on people, wondering if the bleak winter will swallow us whole for another 4 months, and whether or not I will reemerge with the will to try this all again, to put myself out there, to have hope.
I'm not suicidal. I'm not depressed. I'm just slowly being drained of optimism.

What I am, apparently, is a product of a controlling household. Who married a control freak. Who can't do anything without being told what to do or how to do it.
I ask God for guidance and have no way to proceed.
I'm in a maze and paralyzed by indecision.
I'm a bad metaphor.

I also saw a psychiatrist who said I don't fit any of the classifications for disorders. So I'm just anxious and depressed enough to be a joy to be around (ask my husband who leaves work early to go drink and not be around me), while not being quite crazy. He suggested some drugs for me but I cannot cope with side effects at this stage of my crazy. He suggested yoga.

Here I go trying yoga.

I Had a Miscarriage

I've been mulling this one over in my head for awhile. Usually, while I am cleaning or cooking or trying to sleep, I write letters in my head. I've always been too in my own head. When I was young it was dreaming up what I would say to someone I had a crush on, how to win friends and influence people. Now, it's angry words, diatribes, apologies, soap-boxes. This past week, I have been trying to find purpose in what seems purposeless.

I found out about 3 weeks ago that I was pregnant.
I found out a week ago that I was miscarrying that baby.
I've gone through about every emotion I can imagine in the past three weeks.
On September 1st, due to extreme user error on my husband's part, we had a condom malfunction.
Shit, I thought, I am pregnant now. No way, said my husband, reasoning that I had just finished my period like three days earlier.
But I knew better.
His family has a fertility problem. They are way fertile. Like way way fertile.
And so I took tests. Probably too many tests, all said negative. And finally on the 17th I got a pregnant result. Even though I suspected I was pregnant, it blew my mind. I had decided firmly against having any more children. I had been bugging my husband to get a vasectomy (its outpatient for guys, in-patient for girls, plus I've already had enough pain associated with that region of my body thank you very much). And now I was pregnant again. My husband was overjoyed. Maybe I will finally get a girl, I thought.
This had to be a gift from God. We used protection (even if used poorly), I was no where near ovulating (at least so I thought), and here I was pregnant anyway. God must have great things planned for this baby.



The reactions from many friends and family were not great.
I got asked if I had considered the day-after pill.
I was asked if I was pro-life.
I got asked if this meant my husband and I were staying together now.
Maybe this is a similar reaction that many people get, but it was jarring. I wasn't proclaiming- I'm pregnant what should I do? Instead I was saying I'm pregnant.
I'm not throwing everyone under the bus. Many people were excited or feigned excitement. That definitely helped get through the bad reactions.
Now I was rearranging all of my life plans, as one would when faced with a life-changing decision. Baby names, how to procure baby items similar to what I had just finally cleared out of the basement and donated, midwife appointment, sleeping arrangements for three kids instead of just two.

And just like that, it was all over.

Normal spotting turned into bleeding. I called my midwife, and her secretary walked me through what to expect with a miscarriage. She had just suffered one at around 6 weeks, like me. Not like me, I thought. This is not what is happening. This is just from stress.

Stress? Oh you mean like your family member coming out of detox, which set you and your husband back $1350, only to drink himself near death for the following 11 days. The phone call that you have to hurry home so your husband can go check on him, since he's incredibly intoxicated worrying about people trying to kill him if he doesn't place a bet. Your husband having to leave you to call the midwife and inquire about your bleeding so he can pick his family member up from the psych ward that he has checked himself out of, claiming he was never suicidal and his .37 BAC level was not a form of self-harm. Trying not to sob in front of your visiting friend and your children when you get the news that you are miscarrying, and your husband is at the pharmacy trying to get meds for his family member's DTs (but thank God that my friend was visiting. I'm sure she didn't thoroughly enjoy being in drama central while there was psych ward/drinking drama and miscarriages, but she was invaluable.).

