People I Want To Punch In The Face: Random Thoughts

In honor of Julian's first birthday....

PEOPLE I WANT TO PUNCH IN THE FACE

1) My husband (love you baby!) My husband is insisting that I grow out my cute short haircut, the one that garners constant attention and compliments. The style that requires no fuss, and makes me feel spunky and confident. I have had this cut for six years now, and apparently the man wants long hair again. Apparently all men want long hair. Christ. So now I am in the painfully slow process of growing this mop out. Right now it is still very short, but thick and puffy and unruly. I look terrible, and because my hair is still too short for clips I simply wear a hat all the time. Hats are fun, but it is getting a bit tiresome, and I feel a little
 like I'm in disguise. It's going to be a long freaking year of hair hell. Hubby-you owe me.

Hat 1

2) Myself. Yes, I make the list frequently. Why this time? Because I'm an absolute idiot with no self control who picked at the scabs on my brand new Las Vegas tattoo, leaving it looking gnarly and in desperate need of a touch up. What kind of a moron am I anyway? Am I four? I was specifically told not to pick at it. Now I'll pay the price. Dumb, Dumb, DUMBEST.

3) Candidates who apply for jobs for which they are completely unqualified. Look, I get it, it's a difficult economy and people are desperate for employment, but job descriptions list requirements for a reason. I'm not talking about an applicant with 3 years of experience instead of 5, I'm talking about people who apply lacking any of the relevant requirements. If a job requires a minimum of 5 years of event production experience and you have NEVER PRODUCED AN EVENT (outside of your kid's birthday parties) you are not getting the job. If you work as a Sandwich Artist at Subway you are not qualified to be a Creative Director at a PR agency. Get it?!

Hat 2

Hat 3

And now on with my day, which is actually quite a happy one. My little baby is one year old today and I can't wait to stuff his little face with cake!

My Birthday Boy

Dear Julian,

On May 30, 2011 I took your older brothers to the movies. We saw Kung Phu Panda II, and I downed a diet coke and a package of sour patch kids. I was dreadfully uncomfortable, but I had been so for weeks, so I thought nothing of it. Your arrival was scheduled for June 2nd, a c-section was planned, but I longed for you to select your own birthday, preferably in the month of May (birthstone is an emerald!) I was starting to lose hope, but that evening at around 9pm, I felt a true contraction. I was still not convinced. I had so many aches and sharp pains due to your position that I was skeptical, so I waited. At 12:30am on May 31, we finally decided it was time to head to the hospital.

We drove through dark deserted streets anticipating your arrival. My heart was pounding, my palms were sweaty, I was experiencing periodic agonizing contractions. It was time. Your time. We arrived at the hospital and were greeted with knowing smiles. We found our way to labor and delivery and I was immediately hooked up to monitors, which quickly confirmed that I was in fact, in labor. Over the next couple of hours I received IVs of fluid and pain medication. I was asked to fill out waivers and met with the anesthesiologist. The contractions came harder and more frequently and your father held my hand. "Breath" he told me over and over again. I didn't want to breath, I wanted it to be over! Finally just after 4am I was wheeled into surgery, your father by my side. There was tugging, and pulling and small talk amongst the doctors. Then finally, the tiny cries of my newborn and the doctors rushed to make sure you were okay. And you were, you were 6lbs 6 ounces of perfection. My perfect little baby boy.

One year later you are crawling, laughing, smiling, eating, climbing, hitting, laughing, playing, destroying, petting, tugging, and just plain delightful. Julian, you are a handful no doubt. Some days I'm so tired that a part of me forgets how lucky I am to be your mother, and perhaps that is just the nature of parenthood. This year has been exhausting and challenging  in ways I could not have imagined. But every single day as I nurse you to sleep, and I look into your gentle brown eyes I am reminded of your sweet nature. At one year old you are just as you should be, my perfect baby boy.

Happy Birthday Julian.

I love you.

Mommy

Funk

I was suppose to run six miles this weekend. I was suppose to feel great about my continued progress towards my half marathon. Instead, I am sitting on my tush with a swollen ankle and a bag of frozen potatoes, and I'm pissed. And depressed. And just down right grumpy.

