Sunday, May 24, 2009

Call on the saints?

I have a problem. It may seem silly, it sure does to Ziggy, but it's a real problem to me. Here it is:

I am deathly afraid of the baby's room.

No kidding. Since the day we moved into this house, I have been afraid of that room. I hate going in it alone. I hate walking away from it with my back turned against it. I hate walking down the hallway with the lights out - I HAVE to be able to see the doorway of that room.

I can't nap in that room (It's been our guest room for almost 2 years, so there is a bed in there). I can't go in there AT ALL when I am home alone.

I have no idea what the reason is. Nothing bad ever happened in there. The family before us lived here over 20 years and raised 2 daughters in that room. Nothing evil ever occurred in the room. I'm not normally one to believe in haunts or spirits. I have NO IDEA what my problem is.

No one else gets these feelings in this room. No one. Ziggy naps/sleeps in there all the time when he gets kicked out of the bed for his snoring.

So what is this? A sixth sense? An intuition? I have no idea. How do I get rid of it though? I keep thinking that the more it transforms into the baby's room, the less I'll feel like this, but it's actually getting worse. Last night I had a thought of having to go into that room at 3:00am to change diapers and soothe a baby and it freaked the hell out of me.

What is my problem? I've thought of maybe doing some kind of prayer in there or hanging a crucifix or something. But I'm not even sure if that would help or not.

Any suggestions?

Sunday, May 17, 2009

Just a few words...

My son called me this afternoon to tell me that he was bored at his father's house and that his dad couldn't bring him home until 7:00pm, so would I please come and get him because he wanted to come home.

Do you know how fast I got there?

Exactly.

It was a good day.

Nuff said.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Why are you here?

My mother did something this afternoon that is in the top ten most offensive things that you can possibly do to me.

Being an intensely introverted person with probable borderline social anxiety, I like to be alone. Nay, I LOOOOOVE to be alone. Alone time for me is better than sex or chocolate cake or massages. A day of quiet aloneness is a treasure to me.

My husband had just gotten in his truck and pulled out of the driveway for a two hour trip to run various errands, and I walked back into the house in anticipation of 2 full hours of quiet alone time. It was a glorious feeling and I was giddy to find something on TV that had no cartoon characters or detective story plot to it.

While peeing, I heard my door quietly open and shut. It kind of scared me because there was no reason for my husband to be coming back so soon. I picked up my cell phone and called him really quickly rather than calling out in the house to ask who was there, because I honestly was scared and had a weird feeling about it.

He answered and I whispered, "are you here?" When he said no, I dropped the phone and felt panic. I got the baseball bat that I keep under my bed for this very purpose and I began slinking down the hall.

It was my own god damn MOTHER! She had come over to my house 100% totally and completely unannounced and had not knocked or rang the bell or anything - just let herself right in.

This is so intensely offensive to me. Unnanounced guests are of the devil to people like me, much less guests with keys to my house who just let themselves in.

My old neighbor, Kevin, would very often come knocking on our door completely unannounced rather than calling first - during dinner - during baths - during whatever, and I actually taught my kid that when a door knocks and you aren't expecting anyone, you go into another room and sit very very quietly until the knocking stops. Seriously, I find unannounced visits so offensive that I will rarely even humor you by answering the door if you do it. Kevin did it so often, that it is ingrained in Luke's brain to look at me for direction on what to do whenever a door bell rings.

What if I was naked? What if I had been using adult toys in the living room? (I'm just saying is all.) I mean, just waltzing into someone's home completely unannounced is so brazen and ballsy and really just rude.

Her story is that she came to help around the house since I was sick...which is nice and all...but any good will that could have come of it was flushed out the door by her method of entry.

She said, "well, I talked to Ziggy earlier." Um, yeah, you called while I was asleep and told Ziggy that you would CALL after you finished cooking your pot of beans to see if I wanted any help around the house. Is that what happened? No, I didn't think so, since I have no missed calls on my phone.

So then, in her usual martyrdom way, she immediately shifted into abused child mode of no one loves her and no one appreciates her and why does she even exist.

I told her NINE times that I was just really still sick and really dopey on meds and that I just wasn't in the mood for company or cleaning today. She then followed me around the house for a half hour explaining to me whatever it was and almost begging for love and approval.

I hate this shit. I didn't ask for her help. I may have wanted her help if I had a little time to prepare myself for it (it takes at least 10 minutes of mental preparation for a visit from my mother). So now, I feel like shit for being ungrateful, and I feel like shit for making her feel bad, and now I'm stuck with her here for at least two hours alone while my husband is out running those errands that I purposely orchestrated that he go out and run specifically so that I could be ALONE and now by time she leaves, he'll be returning and UGH!