Even when we were getting the ultrasound and the tech said there was nothing in my womb, when I got up from the table and noticed excessive blood on the sheet, my husband said he was still holding out hope. When I got the numbers back and my hCG level was 32 (what it would be, say, soon after conception), he said he was still hoping. I allowed myself the thought that maybe this was not happening. Two days later, I went in for more labs and the numbers came back at 14. That's when I stopped hoping.
This was happening.
Or is happening.
From the lack of anything in my womb, it happened weeks ago.
How long have I been kidding myself that I was pregnant?


Then came the fun task of telling everyone that I was no longer pregnant.
Now I understand why people wait til 12 or 13 weeks.
I had two healthy beautiful little boys. I'm lucky. Some women can't conceive. Some spend years trying to get pregnant, coping with miscarriage after miscarriage. If I had been 9 weeks or more, I'm told the pain of miscarrying would have been a lot closer to labor instead of a bad period. I'm lucky, I guess.

I don't feel very lucky. I feel messy. I have too many emotions. Mournful, angry, disappointed, embarrassed, bitter, relieved, guilt, pain. I can't sort through it. I didn't have the time to mourn it properly with my husband, as he was moving the belongings out of his family member's house, trying to clean it up so the girlfriend could get some security deposit back. It's kinda too late to mourn it now, as he's a guy and he's over it. His vasectomy has been scheduled for about a month now, and I definitely don't want to try again. I didn't want another kid, but having one taken from me has me wondering what I'm supposed to feel.

What's God's plan with all this?

Interventions and Co-opting the Story

My best friend and I had a discussion after September 11th about social media on that day. Everyone feels the need to state where they were when it happened (the attack on the Twin Towers, by the way), how they feel now, how great America is. The issue, my friend stated, is the co-opting of the story. Many people died. Their loved ones were directly impacted. One might say we were all impacted in a way, but it's really their story.
I've been thinking way too much about the co-opting of story. For example, I had anorexia pretty badly in 9th grade. It impacted my life. But my mother, while she didn't have anorexia, was deeply impacted by my eating disorder. Is she not allowed to have a say in the story of an eating disorder? If she wanted to write an article about how anorexia impacted her, it would be truthful as it is coming from her perspective, living with a daughter with a hidden eating disorder. What about people from my school? Could they claim they were impacted by my eating disorder, even though they weren't me, they weren't family, and they had little or nothing to do with me? Where do we draw the line of what is acceptable for impact, and what is not?

All this is muddle around to what I'm going through at the moment. It isn't my story. It's not in my day-to-day existence. But it is still impacting me greatly.
I have a family member who is a heroin addict.
Heroin.
That's pretty big. And apparently the face of heroin is no longer what it was when I was growing up, because this young man isn't what I would ever consider a heroin addict. And yet, here he is.
Is it co-opting his story to be upset? Or his ex girlfriend who has 3 kids with him, all under the age of 4? She has suffered the worst through all of this (and I'm sorry, I know addiction is a horrible illness, but it's an all-consuming selfish thing), having to pay for everything, going back to work like 4 weeks after she gave birth because she had no financial help from him. She knew about his drinking problem and guessed that he had a pill problem, but this whole heroin thing came out of nowhere and quickly escalated. She left as soon as she knew, as anyone would, but she's left living with one of her family members in a less-than-ideal situation because she has to work overtime just to pay her bills and provide her kids with food and daycare. She told me about finding the burnt spoons, the belt around his arm. I told my husband, who moved to swift action. I contacted their last involved relative, who wanted me to get everyone together for an intervention. I called around to clinics to find where he could go to detox, what the costs were, what options for financial help we could find.
This isn't my story, but I'm involved.
He doesn't know I'm involved. No one besides my husband and his girlfriend probably know that I'm involved. Maybe it's better that he doesn't. When my husband's mother was dying and I was pregnant with my first, I did everything I could. I was over at her house at least 3 times a week bringing her food, trying to clean up, paying her bills, running her business, knocking myself out. And I couldn't save her. She still died. Can I save him? Probably not. This isn't my family. Maybe it's better that I do what I can from behind the scenes.
That's not to say that I don't care. I care so much. While I'm cooking, cleaning, trying to get to sleep, I'm writing these epic letters in my head. What I would say to him. How I could help. Words that might just resonate and get him to clean up.
I can't stop.

