UPDATE TO Mrs. Flinger October 16, 2015
Because the Universe has a wicked sense of humor, after this delcaration, my blog threw up all over my last upgrade.
So I'm starting over using Craft. Turning 40 and kid entering Jr High next year, sometimes it's just time for a change. These archives will still exist in the way the last child goes off to college and their room is the same for 20 years, but it's just time to move forward.
Grab a book or borrow ours Nov 19, 2006
LB has a lot of books. This is great, in theory, because I love me some kid books. I love that I can actually finish a book in a decent amount of time (five minutes? seven?) and get all warm and fuzzy because Clifford finds a friend to play with or Curious George finds the bunny. I’m not a third grade reader, I just wish I was.
With the amount of books LB has, we often forget to branch out and sometimes stick to our favorites. This is a very very bad idea. Why? Because Mr. Flinger and I begin to over analyze the child’s books. We get too comfortable with the content and start making up our own. We get giggle fits when we read “Hands Hands Fingers Thumb” because at one point “hand in hand more monkeys come!” It kills us.
When Mr. Flinger reads “Guess how much I love you” he always says something about Big Bunny having to get the last word in. “Why does the Big Bunny have to one up Little Bunny every time? Why is this a contest? What a competitive bastard!” It’s a sweet, story, really. Unless you start hating Big Bunny for getting the last word every. single. time.
Then there’s the communist book “Rainbow Fish.” “What a bunch of punkass no-good fish!” he’ll exclaim. “Can’t they work to get their own scales and not ask for a handout? What is this, China? Those who have must give to those who don’t and the laziest people will get to mooch of those who can? COME ON. This is not a welfare state. Good god!” I try to explain it’s about sharing but he usually rolls his eyes and says, “Damn Nazi Fish.” We don’t read that one often.
So when LB pulled out the Sushi book in the back of the bookshelf, I wasn’t sure what Mr. Flinger would come up with. “My First book of sushi? This implies we will have more books ABOUT SUSHI?” I admit, it’s an odd one.
The thing about this book is that neither of us eat a lot of Sushi, nor are we Asian, have any sort of sushi connection and hardly even know what most of these terms mean. Why do we have this book? I have no idea. “I see take out, Tekka Maki, kappa maki packed to go. Temaki-style hand roll with uni urchin roe.” What? What IS this?
“Miso in my sippy cup, tofu in my bowl….”
Seriously, I am at a loss. We own a sushi book. Who knew? And so it is that I’d like to enter this in to the “weird crap I own” contest over at Mamma Dramma (via the great Jenny) because my god, I had no clue one could rhyme with “Egg tamago and shrinp ebi dipped in soy sauce (not a lot). Pink pickled ginger cools my tongue, wasabi- hot hot hot!”
And me without my camera Nov 15, 2006
This was not the post I wanted to write today. No, that’s more of a public (er.. pubic) service announcement. Instead, what I wanted to say was….
Today LB and I had a fantastic day. Today we got to meet someone I’ve known for over a year. Someone who moved from Kentucky to Seattle six months before we moved up, has the same age toddler, the same freakin’ car, and probably about every other minute detail of life (oh! Like her birthday is a few days after mine) in common with me. She’s like me but with a Brittish husband. So she’s me but she spells favorite favourite. Like, how cool is that?
I’ve read her website for over a year now. When she moved to Seattle I emailed her and said, “OH MY GOD! WE ARE MOVING TO SEATTLE! Want to be my friend?” and when she didn’t hit delete without sending me some lovely email back I figured I’d make her my new favorite. Then when she actually agreed to meet us in person she got promoted to sainthood. THEN when she suggests a super fun bouncy place that wears kids out and almost-guarantees-a-nap-or-your-money-back I could’ve kissed her.
But I didn’t. And no, there are no pictures.
But the kids did have fun and I got to slide down some kick ass slides. It wasn’t until I had been bouncing for some time before I realized it said “No Pregnant Women” on the side of the bouncy thing. Well, duh. Now doesn’t that make sense? See, #2 gets hardly any paranoia. I lavished paranoia on LB in utero (and out) and here I am bouncing all over like pregnant boobs without a bra.
Or something similarly bouncy.
At any rate, we had a great time, LB made a little friend and I got to talk to someone who gets the “I have to eat every two hours or I’ll gag” thing. That’s the stuff first dates should be made out of.
Oh for the love of all that is holy Nov 14, 2006
The She Child just stripped naked and peed everywhere.
TAKE THAT, MOMMY! Nap, HA! I PEE in the face of The Nap!
I’m currently listening to Sara McLachlan’s Christmas Album as loud as possible and ignoring her jumping in her crib.
I am Merry! I have CHEER!
I am buying seven feet of duct tape.