Ziggy is a whole other issue - he walks around like a lost puppy when I'm sick and wakes me up 9 million times just to see if I'm feeling better yet and it's like he paces around until I finally get up and am normal for him again. He freaks out when I am out of commission.

Anyway, so that's my day. Now with the whirring of the vacuum in the background, I have to get up and go fold the laundry that my mother insisted that I let her wash - because I'd prefer for her NOT to fold Ziggy's underwear or my granny panties.

Fabulous. Good times.

Friday, May 15, 2009

I can see clearly now

After 2 Claritin D's (doctor approved) a little Tylenol and my first 2 pill dose on a Z-pak, I can finally lift my head long enough to say hello.

I was slammed with a sinus infection this week, the likes of which I have never experienced in my life. My concern for the baby's well being as far as avoiding OTC or other drugs flew out of the window this morning when I literally sat in my car with my son sitting next to me and just bawled my eyes out over the sickness and misery of it.

I haven't experienced illness like this in probably a decade. It was absolutely unbearable. While I know that the Z-pak hasn't worked that quickly, I'm pretty sure that it's the Claritin D that is allowing me a short reprieve from drowning in my own snot.

I've lost a total of 4 pounds so far from just not being able to taste or stomach hardly anything. My stomach has remained full and satiated on my own dripping mucus and I still keep having to force myself to remember, oh shit, I'm pregnant, perhaps I should eat something.

And of course it happens in the week that the house is being painted, the a/c went on the fritz and my husband is working until 9:00pm every night for his company's end of fiscal year...of course, I mean, why not, right?

So it was a shit week to say the least. I've vowed to obey doctor's orders and remain in bed, or in the vicinity of bed for the entire weekend so that hopefully I can return to normal by Monday. Luke is a bit tired of Lunchables and pizza rolls here.

Good health to you, sorry I've been negative nelly lately and hopefully next week will bring better things to write about.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Dear Former Self

Dear Former Self,

What the FUCK was I thinking with all this I want a baby wah wah wah woe is me garbage?

Mind you, I am grateful, nay, elated, to be given the opportunity to mother another child, but perhaps I was more built for and suited for adoption?

Pregnancy is an evil evil thing that I have done to you, former self, and I am so sorry. I thought you were fat. PSHAW! You were a smokin hot temptress compared to what you have become. I thought you were lazy PSHAW! You were a bundle of energy and vivacity. I thought your house was dirty. Whatev, your house was immaculate, man.

I thought you had let yourself go, but now I see that you had your shit together more than anyone on earth.

I'm so sorry for this. I'm sorry for the wild dreams and the peeing 9 times at night and running into walls and the spending 30 minutes every morning de-mucusing yourself and getting molested by creepy coworkers and going to bed at 9:30 because you can't stay awake another second and ramming whoppers down your throat because amazingly you get heartburn and the shits from salad but whoppers (the burger king ones, not the malted milk ones) are one of the only things you can stomach.

And former breasts, oh god, you have it the worst. Oh how I under appreciated you. With your cute little pink nips and your perfect overflowing handful size. You've been replaced by something so grotesque that I won't take my bra off to show my own husband.

And teeth, dear God, teeth. You are so dirty and I am so sorry. I've stopped showing my teeth when I smile because I know how neglected you are, but I can only brush my teeth for a max of 20 seconds before the gagging commences and so unless you want more vomit acid covering you and being washed away with Sprite, you must endur the funk for now.

Again, to the Gods of motherhood, I truly am eternally grateful for the life within, but did you have to make the process so intensely grotesque and miserable? I am so hot. People walk into my office and shiver and make fun of how hot I am. My arm pits are soaked by 11:00am. I am sleeping as naked as I can get with an 8 year old in the house. I am so hot.

My face is a greasy nasty nastiness. Probably from the whoppers, but what can I do? I wear makeup and it gets greasier and nastier. I take off the makeup and I suddenly have what I'm almost positive is rosacea.

My husband gropes for me in the night and I beg to just be left alone. I'm HIDEOUS. Nothing about this pregnancy is cute, or glowing - it's just nasty and I want out of this deal.

I love you child, but my lord, I am so freaking miserable and I have FOUR whole months and some change left to go.

So thanks for letting me whine. I have no where else to do it without someone reminding me how badly I wanted this.

Sincerely,
The Ogre

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Summer Depression

As most of you know, my loving husband is bipolar. On the day that I said, "I Do", I fully understood the world of marrying a bipolar man because my father is also bipolar. I know the good and the bad and the down right ugly. I know the uncertainty and the constant fluctuations. I know all of this. And yet, when a bad time finds itself on my doorstep, I am always shocked and saddened and in disbelief that THIS IS HAPPENING TO ME ME ME ME ME. WAHHHHHHHHH!