I've seen my fair share of A&E's Intervention. I used to watch it every week. I would be filled with nausea and dread while watching it, regardless of the addiction. My heart ached for these addicts. My heart ached for their families. I saw what worked and what didn't. I don't know what will work, what words will influence him, and what will make him angry, make him feel unsupported, alone, hopeless. What if I wrote a letter that just pissed him off, or worse, made him feel like what right do I have to say anything to him.
And so I relay messages to my husband, try to get information about rehab, try to find supportive things to say.

But I have so little supportive things to say.

I'm mad.


Why do we keep getting hit with this crap? When does this family get cut some slack? Philandering, alcoholic, abandoning father, mother killed by cancer, history of family addiction. Great. Hooray. Like the Kennedy's but without any money. Much less romantic that way.

What do I say? What do I do?

What would you say, what have you said?

Sweet Sweet Irony

Since I quit my job in February, I have been forced to face the reality of the job market.

As in - the job market sucks.
Oh no it isn't, the recovery is great, says you with a great job or a rich hubby.
Yeah shove it.
I remember when I was 250 applications past pathetic after I got my Master's, there was a chime everywhere apparently to get thee to a grad school. Hahaha. I am rolling in my seat. When you have applied for over 250 jobs and haven't received a call back on more than one (that would be me, folks), you start feeling like the set-up for a bad joke.

And now I'm right back there again. Except I have this unexplained missing time from my work experience. What was she doing for 3 years? And it's not like I can write "having kids" since that's info they supposedly don't want, but info they will use to damn me just the same. God bless all these women popping out puppies and then shlepping themselves back to work so they can have a decent job. The rest of us, who thought we were doing the "right" thing by our kids, have instead crippled our careers. Or at least set them back 5-10 years.

I went to an all-day training class that was supposed to help provide me the skills that employers would seek. Instead it was full of staff members from a large local employer, who all told me I just need to work their sales phones for "a few years" to put in my time to travel the ranks. Oh really? I got a Master's so I could work for $10/hr for two years and give more money to daycare than I would bring home? Tempting.

And THEN the TOPPER on the GIANT JOB CAKE:

So I've applied to maybe 20-30 jobs in the past month, and actually putting effort into it. I've been tailoring my resume, rewriting the cover letter, filling out completely needless iterations of my resume and then attaching my resume since I love exercises in futility. Yesterday I get asked by a woman that I have met once to chat with her. Mind you, my husband met her when he took the kids to the park down the street, she has two boys who he said were well behaved, and she invited us to her older boy's bday party that we didn't end up attending. So basically random stranger asks me to talk with her. I'm weirded out by it because I don't know her but my husband says I'm being a weirdo. She didn't want a playmate, just to speak with me. I decide ok I will be a decent human being and go meet her. She then asks me to provide daycare for her 10 month old full time and her 4 year old on Fridays.

She met me once when I walked by her house with my family.

Is this weird or is it just me? I guess it's no more weird than putting an ad on craigslist or up at the local college, but the difference being I didn't ask, I don't know her, I didn't solicit. And, I do NOT want to do daycare. I don't even like my kids, let alone some strangers kids. And what do I do if they are sick or my kids are sick? Ugh. No. Just no. So apparently, moral of the story, the only jobs I can get are the ones I haven't applied for.

Oh look, a pint of Ben and Jerry's.

Fat Lazy Slob- i.e.: Don't EFF with My Family

My sister and I haven't always gotten along.

Like say the entirety of high school.

Or when we were in junior high and she chased me with a butcher knife. 

Ah the joys of youth.

And being one year younger than my big sister.

Once we had kids, we actual realized we have more in common than we don't have in common.

We understand how truly weird our parents are.

As our family always said- I'm an idiot and she's my biggest fan.

And while I love her, she can drive me batshit crazy. I can just assume she meant something or sense a tone in her voice and it's done. I'm pissed. We can fight over the silliest things, yell, and then magically we are over it. The joys of family- they are family regardless.

And BECAUSE she is my sister, I am allowed to be grumpy and upset, or to say crap about her.

But don't for ONE. SECOND. Think that you can say ANYTHING about her. OH YES IT IS AN ALL CAPS MOMENT my friends.

