Tena's Therapy

Being A Mom to a Boy

tena — Thu, 17 May 2012 20:10:21 +0000

The other night my husband went out with an old friend he hadn’t seen in a while. Upon his return, I asked how his wife and their kids (they have 3 sons 19,20, and 23) were doing since it had been a few years since we had all gotten together.

Last I heard, the oldest had a girlfriend that was pregnant. Part of me reacted the way I would have if it were my own 20 year old, unmarried son getting a girl knocked up. But they seemed, for lack of a better word, excited. I can’t lie, I was a little puzzled.

Then a memory of all of our boys playing together when they were young came rushing back. They were on a swing set. My son was five and theirs were slightly older at 7,8, and 11. The older kids hoisted my son up on a trapeze of sorts and started swinging him really high. I remember being sort of jumpy and distracted, watching from a distance, but their mom kept telling her story and filling my wine glass, completely unfazed by the stunts that were normal for her kids. I didn’t want to appear uptight and my son seemed to be enjoying himself, so I reacted accordingly to her story with laughs, but, peripherally, my focus was on the kids while my mind was anxiously playing out worst case scenarios.

She pulled me into the kitchen to show me a paint color and as soon as the kids were out of my view, it happened. I heard a thud. Next thing I saw was my husband frantically carrying in my son, crying and covered in bloody mud all over his face. I rushed him to the bathroom and washed him off to find that the source of the blood was his nose and a huge gash on his lip. Life threatening? No. Not even a visit to the emergency room worthy, however, he was bloody and scared and five.

The mom shrugged me off when I asked for a washcloth to hold on his wounds to stop the bleeding, shooed her hand at me, “Meh, it’s nothing. You’ll see much worse that that! You should have seen when Michael broke his arm in three places and bones were sticking out of his skin.”

But this was my son and if I could AVOID shit like this, that was what I understood to be my job. It was not to just throw my hands up in the air when he did something dangerous or stupid and chalk it up to “boys will be boys”! Sure he’ll make mistakes, but I do not plan to sit by and encourage him making stupid choices, because, that’s just kids for ya! And I hope that I have armed him with sense to take the right paths, choose good friends, and be a decent person. But when those mistakes happen, I hope that he learn from them and not let it happen again.

Everyone has their own ways of parenting. It’s right FOR THEM. There is not enough Xanax and Prozac IN THE WORLD for me to be as laid back of a parent as our friends are. It works for them, that’s fine. FOR THEM.

So back to the other night and the update about our friends. The 19-year-old, now, has a baby. The 20-year -old, now, has a baby and the 23-year- old, now, has two kids. None of them are married and the boys still all live at home.

Shocked doesn’t even begin to explain what I felt. I had so many questions (of course, none that my husband got answers to!) But then, I started panicking. I had a 17-year- old sleeping in his room, we’ve had the “sex talk”, but what does that mean, really? It was a while ago and I’m CERTAIN he wasn’t having sex then, so he did everything to avoid eye contact with me and let me get through it. He doesn’t listen to me when I tell him to put his shoes away, so what makes me think he will refer to a very uncomfortable conversation that we had where I repeatedly referred to his penis staying in his pants because babies are expensive.

I was freaking out. Our friends were grandparents FOUR times over. Sure, they parented a little less hands on than was my style, but still, they were our age. They loved their kids. Their kids are exposed to the same media and societal temptations as mine are.

I immediately ran down to my son’s room at 11:30pm and woke him up. “I just need to talk real quick,” I said as I tripped over shoes and empty cups. “I know this is weird, but are you having sex?”

Apparently, 17 -year- old boys frown on being woken up in the middle of the night to be asked about their sexual activity by their moms. Who knew?

His answer that it was “none of my business”, made me as close to swallowing my own tongue as I think I have ever been. NOT the answer I was looking for. But I had to bite the bullet. I was having sex by his age. And this is that fucking regret that I had heard about when I was young, stupid and horny. Well played, Universe.