Last Thursday I went for 3.75 mile run and was marveling at how my left foot seems to have totally recovered from the tendinitis I was experiencing, when I started to feel dull pain in my right ankle, the ankle I sprained back in early February. I didn't think too much of the discomfort, assuming at worst I might need a small insert for my right foot as well as my left. I finished my run and went about my day. A few hours later I noticed that my ankle was swelling just as it had when I sprained it. Crap. It's been swollen and sore ever since. Obviously I decided not to run this weekend, and I took it easy, iced it and dutifully took my ibprophen, to no avail, it is just as bad as it was on Thursday afternoon.

Now what? I know I will need to visit the podiatrist, and hopefully he will have something brilliant and encouraging to say outside of, "ice, rest, meds." I want him to give me a brace and tell me to get right back out there ASAP.

I don't want to lose ground. I have worked to hard to slip back now. I don't want to stop running, I don't want to start losing strength and muscle while going up a pant size.  I know that this is far from a tragedy, but it certainly has got in me in a funk.

Will I ever be a runner? 

Missing my twenty year

That is a picture of me my senior year of high school. I look at that photo now, and see a pretty young girl, but at the time I despised myself. High school was not a fun time for me, in fact it was downright miserable.

My mom, sister and I (on the right)

This weekend is my twenty year reunion in Madison Wisconsin. Needless to say, I decided not to go. When whispers of the event first started happening on Facebook, I truly thought I would attend. I haven't been back to Madison for six years and this would be a terrific excuse. But as plans were made and emails went back and forth referencing inside jokes about parties and dances I never attended, I began to change my mind. What was the point of going back?

I had few real friends in high school and most were not in my class. I had terrible self esteem and desperately wanted to fit in, but  never did. Not with the cool kids, not with the "bad" kids and not with the theater kids. I really was on my own. I have no idea why. I had a few boyfriends, but mostly pined away for an uninterested boy (you know who you are) and was riddled with angst. I strove for perfection, studying my ass off and starving myself to a pathetic 87 lbs. I was a hot mess.

But high school didn't last forever, and lucky for me, I changed.

I did make it back for my ten year reunion, which was sparsely attended. At my ten year I was out to prove something. While I went largely ignored during my four years at Madison West, I was now worth admiration. I was happy, well adjusted, had a decent job, a charming husband and was feeling better about my physical appearance then ever. I flat ironed my hair, put on a mini skirt and dragged my handsome man to the party. Nobody was impressed. Nobody cared. I saw a few old friends which was nice, but really I left feeling unfulfilled, let down. What had I expected? Did I want that evening to somehow make up for four lousy years?

We have all grown up. I have no doubt that I would have chatted with some very nice people at the reunion however, I simply didn't see the point in going back to reconnect with people I was never really connected with in the first place. I have decided to experience the twenty year extravaganza as I did my whole high school experience, watching from a far, a quiet observer.

Not ready for the birds & the bees

I found Evan on the floor of my bedroom surrounded by 30 or 40 tampons, most of them unwrapped, lying naked, shiny, white and sleek on my carpet.
"What are you doing?" I demanded.
"Unwrapping presents" Evan responded.
"Those are not toys! You are not to play with those. These are mommy's. " I said, exasperated as I started to rescue the few wrapped tampons, stuffing them back into the box. Then came the dreaded question.

"What are they?"
I struggled for the right words, then simply answered "tampons" as Zachary entered  the room and the conversation.
"What are tampons?" Zachary chimed in.
"They are for mommies" I responded, taking the conversation no place.

I was not ready to address the question, for how could I talk about tampons without a) scaring my kids and b) opening the door for more questions that I have no idea how to answer appropriately? My boys are not quite 4 and 7, aren't they too young to learn about the birds and the bees? How else can I explain about tampons without going there? I didn't know, so I deployed one of the greatest mommy tactics of all time. Distraction.

"Tampons are for mommies and you are too young to understand right now. When you are older I will explain. Now who want's ice cream?"