Crouching baby, hidden diaper Nov 11, 2006
I just went back up to LB’s room where I expected her to be sleeping. Scratch that, where I wanted her to be sleeping but had my doubts by the “thump thump thump” I suspected was coming from her room. I opened the door, ever so slightly, and saw my toddler’s little hiney shining in the crack of light streaming through her room. “LB!” I open the door further to see her butt naked crouching in the corner of her stripped crib.
Apparently she pulled the sheet off, unzipped her footy PJs and pulled off her diaper. When I walked in she was huddled in the corner like Ape Man picking through leaves or rocks. I still don’t know what, exactly, she was doing but I suspect she was thinking of peeing on something. I foiled her plan just in time, though.
If you don’t believe in evolution, that’s ok. But when you walk in on your daughter hunched in the corner of her crib butt naked? Well, you resolve real quick to never let her wear her PJs to nap again and stock up on snap onsies. “MUHAHAHA” you think. Survival of the fittest. And mommy always wins.
Five Years Today Nov 10, 2006
Five years ago we we stood on Mt. Constitution on Orcas Island in front of our four best friends and said we would.
FIve years ago we took each other for best friends and lovers.
Five years ago we made 12 years of friendship official.
I’d do it all over again.
Today we celebrate five years. He gets to hold my hair while I puke and grow his second kid. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t get more romantic than that.
This is so painful I wish I could drink beer (You will too once you read all the parnethisis) Nov 08, 2006
OH MAH GAH, people! Dial-up? Frickin’ SLOW. Like opening scene from Office Space / Old Man in a Walker / traffic jam slow. Who the hell designed my site with all these fun extra bits to take FORFUCKINGEVER to load? Oh, right. My bad.
So lemme get ya up to speed. (As fast as I can on DIAL UP. Buckle up! We may hit five miles an hour.) Started a new job yesterday. (For some reason I feel the need to abbreviate my sentences even though *you* are not on dial up and can read a perfectly long paragraph no problem.) (p.s. I will stop over using parenthesis.) (No I won’t.) Verizon gets all effed up and decides that I’m a total delinquent because I sent my payment to the same account number we’ve always had when that account, for some reason, doesn’t exist and snips my DSL. It’s like getting a vasectomy before you’re done having kids. “Wait! Wait! I want my sperm, I mean Internet Connection back!” I spend an hour explaining to seven departments that I work from home and have to have my dsl. (Everyone’s brains tune to “I want my D-S-L” in a very “I want my MTV” sort of tune only with less blue eye shadow.) I take LB to her preschool because if I can’t get any work done, I might as well get her worn out. It doesn’t work and she’s upstairs in her crib yelling and I’m down here working at a crawl.
You’re just about caught up.
I’ve made a bet with the mister regarding the sex of Coffee Bean. (Henceforth knows as CB because I really am that damn lazy.) The stakes? Fifty bucks to spend on whatever we want (this will not count the money I’m about to shell out for Northern Exposure Season Five because HELLO! That is NOT petty cash, that’s necessary DVD library contribution right there.) (I told you I would abuse parenthesis all day today. Someone has to pay.) I’m betting it’s a boy (it is so a boy) and he is betting it’s a girl. Should anyone else like to participate, lemme know if we should start an actual money pool type gig or just leave your fun guess in the comments here (no pressure to do money). Get your vote in early! Because at the speed of 2kb/s we’re going to reach February before you know it!
I owe everyone 100 bucks Nov 07, 2006
Is that the going rate for “getting the crap out of your brain and in to the Universe” these days? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure my Shrink makes around a hundred dollars an hour. Well, maybe not my HMO appointed Shrink, but maybe your Shrink.
I was able to write, finally, about what I was feeling because yesterday was a much better day. I’ll be teaching again starting next week and LB will be going to a preschool up the road for two hours twice a week. That’s all it takes to help me feel just a little more normal, whatever normal is. Normal like Sesame Street on a loop/barfing over the sink/sitting on boxes. We’ll call it the new normal.
I didn’t open comments because I didn’t want people to feel the pressure to have to comment. I knew if you really wanted to share a story, you can find a way to share it. I heard so many encouraging stories and people who were touched and felt a little less bad about themselves because people are finally able to say IT. Then we all came out of the closet, not the least unlike gay pride, and met together for our own PPD parade with rainbows and costumes and purple boas.
I’d say that’s money well spent.
Before I get the wire hangers out Nov 06, 2006
I suffered from Postpartum Depression after having LB two years ago. I spoke of it, at times, here on my blog but always in a past-tense tone. “I had postpartum depression,” “I got help,” “I’m ok now.” And it’s true. I did have it. I did get help. And I was ok for a long time.
