A Pitiful Cry For Help

Kole's been normal today.  Which is... nice.  Hey, cut me some slack, I am as emotionally stretched out as I have ever been.  "Nice" is the best I can come up with.

While we're talking about emotions let's get this Postpartum Depression thing out on the table.

It was awful with Kole.   You all remember.  I avoided your calls.  And the door.  And the mirror.  And my life.  For a really long time.  I couldn't snap out of things.  Or get into anything.  It's the weirdest, most disconnected feeling in the world.  It's like being a living dead person.  And not in the cool zombie way.  (If you think zombies are cool... which I don't... but some people do.)  You just feel like you are floating in gray water and no one can see that you are face down.

With the new baby coming on Monday, the thought has crossed my mind,  "What if it comes back?"  I don't really have an answer... just Yeah.  What if?  I've been reading articles and studies about it and I'm supposed to set up a support group ahead of time.  Which sounds so cheesy and lame and like a pitiful cry for help.

But, honestly.  I think that's what I need.  I need people to call me.  E-mail me.  Try to contact me.  Heck, pray to your God for me.  And then... could you not be offended when I avoid your calls because my throat is too tight to say anything?  Just leave a voicemail.  I'll listen to it.  It'll make me feel like me.  Send me an e-mail with some LOLcats or something.  Maybe I'll think LOLcats are funnier then.  (Because I don't think they're all THAT great now.)

I just need to know I am thought about.  That someone out there cares.  That I crossed your mind.  And that babies are wonderful and cute and cuddly.
Even though I might disagree with you at the moment.
Even though I might not be able to respond (or at least respond truthfully) to what is going on.
Even though I might not be able to say how I am feeling.

And keep in mind.  This is precautionary.  I might be just fine.  I might swing right into this new baby with joy and bliss and excitement.  Which is how I am feeling about him today.

Excited. 

5 Days!

It's a MAD HOUSE

My friend told me that a couple weeks before her second baby came her 2-year-old son went off the handle and turned into El Diablo.  I nodded and listened and in my head thought... I'm glad that won't happen to me.  Kole is too mellow.
What a bunch of BS I was feeding myself.  He has had a few shining moments in the last week.  There have been a couple times when his eyes sparkled and he seemed like hims good old self.  But the other 168 hours... *deep sigh*.... Heaven help me.
It is never stopping.
Let's start with the screaming, mmm kay?  It's like a tiger growling combined with an angry monkey mixed with a kitten getting stabbed.  It's so loud.  And, fortunately, nonstop.  So I have been given the opportunity to get used to it. I just haven't been able to.
Moving On.
Meals.  Today for breakfast Kole had hot dogs.  Don't judge, haters.  He had ketchup too... so there's some veggie sustenance.  I tried the toast.  With butter and jelly and peanut butter.  Heck- I would have put some GD sprinkles on that piece of toast if he would have asked me to.  No go.  Ended up on the floor.  Got the cereal out.  Nope.  And it's not just a "no" by the way.  It's a wail.  Like I just shoved hot pokers under his finger nails.  I offered fruit, granola bars, ping pangs (<---- pancakes), and finally I gave up. 
"What do you want for breakfast stinky butt?" 
"Hot Dog."
Fine.
Then there is the violence.  He started throwing his toys.  Which I'm putting the foot down on pretty sternly.  Not a good habit.  But it seems like if he's not throwing a stuffed animal, train track, or truck, he's coming after me!  Fists a flying.  Feet a kicking.  Teeth bared.  I mean, he's probably not more than 2 and a half feet tall?  And he's weighing in at 29 pounds... but it's scary to be attacked!  He's ready to give me all he's got.  And it hurts!  He knows my soft spots.  Stomach and eyes.  Youch. 
I'd love to go into the sleeping that's not happening for anyone living here but I think it'll make me cry.  Some things just aren't funny.
There's the diaper changing.  He hates it all of the sudden.  3 weeks ago he was telling me when he needed his diaper changed and bringing me the diaper, wipes, and bumby cream.  Now... he dashes.  He hides.  He hits and screams.  And flails all over.  This morning I was wrestling him on the changing table and he kicked me in my chin.  I stumbled a little and he was trying to climb down.  I grabbed him (sorta forcefully I admit) and held him on the table.  He lifted his head and with the reddest face- screamed his highest loudest most aggravating scream at me.  In what I consider my absolute worst mom moment to date I said, "Oh yeah?  Well I don't like you either right now!"
Not so glad I stooped to that level.
Can't believe I lost it.
And in such a hurtful way.
I do like Koley.
He's just a big stinkweeder right now.
I shouldn't have said that and I felt horrible immediately.
I said I was sorry.
But neither my outburst or my apology had impact on the situation. 
The no's, screaming, and kicking continued.
And haven't stopped since.
That was at 8:00 this morning.