I surrendered and told him about our friends’ kids and basically begged him to not be stupid and not use protection. He rolled his eyes and rolled over, back to sleep. I didn’t care because I got it out, I told him what I needed him to know and a load had been lifted.

The next day I saw him, I had a sneaking suspicion that he may have still been sleeping during the wisdom that was dished out the night before. I asked him if he remembered our talk. I got a blank stare. If he remembered, he would have rolled his eyes, but nothing. Just like that, the OHMYGODIWILLBEAGRANDMA load was put back on.

This was wisdom that he needed to have, but needed to not see my face while doling it out.

I opted for this…

Results

tena — Mon, 07 May 2012 18:24:49 +0000

I’m sure you’re on the seat of your chair to hear how the 3 day face lift diet worked, right?

Well, scroll down and you may be disappointed. There are no after pictures. That can mean one of three things. Either (1) I didn’t notice a difference or (2) I was too lazy to take a picture or (3) the salmon and leafy green vegetables with lemon got the best of me and my gag reflex and I did not last the full three days (which I would have bet on, frankly.) Knowing my failure to follow through and love for carbs, I fully expected it to be the latter.

Surprisingly, though, it is not.

I made it the full three days (I KNOW) and at the end, my stomach was growling, I barely had enough energy to work out, was still picking blueberries out of my teeth, made a gazillion trips to the bathroom from all the water, and my pee smelled weird from asparagus. But my face, seemed unaffected. Puffiness and unwelcome lines- still intact.

Though a part of me certainly hoped this was the magic trick and that I would look like I did when Jersey Shore was just a vacation spot for people that can’t afford to go to The Hampton’s, and not a trashy TV show that my husband secretly watches, I did not expect it to make a change.

I’ve become aware that there is no magic pill and that age and weight gain happens. The older you get, the more rigid you have to be. I had become poorly habitual in my diet. What I did want to use it as was a springboard to making changes and taking chances… in my diet. Or so I thought.

Though I didn’t notice a difference in my appearance, I did feel accomplished, in a weird way. As my family ate turkey burgers and french fries and I chomped on blueberries, lettuce, and fish, I felt like I was doing something proactive. I didn’t sneak one fry or even have a cup of coffee in the morning! I didn’t cheat. And it became clear to me that I was doing something for ME and I owed it to myself to follow through.

Lately I feel like I cheat myself out of a lot, not just in my diet. I sabotage. I can come up with an excuse to get out of pretty much anything and convince myself (and others) that it’s the real reason. When really, fear and the idea of failing, disappointing others or ruffling feathers is the reason I don’t take the chance.

The slightest stumbling block can send me in a tailspin. And lately, I allow it to. I throw my proverbial hands up in the air and say screw it and go back to my destructive, selfless habits. Habits that have made me feel sad, lonely, and unworthy of pretty much anything positive.

My bad habits had spread further than my diet. They’ve become a way of life. I know better than to complain about my weight when I’m eating like crap and not exercising… so why do I complain about other things in my life, when I’m not willing to make changes and bitch that things stay the same?

It’s so fucking cliche, but you are in charge of your destiny and if you want things to change, you need to make change happen. Maybe eating salmon for three days won’t turn back time on your face, but it was worth a try and it turned on another light, of sorts. I’m trying. I’m trying to put myself out here again and it’s not easy, but I want to know that I at least gave myself a chance. Fuck the naysayers.

turning back time with salmon, gag.

tena — Thu, 03 May 2012 18:54:51 +0000

Seems like each week I start a new diet or regime. (How’s that working for you, Tena? Yeah, not so good. Shut up.) Along with talking to myself, I barter with myself. When I’m feeling energized enough to be working out, I work out hard, and justify eating. When I don’t have the energy to work out, I focus on what I can sacrifice in my diet. I am rarely ever firing on all cylinders of diet and exercise, simultaneously. It’s a bad plan, I get it.

Lately, though, it feels like I’m fighting a harder battle than I used to. It used to be primarily about my weight. How clothes fit and how I felt in them. If I was able to wear pants with a button and zipper on a given day, that was success. But now, the reflection in the mirror is unfamiliar in more cruel, unflattering ways.