I remember being in Borders when LB was two months old. I went searching for books on Post Partum Depression and found disappointedly little. Brooke Sheild’s book didn’t come out until months later and, still, I haven’t read it. I think I am afraid it will remind me of that dark place that I never truly talked about. The place where I used to walk on the far side of the hall in the two story mall because my mind would not stop picturing me tossing LB over the half wall to the floor below. The place where I used to sit in the dark closet and pray for God to kill me or kill her so we could go back to what life was like before. The place where I got in the car at 12 am one night and left my family, briefly, before guilt drove me back home and in to my husband’s bed before he even knew I’d left.
It was horrible and I never told a soul.
I’m able to talk openly about it now because once I was ok again, I found out many women felt the same thing. I found out several moms in our playgroup went through the same thoughts, got help, and could share their stories in past-tense, too. I found out not only was I not alone in that dark place, there were women from every nationality and religion sitting in the closet at their own house praying to their God to take them away. The closet is such a lonely place to be, even when there are so many of us there.
I’ve been taking Celexa since LB was three months old. I remember vividly telling my Shrink (I have a shrink and I know that makes me tres hip) that I honestly couldn’t say I loved my daughter. I would sit in the car and tell Mr. Flinger, “I can SAY it but I don’t MEAN it.” This was the hardest part of Postpartum Depression for me. I wanted to love her. I just didn’t. My Shrink reassured me that it was as normal as crying in the bathroom for an hour and a half and she could fix that for me. She did. I fell in love with my new life and my new family and got just cleared up enough to realize I was ok, I was a mom now, and I’m going to fail miserably at times, at least I’m doing the best I can.
This is all fine and good until one gets knocked up again. I stayed on my medication during the last pregnancy and without any real reason as to why I miscarried, I felt strongly that I’d like to get off the meds this time around. I thought why not give this bean the best chance ever? Why not give it a fresh start? A good uterus? A clean blood supply and maybe a vegetable or two? So I weaned off Celexa three weeks ago and have been crying in the dark ever since.
I wasn’t sure if I should post about being in a bad place at the time it happened. It sounds so, “pity me!” and “woah, life is so hard” when I’m fully aware that my life is not that hard or troubled. I do not struggle with alcoholism, I do not have an abusive husband, we are not so poor we can not pay bills. We have a lovely home, a wonderful daughter, friends and food and luxuries I almost feel guilty for. But mentally, I’m completely fucked. The combination of not working, having no day time friends around, having a toddler at our new home where things are still in total disarray, being so nauseated and tired makes my brain fritz out. It makes me crawl in to a dark corner and cry and pray for it to all go away. I actually muttered, “if I have a miscarriage now I’d be ok with that because I don’t think I can handle another baby. Ever.” I felt so bad about even saying the words that I prayed to Karma to please, oh please, don’t take that seriously because I’d really flip out if I lost the baby now. I’m invested. It’s a bean. It’s got a heartbeat and I really really want to meet it one day. Meet him one day. My boy.
I decided to fix myself because really, I’m not a glutton for punishment. I can see what’s going on (a few weeks in, at least) and realize it’s time to take action. Right now three people are suffering for the good of one. My daughter has no idea why mommy is so mad at her. She’s just trying to show off that she can button her own coat (she can’t) and doesn’t get why something that was OK three weeks ago is not only NOT OK now, it makes mommy yell. I can’t seem to figure out why my child not napping makes me angrier than the thought of North Korea having nukes. Mr. Flinger doesn’t get why I complain about the house but do nothing to fix it. We’re baffled all the while the baby is growing a brain, a heart, courage. The tiny person is trumping the rest of us. And still, even as I type this, I don’t think that’s a bad thing. But we have to find some sort of middle ground. Soon.
I’ve been doing some research on taking SSI drugs during pregnancy. I keep hearing the same thing over and over, “If the risks outweigh the pluses, don’t. On the other hand, if you are a danger to yourself or the baby because you are depressed, it’s worth the 1% chance your child could have a severe pulmonary disorder that could kill him just a few weeks old.” Right. How’s that for no guilt?
Some articles discussion the subject I found include:
WebMD *this is an older article. Note the date. Newer research is more conclusive.
Web MD *2003 study
Consumer Reports *most clear and concise description of persistent pulmonary hypertension .
General Post Partum Depression Information
Obviously the choice is not easy. The decision to put your baby at a 1% risk for a serious health risk may seem small to someone but to a mom carrying and growing a person, it’s huge. ONE percent chance. ONE. That means there’s a 99% chance that nothing would happen? Still, I’m weary. I already carry enough baggage and guilt going in to motherhood as it is, do I need to wonder if I caused my child to suffer needlessly?
Am I already causing one child to suffer needlessly?