Patty McBeard

Ken has been teasing me about my excess facial hair lately.  Lately as in the last year... maybe two.  I always figured he was just joking.  I mean I wax the mustachio and tend to the eyebrows.  I've got my bases covered.  I've got Italian in my blood which, according to Ken, is the cause of all my werewolf-ish-ness. 

To come out with it:  Ken says I had a beard.

Ludicrous right?  I know I have longer sideburns.  But it's like baby hair over there.  No big deal. 
Well, the hairy jabs had become an everyday thing.  I was THE Bearded Lady around here.  But I'd look in the mirror and just not see it.  I felt my face and didn't get my hands caught up in the knots of hair growing from it.  What was the big deal?

Last Sunday I was getting ready for church.  I gave Ken a preview of my outfit (since sometimes I don't do that well matching on my own.)  And he said, "You would look great if you lost the beard." 

That was my last straw.
I grabbed a razor.

Oh.  My.

He was so right.  I started shaving my face...  and like... a ton of hair came off!  It looked like I shaved a bunny when I looked in the sink!  I started thinking I should of used some Barbasol.  The Beard Buster kind.  I was so embarrassed.  There was enough hair to donate to Barbie Locks of Love. 

I went back all smooth and clean shaven and told Ken he was right.  And I was really sorry if he felt like he'd been married to a man/woman the last 7 years of his life.  I vowed to shave my face on a regular basis. 

I figured every other month or so.

Well, it's been 4 days and the stubble is pretty prickly.  I think I have a problem.

Things That Sound Really Good

Laying on my stomach.
(In reality, it really hurts.)
Bending my feet.
Sleeping laying down.  (or is it lying down?)  I think they both sound good.
A hot tub.  (It's always bothered me that preggies can't get their soak on.  I take showers way hotter than hot tubs.)
Wings.  Those always sound good.
Being able to "hold it."
Heck, even going 30 minutes without stopping at a bathroom.  I know the location of all the bathrooms at gas stations, restaurants, grocery stores, department stores, Walmarts, and rest stops within... 20 miles of my house.
A shirt that covers up the gross, purple-y, stretched out, and perpetually cold part of my belly that hangs out of my maternity clothes.  It's so trashy looking.
A chalupa.  Make that 2 chalupas.  Heck, just order me the #6.  With the Fruit Punch.
Being able to walk faster than someone with one leg using a walker.
A back replacement.
A well fitted bra.  Sorry Victoria's Secret... I think I'm past your limit now.  
High heels.  Anything slightly more fashionable than an empire cut shirt with ducks and daisies on it.  Why are pregnant women assumed to want to dress like kindergarteners?
NOT getting kicked in the ribs.  Or spine.  Or hip bone.  Or bladder.

13 more days.
13 more days.

Kreativ

I've recently been given 2 awards via the blogosphere.
They're the same... but from different people.

Both the Kreativ Blogger Award.
*Swoon*
Wait, you should be swooning over me!  Here's what these delightful young ladies said about me.  Hey, come on.  Nothing feels as good as a compliment.  And aren't you always supposed to pass them along?  Even if you're just passing on the one given to you... about you... and changing nothing?

Ms. Kar said:
Patty is really, really good at putting feelings into words.  That's my biggest weakness as a writer.  I can tell a funny story, but when it comes articulating my feelings, I just can't hack it. Which is why writing a little something sentimental in greeting cards is a nightmare for me.  She makes fun of me for that.  I also love how tongue-in-cheek she is.  Oh, and Patty has some kind of karma where complete strangers start fights with her.  It's ca-razy.  And really funny.

I do have Stranger-Fighting-Karma.  I don't know where that comes from.  I avoid confrontation with people in my life at all costs to my happiness and comfort.  But if someone is reaching for the last pack of Big Red in the check-out aisle... I'll be sure I get it.

Melissa made me blush by saying:

One of my most favorite blogs to read is that of my friend Patty.  Or Patty Published as her blog is called.  Patty is awesome, hilarious and honest.  I love it because she does things or says things that I would never have the guts to do/say.  You could say I sort of live vicariously through her.  She is a talented writer and just an all around great gal. 

 

I love it when people call me "gal."

So as this chain-mail stuff goes... I tell you 7 interesting facts about myself.  I'm going to make 'em shorties.

1.  I always have and always will love Alan Jackson (that new one, "So You Don't Have To Love Me Anymore" is golden.  Follows suit.) but The Shins are creeping up the list.  

2.  I wish we had Kool-aid with dinner every night like we did when I was growing up.

3.  I made an Amazon Book Wish List and feel like I registered for my wedding.

4.  I just learned there's a difference between a backhoe and a loader and an excavator.  They're not just "trucks."  Thanks, Ken.