She did something I'm not exactly in support of, but once you have kids you understand-

She left her kids in the car (it was about 60 out, early afternoon, so it's not like it was hot) to run inside a store, grab an item, and pay for it. In total, she may have been away from the car for about 5 minutes max. Now I am the ocd worrier who would think of someone crashing into my car or trying to steal my children, so I wouldn't do this. But I understand why she did. They are 4 and 6, loud, bratty, similar or equivalent to my children (just older). 

When she came back to her car, a man in his truck next to her berated her for leaving her children in the car. She responded, "They are my children and you should mind your own business". That's a step better than I would have said, and also had no swears.

He responded by calling her a fat lazy slob and said he was going to report her.

UM WHAT

I could kill this piece of crap bastard. First of all, the nerve. He said he noted it. Great. It wasn't hot, no one was crying, it wasn't a long time. Second, the hypocrisy. She said when she got there his dog was in the car without him. Oh so it's good enough for your dog but not for human children? Third, he's sitting in his truck sucking on a cigarette berating my sister? Imma murder him. 

It just reiterates the vastly different standards that men impose on women. She was dressed nicely, had makeup on, did her hair. Maybe she could stand to drop a few lbs, but what mother with children, especially young children, couldn't say the same?

And lazy?

OH YOU HAVE NO IDEA

My sister has been working full time while putting herself through nursing school, currently working nights in the maternity ward, and taking care of her kids during the day.

You are the most ignorant person in the history of persons I have called out on the internet, sir. 

I've definietly had my share of "helpful" people giving me unsolicited parenting advice. But insults? Fat-shaming? No.

And what do you think will stick with her? The words of love and support from her family? Smiles and hugs from her kids? Accolades on the job? Good grades?

Or some verbally abusive misogynist bullcrap from a random stranger?

It just makes me sick that one person could, with a few words, cut down a person I love so much and who has done so much for me. 

I'm done with humanity for the night.

Living with someone with issues

This is most likely too personal of a post. Oh well.
A blogger I follow writes about her dramatic childhood in a cult, and how she suffers PTSD and other issues, like depression and anxiety. She talks about having bad days or even weeks, withdrawing, needing to sleep or retreat.
She makes it feel all very compelling and horrible. Which it is. This isn't to minimize that at all.
But there is another side of the story- her husband.
He is married to someone that retreats, that needs to curl up in her shell, so to speak. She withdraws, sleeps, does whatever she needs to make it. Her husband is left to deal with everything else. The house. The kids. That is a lot of pressure.

I'm writing this because I am living with a person with issues.
As long as I've known my husband, he has had issues. That's sorta what drew me to him- I liked complicated. I liked wounded. I had a significantly misplaced Florence Nightingale syndrome. When I first met him he had blown out his knee and could barely walk, if that tells ya how big my issues are (and perhaps he feels he is living with a person with issues, but I'll explain the difference later).

Other issues?
Hmm-
father abandoning the family after cheating on his wife
verbal and emotional abuse of his mother by his father during his formative years
strict religious upbringing
death of his mother from cancer which she chose to treat naturally
no communication from any of his father's side during or after her death
father a raging alcoholic
just to name a few.

And he withdraws. He retreats. He sleeps. Excessively. Granted, it has improved in the past 5 years. But that's like saying the cancer has improved. It's still cancer. The sleep drags on from morning into afternoon. It starts and nap time and stretches into dinner. It takes up days of work, family time. And the drinking to deal with issues. The constant "I'm going to quit" and never quitting. The "you could have it so much worse" explanations. How he isn't mean since he isn't calling me a c*nt like his dad called his mom. That he doesn't drink near as much as his dad did. And then I start feeling guilty. Maybe I am a princess. Maybe I do expect too much.
And I deal with it. I take the boys to the park, go to playdates, do what I can. They say "where's papa" and I tell them "sleeping" if I just can't figure out something better to say. I worry incessantly that they will develop his sleeping problems, his drinking problems, his compartmentalizing of emotions, like how my eldest's eyes changed from blue to green when he was 2. The genetics will be too strong and win out.
I worry.
I clean to help with the worry.