I will never be your Great Aunt Marcy Nov 05, 2006
My Grandfather’s sister, Marcella, lives in San Antonio. I grew up in Houston so we’d go there every so often and Uncle Charles would tell us about the pecan trees in his backyard and Aunt Marcy would make us pecan pie and we’d eat brisket and mash potatoes. It was always cooler in San Antonio than when we left Houston and the adults would talk about humidity while my sister and I did cartwheel and handstands in the yard. I have this memory etched in my brain from a variety of visits spanning years and years. It was always the same.
After we moved to the North West, Aunt Marcy still sent us birthday cards, promptly, starting in 1989. There are a few things you can count on in life. Death, Taxes, and your birthday card from Aunt Marcy. She is timely, she never ever forgets, and there is never any money or a gift card in it. It’s a card. That’s it. Every year. And I love it.
Right now, with the move and all the puking and nausea, I go to the mailbox a lot less often. The trek up the hill to the group of boxes is a major undertaking and even then, the stash of mail gets piled in the “in box” until bills are (past) due. We’re living a new, very unorganized version of ourselves. (This is saying A LOT, people.) I could’ve titled this post, “Please don’t let me hold your baby or I will drop it like all the other balls in my life right now.” ‘Cause that’s about right.
I’m losing it quickly.
Friends have had birthdays, anniversaries, children, moved locations, graduated, won academy awards, the lottery, and lost relatives all while I sit in the midst of my boxes with my laptop and my two year old running around my silver puke-bowl and say, “Ummmm… Errrr…. Uuuhhhhhhhhh…......” and then I go take a nap because I can’t imagine what I was going to do.
Today I finally opened my birthday card from my Aunt Marcy. She is 87 years old, her husband has had major strokes and been hospitalized several times. She’s had a few grandchildren born this year and helped her daughter out of a sticky mess. Even so, she sends her great niece a birthday card just like she’s done for the last 17 years. Because Aunt Marcy is the pillar of hallmark. The woman is a rock. Or at least a paper one.
It’s such a tall order to live up to and I fail, miserably, every day.
I gave her more than butt dimples Nov 03, 2006
It’s really obvious that my daughter is her father’s kid. I knew it from the 20 week ultrasound where we got a profile shot and realized she had her daddy’s pug nose. (Incedentally, this did not keep me from having dreams that she was a black baby four feet long when I birthed her.) The first thing we noticed when we saw her, just minutes old, was her olive skin tone and perfectly shaped mouth, all thanks to Daddy. She was perfect. She was everything you’d see if you pictured Mr. Flinger as a little girl. With hair.
This bothered me somewhat as all I got to contribute was a large scar on my belly, some wicked post partum depression and butt dimples. Yes, I have two dimples above my ass and now, so does my only child. I’m so proud to pass that on.
I know many families that always say, “Oh, she looks just like so-and-so” while the other side will say, “She’s a spitting image of you-know-who.” I hate to tell you this but one of you is wrong. Obviously the child looks more like her mother (or father) and you’re reaching for straws with “but her eyes look just like Great Aunt Jane’s.” Does anyone even remember Great Aunt Jane? I didn’t think so. Nice try.
I don’t have that luxury. When Mr. Flinger’s family goes on and on and on and on about how she looks JUST LIKE HE DID when he was little, I have to bite my lip because, well, she does. Mr. Flinger, with his long seventies flowing golden hair, really would’ve made a very pretty little girl. And now he does.
So when my family wants to contribute something in LB’s personage we stretch it a little far. “Oh, her personality is so like you. Oh, the way she rolls her eyes? SO TOTALLY YOU. Oh mah gah, did she just give me sass? That’s you!” Thanks. I gave my daughter her bitchiness. Add that to butt dimples and I’m a real genetic winner.
In light of the recent move, LB and I have been stuck inside a lot. Stuck inside with only each other. Stuck inside with NO OTHER PEOPLE AROUND. This means two things. One, we really need to make more friends. Fast. And two, we can’t stand each other for that long, just the two of us, alone, together. She starts climbing the walls and aching for some sort of external interaction. A person! A dog! A freakin’ squirrel! Anything! I’m right there with her. We sort of stand at the window and watch the world and pine for someone to play with while being all stuck in our own filth and packing boxes and attitude. I never realized how much alike we were. The whole “Daddy’s girl” image really had me thrown off because I didn’t peg her for having received much of anything from me (aside from said bitchiness and butt dimples). As it turns out, we are so much alike, it’s causing us to drive one another batty. This does not bode well for Jr. High or High school. I see arguments in my future, the very same ones I had with *MY* mother. The ones where she yells, “You just don’t get it! Do you?!” And I will. And I do. Because there is something in her that is so me, is so much me, that she’s going to be all spit and fire and raw emotions. And I will get it. I just don’t think she will, until she watches her own two year old and realizes, “You are just like your Grandma Flinger,” and I’ll add, “who is just like your mother.”