5.  I think women who wear watches are at the very top of the class train.  It's so sensible and sexy looking.  Better start scouting for one I like.

6.  I think my singing voice sounds like a mix of Lee Ann Womack and Allison Krauss.  Ken says I'm dreaming.  Yeah!  You bet I'm dreaming!  Of the big stage!  And bright lights!

7.  I really like doing puzzles and am starting a new one this weekend.  It's a foodscape.  Google it homes.

Tid Vid Bits

These were just a few days before I had Kole in 2010.  Sisters are nutty.  So is trying to sight read piano music. It's Andi, then me, then Julsey.

 


 This was in the box my mom sent. A birthday card from my sister Andi back when we were little. It raises the question in my mind of How do you classify the girls who get a card talking about presents for pretty girls? 

Hulk Koley

It's like he's a different boy.
I've said this before. 
Kole goes through "phases" where he is a devil.  He is unrecognizable as Koley.  In my maternal opinion.  It's like the Hulk is living in him.  And he is on a smash, destroy, yell, and scream rampage.
Little Hulk Koley.

I want you to play trucks with me NOOOOOW!!!

We're amidst one currently.  And I've seen Kole make the face in that picture.  Scary time.

I think it's from a lack of sleep.  The toddler bed started so well.  So well.  He loved laying in there and pulling his covers up and snuggling in.  He'd want to read books in there and tuck his animals in with him.  Cutsie pa-tootsy. 

Now.... in week 2....he sleeps inside his room by the door (that he can't open) like a sad puppy.
I tried moving him once.  Mistake.  The Hulk arose. 

I hate peeking under the door slot and seeing his chubby drooling face laying there. 

How do I get him back in his bed?

I want to turn back the clocks to when he was this little guy and all he cared about was when his next meal was coming round:

I Gotta Get Out More.

Ken and I went to see The Avengers on Friday.  It was our second date of the year.  That's right.  We love each other that much.
We went to this new fancified theater by us.  You don't wait in line to buy tickets... you get them at a kiosk where you can always pre-order your concessions.  When you order your tickets you get to choose your seats.  We chose 2 seats in the back by the aisle since I normally have to get up a go to the bathroom a lot.  And then I knew I was willing to pay $25 for some watered down Cherry coke and a large popcorn.  (Parrothead reference.) 
Anyway, we get to our theater and it's practically empty.  Without looking at our ticket seating number we pick seats in the vicinity of where we thought we probably chose.  Allow me to emphasize.  The theater was practically empty.  There might of been 7 to 10 other people there.  As starting time neared another 10 showed up.  I was shocked at how loyal everyone was to their seating assignment.  Couples were checking tickets and bending over to see which row they were on.  They were counting over to sit in the exact spot they chose.  What killed me about this is everyone was sitting right next to each other.  Not even the courtesy seat between strangers.  It was like, "That's what we picked on the screen... that's where we should sit."  First off, why would you pick ahead of time to sit directly beside someone you do not know.  Hoping to make a friend?  I could understand if it was sold out and you have to... but that was not the case at all.  Second!  If you did choose lousy seats by strangers... when you got into the theater (realized the stupidity of your mistake) and saw aallllll those empty chairs... wouldn't you have sat somewhere else?  I could not quit giggling about it.  Every single person that came in sat in this nucleus of people because that's where they were self-assigned.  It was bizarre.  And nice having so much room to ourselves.

2nd thing:  I went out to get a refill on my drink and some Milk Duds to complement my poppy-corn.  While I was ordering this middle-aged, over-weight, non-shaved man (also rather short) came and interrupted me.  We has carrying his wife's knock off Louis Vuitton bag and talking on his cell phone.  "I NEED AN EXTRA LARGE POPCORN BUCKET!"  The concessions girl and I both looked over.  "I HAVE A SICK KID."  The girl behind the counter said, "There's a bathroom right there." and pointed directly across the hall.  "HE'S GOING TO PUKE EVERYWHERE!  GIVE ME A BUCKET!  HURRY!!"  I normally commiserate with these people and try my best to ease their situation.  But something about this guy irked me.  Was it loafers with shorts?  Was it the spit in the corners of his mouth?  Was it the hair products he clearly didn't know how to use? The girl grabs the big bucket, hands it to him, and he strolls away.  Yeah.  Strolls.  Not the walk of choice if you're trying to get to a sick kid... right?  I get my Duds and drink and lean against the wall (by the bathroom) and watch this guy.  He hands the bucket to the kid who is in NO way sick.  The boy was giggling and squealing and bouncing around.  The kid takes the bucket over to a counter on the opposite end and gets his "FREE REFILL!"  I was so upset!  What a scam!  That guy totally lied (and cut in line) to get free popcorn.  And he used his kid as an accomplice.  So wrong.  So so wrong.  The Great Movie Popcorn Heist.  And I saw it all first hand.  Who do I report this crime to?