I get yelled at for saying anything because dammit he is working on it or dammit he wants to change or dammit he isn't even sleeping that much or he needed to drink because it was a long day or his back hurts.
And I'm alone.
By myself.
While the person I'm living with who has issues is trying to deal with their issues.
I guess I wait around hoping that someday it will be different.

Maybe he does too.

On Being Quiet and Lies

I'm a talker.
And a massive over sharer. So much oversharing. Yeah I'm a bit deprived (and depraved) now that I'm back to full time staying at home (minus two days a week that I clean for a couple hours in the evening- that is over soon and doesn't truly count).

I'm also a Christian. I was raised Methodist, dabbled in Charismatic I suppose, and am back to confused and nondenominational. The thing that has me super challenged (SUPER) is this notion I keep reading/hearing about the power of the tongue.

I'm definitely not confused about the Bible's point on the power of the tongue- life and death is in the power of the tongue, it's the rudder that steers your whole body, what proceeds out of your mouth is what you are on the inside, etc. Got it. But there are so many (too many) pastors and speakers who talk about what I essentially believe is lying.

Now wait a minute, sweet Pastor isn't advocating lying.

Sure s/he isn't, sure. Sarcasm.

They are saying to speak positive words, to speak what you want your situation to be. My mother-in-law, when dying of cancer, would not discuss her sickness at all. She was being HEALED by the Lord and to say otherwise or discuss other treatments would be showing your doubt. And DOUBT means you WON'T get your HEALING. Sorry for the caps but this just was so upsetting to me. Not then, because I tried to be the good daughter-in-law. I prayed (boy howdy did I pray, like it was my job and rent was due), I spoke positive words, but I doubted. And for awhile I thought it was my fault that she died. Because I had doubt. I was the ship being tossed by the sea. I'm not so narcissistic that I believe that I caused her death, but I have a niggling voice that says it was my doubt that countered her wonderful faith.
Anywho, yeah I get easily derailed by that topic.
So these speakers want you to speak positive life-affirming words. No more whining, complaining, worrying. "Things may not be great right now, but the Lord is working on me and everything will be ok," is what we are supposed to declare.
That's a difficult one for me. I've tried to be that person, that positive person. Guess what?

Sometimes things are not going to get better. Ok sure, I guess my mother-in-law went to Heaven so things got infinitely better for her, but she still died and left her family here on Earth. We all had to deal with the blow-back from some incredibly faithful and hopeful woman not getting the healing that was promised her if she just believed with nothing wavering.
What hope do I have if the most Godly person I know followed that directive to the nth degree and still didn't get answers to her prayers?

And when are we supposed to get out of bad situations instead of praying and hoping and saying positive words to the world?

My aunts-in-law had breast cancer as well, and they took traditional medicine to treat it (radiation/chemo) and they are all alive. Joyce Meyer was in a bad marriage and got out of it before she married the man whom helped her with her ministry. When do we stop speaking these words of positive hopes for our lives, and start taking action?

Or the bigger issue, what if we can't get out of our situation (for whatever reason)? Are we not allowed a chance to talk about our problems, have fellowship with others, or do we bottle up our problems inside? I know I know, give them up to the Lord. Well let's say you give them up to the Lord but you are still miserable and there is nothing you can do. That is a tough spot indeed. I guess you must keep speaking words of positivity, even after years of no change, no forward movement. That is beyond depressing to me.

It seems like lying to yourself and lying to the world.  Look how together I have it!! Sure my husband is an alcoholic! Sure my wife spends all of our money! Sure my kids are living in sin! I will keep saying how well they will do in life, how much I love my husband, what a great financial steward my wife is. It'll all just be ok!

Or the alternative is just be quiet.
And hope all the pain and hurt and anger just stays bottled up.

Easiest Dinner Ever

I don't know if you are like me, but I HATE making food. I am not yet to the short-order-cook phase (and I feel like if it got that bad, I may burn the house down and head for Bermuda). There was a time I loved to cook, even tried out fancy recipes in cookbooks that required long grocery lists and hours of prep and cooking. That was during my vegetarian years (a good 16 years, people- I didn't hop on the trendy bandwagon), and I tore through book after book, trying out different cuisines. They weren't all successes, and I was also unemployed during a brief stretch, so time didn't matter.