June is quickly approaching. Though my husband is your classic rapid cycler (meaning his moods can fluctuate in hours or days and are not always predictable with seasons or such), June is always a bad month.

It is his most depressed month of the year. With my husband's disease, his mania is always a grand time. We love Ziggy manic. Things get done, projects are finished, we laugh, we dance in the kitchen, we laugh more and we enjoy life. When the depressed Ziggy shows his face, that's when we all want to run and hide.

Like I said, it normally hits in June and whether it be the baby on the way or the renovations in the house, it has arrived early. (Bipolar, or at least my husband's is extremely affected by changes in routine, so that is why I am stating these possible reasons for the early arrival.)

I must give TREMENDOUS props and Thankgiving for the blessing of the book, "Depression Fallout" by Anne Sheffield. Without this book, my husband would either have been kicked out to live with his mother or 6 feet under with the bloody knife caught in my hand.

This book has saved our marriage/relationship June after June after June. While the book focuses on Depression, it does go into Bipolar and since the Depression is our main problem point in our marriage, it is extremely appropriate.

Depression Fallout is the side effect disease that the "healthy" spouse can and will develop is he/she allows the sick spouses behavior to infiltrate their own core.

I start out EVERY June making the same mistakes over and over and over again. I plead. I beg. I cry. I yell. I make him sleep in the other room. Nothing ever works until I pull out this book, kick myself in the ass and move on with life.

The depressed spouse will VERY rarely admit to their depression or to their faults. Ziggy now knows this book. He's read parts of it himself. I've highlighted it and read parts to him in healthier times. We've discussed it. When he sees me reach for this book in exasperation, this is usually when he finally realizes, "oh shit, it's that bad and I better start working o n finding that damn light."

See the main part of the book's point is this - WALK AWAY. Don't leave them. But do NOT give in. Never let them see you sweat. You give them their meds, keep the house clean, take care of the kids, kindly tell them you hope they feel better as they go to sleep at 6:00pm every night and then do everything in your power to go on with life without them, and have total normality for you and your kids.

Within two weeks of doing this, it's like magic. I suddenly feel better. The house is happier. Life has moved on and eventually if Ziggy keeps his doctor appointments and I communicate with the doctor and his meds are adjusted, eventually he comes out of the darkness and rejoins life.

Now you may ask - why the free ride? Why does he get to behave so poorly and then just be forgiven and allowed back in? Well, my friends, this is where you can separate the newbie bipolar spouse from the seasoned one. My father helped "season" me for Ziggy probably a decade sooner than I would have, but here is the bottom line:

BIPOLAR AND DEPRESSION ARE DISEASES.

If Ziggy had cancer and was feeling ill from chemo for a month, I wouldn't yell and cry at him and leave him or walk away from him, right? Bingo. When you separate the person from the disease (which the book teaches you), you are able to love from afar without building up resentment and "you owe me's". Ziggy's depression is putting him in bed at 6:00pm and making him a cranky unruly beast - not Ziggy himself. He has a doctor appointment on Monday and we will get there - sooner or later, we'll crawl out.

He takes his meds and keeps his appointments and for that I am grateful - you have no idea how lucky I am just for him doing that. When he seems open and ready to talk, I open up and communicate with him about how his actions are affecting me. When he is beastly, I just keep my mouth shut and move on. It's not eggshells, trust me. It's just respect. He's sick right now and when he is open to a little truth, I give it to him KINDLY but honestly. When I can tell that he is shut off, I go about my own business.

And when he comes out of the fog, there is no parade for me. I don't get flowers or a trophy. Life just returns to a happy normal. Him coming out and being normal for me is all the thanks I need. It's like a cancer patient going into remission. A cancer patient doesn't go into remission and come out and throw a parade for their caretaker - normally it's the other way around.

During this bad time, Ziggy will be cheered and smiled at and loved upon for glimpses of good behavior. When he's sunken into his disease, life will go on around him and after 4 years of this (this is our 4th June together since his diagnosis), I know that him sitting in the dark hearing our lives go on without him hurts him tremendously even if he barks and yells at us while it's happening.

Tonight he was open to a bit of discussion and it was good. For ten minutes, I got to see and be reminded that Ziggy is in there and he will be coming back soon. I got to tell him how alone I was feeling. I didn't get a hug yet, but I'm close. Usually when the hugs begin, that's when I know he's really fighting to come back.

Until then, I read and re-read my used up and tattered copy of this book and all it's highlighted parts and I get the strength to grab my kid and do the hokey pokey and go to the park and make good meals and just...live.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Another genital post

Since my posts of late all seem to center around genitalia for some unknown reason, how about another penis story?