My face.

There are always new unwelcome lines, blotches, and puffiness. I guess it comes with the territory, but I don’t like it. In less than 5 months, I will be turning 40. And my conclusion is getting old is an asshole. Your body becomes uncooperative like it has one of those autoimmune diseases and attacks itself, very counter-productive.

My eyelashes and eyebrows have become thin and sparse. But, lucky me, the hair has redirected itself to grow in my nose or on my nipples! None on the chin, yet, but it’s just a matter of time, I’m sure.

I feel like I have a hangover every morning, though I rarely do. It takes longer and longer to get ready every day, and that’s just to fake my I just decided to go natural today look. Even when I spend a lot of time putting on my face, and my mirror at home doesn’t look half bad, I inevitably pass a reflection and wonder who the poor old dried up lady with droopy frown lines and dark circles under her eyes is. It’s a bitch when I realize she’s wearing the same thing as I was when I left the house.

Because of this,this week, I decided to go a little different route on my diet of choice. The 3- day Face Lift Diet. I have heard about it before and seen interviews with Dr. Perricone, but never really put much thought into it. Then Lauren Manzo, Caroline’s daughter from Real Housewives of New Jersey, went to visit Dr. Perricone (in REAL LIFE, Gah! I wish Caroline was MY mom!) and she is now under the care of him. I have no idea if she’s had any results, but this is how I make life’s decisions… if it’s good enough for the Housewives of Jersey (or their kids), it’s good enough for me.

So I researched the diet again. The reviews are pretty much rave all around. And it seemed very promising and I hope to show you a picture of me looking ten years younger next week, but if I don’t… it may be because I killed someone.

The diet is based on eliminating inflammation. By eating these certain foods, the inflammation is supposed to decrease, which is the cause of the aged look. I concur. I could use some anti-inflammation, for sure!

There’s only one problem. One key to this diet is salmon. The Omega 3 in salmon is said to be the trick and, well, I hate salmon (and any fish, for that matter). But it’s for three days! You can do pretty much anything for just three days, right? RIGHT?

Well, that’s what my optimistic, first thing in the morning, let’s get this started, fresh self told herself. I ventured to the store and bought the things that were need for three days of eating to decrease puffiness, including 2 lbs of salmon. As I portioned it into individual servings, I threw up in my mouth from the smell a few times. And the skin on the fish! I don’t even know what to do with this! I keep telling myself, it’s THREE DAYS! I can do this, can’t I?

But so help me God, if I eat that shit and I don’t look a little better, I will lose it.

Niche

tena — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 19:02:46 +0000

Last weekend I went to a conference. It was a blogging conference. I hate the word blog. It was called Bloggy Boot Camp. I hate the word bloggy even more. And the phrase ‘boot camp’ automatically makes sweat puddle under my boobs and I have panic attacks thinking that I will have to work out until I throw up.

So, regardless of the fact that I don’t approve of the name of the conference (who the hell am I, right?), I knew that I needed a kick in the ass to get me going again. The conference was in St. Louis and there was really no excuse. I had to do it. Also, there was wine.

The last (and only) conference I have gone to was three years ago and my steam from it had run out. I needed new inspiration. I needed to to be around other people that cover up their social awkwardness in public by tapping away on their smart phones. I needed to be around other people that understood the connections that can happen in this community. I needed to be reminded of having goals and taking chances. I had to do it for me.

I also needed to get away from my kids.

I have to be honest and admit, I did not learn a TON that I did not already know. But the goal was to light a fire under my ass and not reinvent the wheel.

But Idid learn that time in the blogosphere is kinda like dog years. I’ve been doing this for four years. Which, before last weekend, I still thought I was a newbie. I mean, I’m not running conferences. I’m not a household name and I’ve never been recognized. I don’t have my own TV show. I have no book deal in the works. I can barely figure out how to change things in my sidebars, for chrissake!