Now, I do not have the luxury of time. Usually I am preparing something while children are pushing and crying and doing who-knows-what in the other room. It is not enjoyable. By the time dinner prep rolls around, I have often already made 3 meals that day. Yep, cuz the lunch I prepare is not approved, or else I have to make my own lunch because as tempting as mac and cheese is...
Needless to say, I lack inspiration. I want my family to eat healthy, but I am not going to knock myself out to prepare something fanciful only to have two little boys turn their noses up at it. It is enough to cause me to cry. I'm not big into forcing food on my children, especially since the older one has a super gag reflex (like gags when he touches oatmeal). I've gotten into a bit of a rut of quesadillas, meatloaf, spaghetti, grilled chicken. I know they'll eat it, it's fast, and who can complain.
I forget about the easy stuff.
Like this:

Super Quick Quiche

This is LITERALLY the easiest and most adaptable recipe. Throw in what you have. It's great for leftovers. I usually cook up a big pan of veggies and have a bowl of leftovers that I throw in mac and cheese or quesadillas (for super quick lunch that's healthier). Today, I had some purple veggies I bought especially for this, hoping the color would entice the boys.

5 eggs
1/4 cup milk
1/4 or more of cheese
salt and pepper
I added curry powder, turmeric and garlic salt
I cut up 2 large green onion stalks, about 6 fat purple asparagus stalks, and a quarter of a purple pepper.

Beat the eggs, milk, spices and cheese in a bowl, add to a Pam-sprayed pie pan. I cut the veggies up very thinly so they would be sure to cook quickly and thoroughly. My son picks out peppers if they aren't cooked enough (and calls them spicies).

Throw in a 375 over for 20 minutes. Cool and serve. Personally it tasted like it could have used more cheese, but was pretty tasty. Even my eldest ate it. I gave him a bite and asked how it was. He declared it delicious so battle won this time. The younger wasn't too impressed, even with ketchup, but he's also teething so he picks and chooses which meals he will actually eat.

Verdict- seriously easy. I am going to make it once a week, maybe with ground turkey, broccoli, other cheeses like mozzarella. If your kids are adventurous you could do wild and crazy things.
It doesn't make a huge amount though.