I'm thinking of sending The Hulk after them.

Spider Claus

This week I got the best package from my Mom.  My mom teaches 6th grade and with summer break here she has started her annual Cleaning of the Basement.  It's practically tradition.  Wednesday I got a Priority Package (there is something special about being sent something Priority, isn't there?) full of drawings, journals, old school papers, certificates, and cards.
Heavens gate hath opened!
I've been laughing and sorting through them ever since.  My favorite find, thus far, has been a story I wrote called Spider Claus.  Odd combo.  I know.  But I can see this becoming a children's hit series. 


We'll open the floor for a Q&A afterwards.

That last page with a close-up of Spider Claus is a gem.  I mean it's hard getting a clear picture of him.

Debbie Downer

Hey Debs,

It's me.  Ol' Punching Bag Patty.  Just decided to drop you a line and let you know I think you're a real dirt bag with some major mental issues.
You hurt my feelings a lot.  You think you're doing my a world of good forcasting my future... but really it kinda makes me hate being around you.  To lay it all out there for ya, I don't want to hear about how fat and lazy your husband has gotten and how the magic is gone and how you think you can do better.  I especially don't want to hear that as a follow-up comment to a story about a nice date I had with Ken.  Why do you do that?  Are you hinting you're into Kenner?  Like I'm supposed to say, "Here!  Take my husband!  He's amazing!  I don't need him!" Or.... Maybe you say that and I am supposed to feel bad for you?  Since I have a pulse, I probably would feel bad for you if you didn't always end with Just you wait. What are you hoping I wait for?  My marriage to go belly up?  My love to die out?  Some friend! Sheesh!
You do it all the time.
And hey. Don't act like you don't.

And lay off Kole will you?
I know you've been a mom way longer than me... but that's no way to measure up.  In fact, I don't think there is a way to measure up mom to mom.  Different things work for different kids.  So, when we hit a milestone (much later than your cherub hit his as you've assured me time and time and TIME again) do your best to smile, nod, and shut (the stinking door) up.  I don't want to hear that it won't last or he'll regress or Kole is going to hate me for doing this or that or I'm about to be so sleep deprived or welcome to the terrible twos or what happened to you was so awful and you hate your kids and they hate you and that's life.  It's full of raining nails and mean dogs so just get used to it.
When you're around... yeah!...  It feels like the end of the world.   Gloom and Doom is all I get from you, DD.  It's exhausting.  It's depressing.  And I've had enough.

I think we should see other people.
You should probably start with a therapist.



P.S.  Just because you smile when you say something... doesn't mean it's nice.
P.P.S.  I like my hair just the way it is.  So there. 

What I Had Planned For Nap Time Today:

1. Clean out and vacuum the car.
2. Get through my list of thank-you notes that need sent.
3. Eat candy.
4. Finish my bookkeeping work for last month.
5. Read more Parenting With Love and Logic. I'm HOOKED!
6. Put the laundry away.
7. Look up when The Avengers is playing this weekend.
8. Order tickets for The Avengers this weekend.  (I love not waiting in line.)
9. Shower.
10. Nap.
11. Eat more candy.

WHAT I AM DOING INSTEAD:

1. Listening to Kole cry because he has to stay in his bed.  He was good for 35 minutes... crying has taken over for the last 45 minutes.
2. Wish I had candy to eat.

Kole's Big Boy Bed

I'm not into "big boy" anything.  I'm into Kole staying a baby (MY baby) forever.  But, we switched to a big boy bed tonight.  It went so smoothly.  So far.  He did his normal 2 minute "Mommy Mommy Mommymommymommymommymommy" and since then it's been quiet.  No getting out of bed.  No playing with toys.
Ken says Kole adjusts to change much better than I do.
So true.

Just So You Know.

If you are a mom...
and you're sitting at the playground gabbing (and giggling) with your friend- and paying absolutely ZERO attention to your kid(s) and they do something to MY kid that I AM watching (IE: steal a toy, hit, yell at, push, bully, anything.) Yeah.  You can bet your big fat lazy cellulite infested butt* I'm going to say something (politely) to your kid in order to protect mine.
But, if you come up to me and get up in my grill for disciplining your child - because apparently he's never heard "no" before I said it to him and he screams and cries and you look up from your bag of Funyuns for the first time in an hour to see what could be wrong with your little precious....  Yeah.  Go ahead.  Put down your Diet Coke. Stomp on over.  Gimme all you got.
But don't worry about the can opener.
I's a be getting whoop ass all over the place.

*applies to all negligent moms... not just ones with saggy mom butts.