 The boys responded as I had hoped, they abandoned the mess of open feminine protection products and ran to the kitchen for a treat. Crisis averted. But for how long? Some of Zachary's school friends have already started talking about kissing girls and I even heard one utter the word boobs in my presence. It is only a matter of time before my innocent boy starts hearing and wondering about all kinds of things. But for now, I'm putting it off just a little bit longer, and finding a better spot for my "supplies."

What would you have done?

I know this much is true

My third baby. My sweet Ju Ju Bean. I know  that you don't have a baby book, but I started one, I had the best intentions. I realize your clothes rarely match, you never have shoes and you are frequently covered in dirt with yogurt crusted in your hair. It isn't that I don't care. No, we haven't taken a Music Together or Gymboree class, and we failed to get regular baby portraits, but it isn't because I do not love you. I do. Your naps are often interrupted or forgotten altogether, until we find you passed out in your stroller. I never made you homemade baby food, instead you get the bits and pieces of whatever your brothers leave behind, and a more than occasional french-fry. I turn a blind eye when I find you sucking on a (non -toxic) marker because at least you are not crying.

Oh Julian, you are just as sweet and adorable as your older siblings and I love you just as much, but your arrival has kicked my butt. This year has been the very hardest of my life, and thus I have less energy for making scrap books and pureed vegetables. Juggling play dates, soccer games and your brother's social calendars leaves less time for baby-focused activities but I swear,  I swear, that I have just as much room in my heart for you.

Julian covered in beets

Not blood. Just marker.

Julian covered in watermelon

So you are messy. So your clothes don't match, so  I haven't documented every second of your first year, but you are loved. That much I know is true.

My Life: Infertility

I lie on my back and stare at the florescent lights overhead. I'm wearing a hospital gown, naked from the waste down. Small talk. Latex gloves do their job, then depart. The nurse  whispers good luck, and shuts the door leaving me to wait. And wait. And wait. It was all that waiting, and all the hormones that nearly drove me to insanity. Two weeks. Then the cramps would come, and inevitably the blood and tears.

It took nine months of hormones, ultrasounds, shots, and "IUI" (inter-uterine insemination) to conceive my second son, Evan. Zachary was also a "fertility" baby, but it only took four months of clomid to create him.

Now I am a mother of three biological children that I carried to term. I cannot say with a straight face that I truly understand infertility. I have only had a bitter taste. I have experienced the envy of discovering yet another friend was expecting, I have wandered the isles of Babies R Us searching for shower gifts wondering when it would finally be our turn.  I have felt rage at the site of a scowling teen, belly bursting with life in my OBYN's waiting room. Not fair. Not fair. But of course, I don't REALLY know.

I have met plenty of women over the years who have truly had to deal with infertility. They have spent tens of thousands of dollars on treatments that never worked. They endured miscarriages and hopelessness. This was not my path. I have been lucky.

My third baby came naturally and, thus was a much different experience. I didn't take pills. I didn't monitor my ovulation. There was no probing, no sterile visit with a nurse. It just happened. A gift. A gift so many never receive. If my "brush" with infertility taught me anything, it is not to take that experience for granted.

While I was pregnant with Julian I had an acquaintance email me in response to some Facebook whining that I was doing regarding morning sickness. She told me that I was lucky to be pregnant and that I should never complain about it. She told me there were women who would give their right arm to be in my shoes. I recognized this to be true, but was also angry that I was suppose to deny myself an opportunity to publicly express my excitement, worry, fear and discomfort to spare the feelings of others. I needed the support of my friends and family through my pregnancy, just as I did through my infertility.

So many people are quiet about infertility. It's a secret. It's shameful. You don't talk about it, and thus, you don't get much needed support from the world around. I'll tell anyone my story. I'll tell them because I want them to know that they can tell me theirs as well, and that even though I am a mother of three crazy boys,  some part of me understands the struggle. I will never forget those months of trying and waiting. The roller coaster of emotions. Those months will always be a part of who I am as a woman and as a mother. It was not a happy experience, but I can honestly say I do believe it made me more empathetic, more understanding and eternally grateful for my little birds.