DIY: Making the Most from a Bad Situation

We were away this past weekend on an impromptu up north trip (very impromptu- as in husband said he was going to work Saturday and Monday, decided not to work Saturday, and as we were walking in the woods like 30 miles from home, decided we should do an upper peninsula jaunt). Perhaps that it why I am feeling more able to cope. We don't often do "vacation", let alone have something we plan actually go fairly smoothly, yet this happened. We rushed home from our walk, made lunch and packed up all the things we would need for an overnight or two in the UP. At that point, we were thinking we would visit my parents on Drummond (as they invited us for the weekend, but as one of us was thinking of working 2 out of 3 of the days, it wasn't going to happen), and then go up and explore where my husband went to college. The plans grew from there, but shrunk back down as we realized how poorly our 2 year old sleeps away from home. Like really poorly. But that's another story for another time. Both boys did pretty well in the car (thank God for smartphones and devices), we managed to actually see everything we planned to see (such beautiful waterfalls!), the weather was beyond spectacular (it was in the 80's in the UP all weekend- couldn't have planned it more perfectly), we got in before the bugs were too bad. God truly blessed us with safety, clear roads, healthy kids, happy kids. There were some hiccups- as in the 2 year old refused to go to bed in under 2 hours of trying, or the detour trying to get to Kitch-iti-kipi that almost sent us away (but the husband said he was so thankful we went- it is gorgeous. Seriously- it's so hidden trying to get there, no giant signs or tourist traps. But it's Michigan's largest natural spring. Google it. Maybe I'll post pics tomorrow. It's unbelievable. Super deep, crystal clear, ginormous fish just chilling. I couldn't believe the husband had never been, especially since he went to school up in the frozen north). Overall, it was the best last-minute decision we have ever made. And we rolled with the punches fairly well, like the 2 restaurants we had to leave before we resorted to an Applebee's in Houghton for lack of something better for the family (and yes, my husband argues it's because of the crazy gluten-free diet that I'm such a nut about and one of my crazy little crazy-person delusions, but I'm pretty content being gluten-free for the moment, thank you very much).
So very long intro to the DIY, I know. I'm nothing if not long-winded and my stories are pretty pointless (I get long-winded narrative from my grandma). Yesterday, I'm cleaning up the house, and had to make some bleach-water, as the toddler bed I pulled from the basement looked like it was covered with either mud or poop, and I didn't want to mess around if it was poop (in retrospect it was probably mud, as the final time the husband disassembled the crib- which couldn't fit through our doors assembled- he threw it all outside in a fit). I decided to clean the counters with the mix, as my oldest was having some tummy issues and I was worried it could be more than it ended up being. I'm wiping the counters, etc, not really thinking anything. We went outside and walked down to the park, and when we were walking back I looked down and noticed a big ole bleach spot on the front of my shirt. Now it's a Pink by Victoria's Secret shirt, which I have already had the pleasure of noticing that the color from some of these shirts bleeds like no other. This luckily wasn't a bleeding color type, so my shirt under the bleach spot wasn't discolored. But I'm sitting there with a pretty big bleach spot, wondering what I'm going to do. By this point I'm cleaning up after dinner, and decided to just smear other parts of my shirt on the counter to see if I'd get a similar effect. Yep. Unfortunately, my dipping effect wasn't exactly like artwork, but I was like- voila. There it is. I will make my own art shirt. I took it off and laid it out on the table I was going to spray anyway, and sprayed the shirt with the mist setting of the bottle, trying to get some bigger splatters too. I got the back as well, with only the mist setting as I decided it didn't need big smears (also, it has an interesting back so it doesn't need to be fussed with). I rinsed it in the sink with warm and cold water, not sure if either would stop the bleach from further bleaching. I laid it out to dry and this morning, I am quite pleased with the results. The bleach solution I used was like 1 to 10 parts water? Probably a little strong, but I don't like to mess around. I will just have to remember to wear white shirts or ones I don't like in the future when using bleach solution. Duh, right?

The shirt is wet in this picture. Slightly lighter when dry.

Attempting: Motivation

I seriously lack motivation.
I pray often for motivation.

Well, moreover I pray for a path. I feel like once I had a path I would greatly increase my motivation down that path.

Then again, maybe I need the motivation first in order to find that path.


Damn double edged sword.

Lately, I have found some motivation (and if you aren't motivated and don't want to be motivated, trust me, it's cyclical and pretty soon I shall be discussing my intentions to sit and watch mindless tv and eat Ben and Jerry's), just little tiny pearls of motivation.

My main motivation comes from that stupid quote that boils down to insanity is repeating the same thing over and over expecting different results.
Am I the only one quoting this to myself like daily?

For example, I was hoping that by June I would be ready for shorts season. One key factor you should know about me- I have not worn shorts since I was a kid. In ninth grade I had a pretty significant eating disorder, and that was the last time I wore shorts. I didn't fully appreciate the shorts-wearing then, since I was enmeshed in a body war. After that, I have grown to realize that my legs were not legs that should be enshrined in shorts. My calves have always been reminiscent of butch German weight lifter legs (and I'm part German so it's totes ok for me to say that). No matter how much I work out, what type of exercises I do, my calves do not slim down. My husband calls me sturdy. Don't know how much I appreciate that, but I do resemble it. A couple months ago though, I decided I would wear shorts and June 1 would be my estimated arrival date. I've lost all of the baby weight, and while I'm not quite back to wedding-day weight, I'm pretty close. Granted, much of the weight has changed it's location since having children, but I'm still stuck with large calves (and now a baby gut). I'm working out more, realizing that crunches of some sort have to find their way into my repertoire, as well as squats. I'm hopeful squats will help with the bathing suit portion of the summer. I have also not worn a bathing suit in a number of years. Lie- I wear it but with a shirt and shorts over it. I do not want to hand off my boys my body issues, because it is more common for guys to have body issues nowadays. I must be in a swimsuit and shorts. This must is moving me forward into working out more regularly. Last night, for example, I wanted to work out. I put on my workout clothes. I had no motivation. So I slept in them and before lunch today I worked out. It wasn't extensive, but anything is better than nothing.