HOORAY!!!

Here goes. In our family, the penis is called your "bird". All of the men in my family have birds and if you marry into this family, you must dispose of your prior name and adopt the name, bird.

My son loves his bird, as most men do. As he's nearing 9, I've become a bit uncomfortable with his open affection for his bird. His bird has grown significantly in this past year and I try not to see it anymore, if I can help it.

However, when I do happen to see it...it is always...ALWAYS erect and he is always...ALWAYS fiddling with it. It's a sport that he truly gets into. He sits on the sofa in the morning in his boxers with his morning woody and just really gets into fiddling with it.

We've begun telling him to stop and that he should only do that in his room. We've begun catching him all over. Dr. Google as well as his pediatrician (whom I questioned yesterday about while Luke was in the bathroom) all say that this is super normal and super age appropriate.

But good Lord son, can you play with anything else lately?

So this morning, I caught him mid fiddle. Now mind you, there is no jerking off motions at this age. It's merely a pulling and prodding and swirling. Also, as a side note and a totally other blog topic for the future, my son is not circumcised so this gives the fiddling dimensions of fiddle that circumcised little boys could not understand.

Back to the story. I caught him mid fiddle this morning and so did Ziggy. We were frantically finishing moving living room odds and ends into the garage for the painter to finish the room when we both turned and saw Luke with his bird hanging out, totally up at attention in mid fiddle.

I told him to stop that right away, the living room is not where we do that. Here is the entire point to this story. Upon hearing my fussing, here is his reply verbatim:

"But mom, I'm just celebrating."

"Celebrating what, son?"

"Celebrating that we have mass today so I get to have my 2nd Communion." (His first communion was Saturday.)

"Oh, well, I'm not sure if God would like you to celebrate in the living room like that, ok?"

"OK, mom."

The fiddling stopped until I walked out the door and BAM, the bird comes out again and gets a fiddling.

So next time you feel like fiddling with your genitalia, or catch someone else doing the same, just remember, it's just a celebration! Ziggy and I laughed at this all day.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Itchy Twat

I was commenting this story briefly on another blog and I guessed it was blog worthy enough...plus I have a spare minute to type so here we go.

My twinkie itches.

No, I mean, it ITCHES. If I were able to, I would totally de-pants and sit and just scratch every inch of the outer and inter labia until I bled - that's how bad it itches. It's the worst itch of my life.

The doctor has now checked it twice - no yeast infection and no vaginitis. Nothing to be found. She's looked and poked and pulled and tested - nothing. Her theory? I have a form of diaper rash - probably from so much peeing. Fabulous.

See, when I was young I was inflicted with horrible massive bladder infections. When I was four I had surgery on my bladder and I've had a urologist who has known me for almost 30 years. My file is like A - F of the Encyclopedias, it's that big.

My uroligist saw me more up until I was 20 than the dentist and the pediatrician combined. He most recently saw me for my kidney stones that have come and gone 4 FUN times since I was pregnant with Luke.

So a long time ago I learned to drip dry. My urologist felt that women wiping after urinating was counter productive as it forces bad things back where they were trying to escape (that's how it was explained to me at age 4). So I'm a notorious drip dryer.

Well, at night, since I'm getting up to pee 4 - 6 times a night and I'm half asleep while doing it, I'm not drip drying properly and I'm pulling back up Ziggy's boxers and heading into bed with damp twinkie and then getting under covers until the next pee.

So, it's like a diaper rash from not drying enough and then heading to bed over and over again all night. Now you may say, "why not just wipe?" Well, let's see, I'm 31 and I learned to drip dry at 4 and it's between 11:00pm and 5:00am in the morning. Can you unlearn a 27 year old habit at that time of morning? I didn't think so.

I got some glorious cream and voila - the twinkie is soothed and pleasantly resting. I also got a no sex coupon good for two whole weeks which is bonus because the second trimester desires came and went...QUICKLY.

SCORE!

This weekend I was babysitting the twins with my mom and after their bath while dressing them, I reached for their prescription diaper rash cream and lo and behold - it's the same dang cream...Nystatin. Woo Hoo! Nanny and the twins have the same diaper rash cream - we're cool and you drool.

Wait a minute...I guess that's not so cool, right?

Oh and YES I've read the common uses for Nystatin and I don't have ringworm so screw off. It's diaper rash and there's no shame in that and as long as I'm not contemplating a brillo pad down there to ease the itch, I'm happy whatever the cream is.

On a total side note, this makes me wonder - does diaper rash actually itch a poor baby more than it actually burns? I wonder.