Another motivating factor is this feeling that looms over me, a feeling that I don't want to get to be 40, 50, and wonder what I did with my life. I realize that there are only so many hours in a day, and I'm not dramatically changing at the moment. There has been too much bad news and upheaval recently that I'm not trying to reinvent my own life wheel. I'm just taking inventory of where I am and where I'd rather be. For instance, while I love my children, I do not need to spend any more time with them. This isn't something I need to work on. I spend almost all day everyday with them, and it would be close to impossible for me to spend more time with them. Instead, it's my goal to spend more time reading and knitting. I used to read obsessively until grad school. After that the reading train was derailed and she's been in the shop ever since. I have also discovered recently that I would rather read a YA novel then an actual novel. Yep, I am pathetic and worthy of slander, but I don't have a month to devote to one book (and I'm not a slow reader by any stretch, I just don't get much alone time. It's incredibly difficult to get anything done when little people are asking you to watch something every 3 minutes). I just read a YA novel in about 3 hours the other night. Is it mind candy? Perhaps. But it's reading, it's selfish me time, and I crave it. Also, knitting. Love to do it. Once again, difficult to accomplish with little people climbing you and demanding lap time. With the hour or so I get to myself each night, I need to decide what takes precedence. And these are top of my list. I also need to start getting up earlier, maybe working out then, and doing some spiritual stuff.
But it's hard to motivate.

What are you trying to motivate to do?

Suicide

I found out on Sunday that a family friend's child committed suicide.

I shouldn't say child, he was early 30's.

I didn't know him at all, but apparently he went to our school (then again when I went there, the class size was over 1000 I think, so pretty easy not to know someone even in your own grade, let alone someone in a different grade).

I don't know his story, I don't know what had happened in his childhood, youth, adulthood.

I know that he was married.
I know that he killed himself in a gruesome manner.

I can't even begin to wrap my head around it-
what it takes to get to that point
what his family must be dealing with
what his wife must be dealing with
As a parent, I don't know how you would ever recover.
I can't fathom it.
As a wife, how do you go on and potentially remarry someday?

The thing is, everyone gets completely screwed with a suicide. Everyone you met will spend the rest of their lives wondering if maybe they could have prevented it, could have convinced you to get help.
Your parents blame themselves.
Your partner blames themselves.
God forbid you have kids, and they blame themselves.

It's a huge burden to give to them for the rest of their lives.
I don't think a day would go by that your loved ones wouldn't think of it.

I know the issue is much more complicated than that, the emotions a depressed person must be going through, the pure emptiness in order to contemplate ending one's life.

But I'm strictly talking about the wake of destruction left in the path of a suicide.
Because that's what it is.
I don't think any man is such an island that no one would be impacted if they killed themselves.

And it's not a smart plan. You die. Game over. You can hope and theorize about some afterlife or not, but when you take it into your own hands, who knows. Maybe there is, maybe there isn't, point being that you are dead.
I dont' want to turn this into some sort of PSA, but things get better.
I've been at some pretty low points in my life, where I couldn't imagine things ever changing.
They did.
I've known several people who have tried to kill themselves before, and guess what? Their lives got better too. And they are glad to be alive.
I'm not trying to say I know that everyone's life is going to be some rainbow and unicorn happiness, cuz it won't. But if the option is deal with the bad crap that comes into my life for the chance to deal with happy stuff too, I'll take that option.
And there are always people who want to talk to you, to help you. Maybe it seems like you are alone, that no one cares, but it's so false.
It's sort of like when I had an eating disorder- I constantly had to tell myself how ugly, fat, gross I was in order to keep myself going. If I opened my eyes to the truth in front of me, to how skinny and deathly twigish I had become, then I probably would've been horrified. Maybe it's like that- convince yourself how alone, unloved, undeserving you are. But it's a lie. There is always going to be someone there that wants to help you, to reach out if you'd let them.