But apparently, I’ve been doing this for the equivalent of, like, 25 years. Or something. (We also don’t do math.) I am one of those old timers that started this as an outlet, to vent. We wrote about our day, bitched about our kids and our husbands and what was on our minds. We hopped around, read everyone’s blogs and commented. Some exchanged emails, some even exchanged phone numbers and, if you were lucky, you got to meet your friends that were only in the box, in the flesh. Some were taller than you expected, some you didn’t really click with, some knew how to photoshop REALLY well (ahem), and some were greater in person than you ever would have guessed.

We didn’t make more than a few cents a month in advertising and maybe received a bottle of lotion or a vibrator to review every few months. But that was more than enough. I don’t think then, that most of us started this as a get rich scheme. I know I didn’t.

Many people that started around the time I did are gone. Life got busy and their kids grew up and were no longer in the “Ryan played in his poop today” phase, or, at least, too old for it to be cute or acceptable anymore. You can only take so many pictures of your garden or your dog before you realize how pathetic your life is and that you must OHMYGOD GET OUT OF THE HOUSE AND INTERACT.

Facebook, for all intents and purposes, is the blogging community of the past, the one I knew when I began. It has been replaced with people that are young, savvy, intelligent, witty, creative thinkers that want to make money doing what they love and know they have a worth.

I think this transition scared me off for a while. After all, I was just a personal blog. I’m not a chef. I am not a crafter. I don’t clip coupons and I can’t take a decent picture to save my life. What did I have to offer? But I had to admit, I blogged for more than just a Facebook status. I wrote. I poured out real emotion and shared. I was blatantly honest and real in my words. I had truly found something I loved and wanted to keep it going.

The question that has been running through my head for the last year as I contemplated whether or not I would continue to pursue this was “what is my niche?” The question haunted me. For someone that is as unsure and self-deprecating as I am, this is a toughy. Admitting what you’re good at, standing behind it, and being confident in it is like standing in front of a crowd, completely exposed, naked and just waiting for ridicule.

But again, last weekend, the question came up again. What is your niche?

My niche is being me. Which is just like you. I am regular woman. I’m a mom. I deal with shit everyday, just like you do. I love my kids, but they drive me nuts. I wish I could find a wrinkle cream that worked. I probably argued with my husband about the same thing last week that you argued about this morning with yours. Paying bills puts me in a bad mood. I cuss too much. I feel guilty for eating that extra brownie yesterday and already ruined my diet that I was supposed to start this morning. I’ll tell you it like it is, even when it’s not pretty. I get you and you get me.

Not sure if that’s enough, but that’s all I’ve got.

Just

tena — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 17:49:34 +0000

I’ve been going through the motions for a while now. Kind of aimless in my destination and unsure of where it is I’m headed or, even, what I want. None of that has changed, don’t worry, I’m still confused as hell. However, I am more focused, now, at wanting to figure it out and get there.

Four years ago, my kids were getting older and more self-sufficient and I felt a lull in my life. An emptiness, a loneliness, a craving that I needed to feed. I needed to find Tena again. Not the mom, not the wife, not the maker of dinner, not the folder of laundry. I needed to find the person I was before I was all of those things. I had forgotten about myself and completely neglected all things me. A person that did things because she wanted to not because she had to. A person that had passion and opinions. A person that was confident and well-spoken. A person that was more than “just” anything.

Writing to make sense of things had become one of those “me things”. It was a much needed outlet. I wasn’t going to save the world, change lives or become a millionaire, but it made me feel more balanced and in touch with what was going on in my life. I made connections with like minded people and have met some people that I consider true friends till the end. The craving had been fed and I began to like myself again. I began to feel worthy again of more than changing diapers and being a chauffeur.

My life had been defined by my kids and running my household for a long time. Too long. For some, that might have been enough, some can find satisfaction in taking care of people and being needed. For me, it just wasn’t. Something was missing. I used my family as an excuse; my mundane existence was a crutch to not take chances or put myself out there. It was just too exhausting and I wasn’t strong enough for the rejection. Writing filled that hole. The friends I met along the way reminded me of a worth that I had to offer beyond housework. I began to believe in myself again and was happy.

Then, I got pregnant again. It was an unexpected stumbling block that kicked my ass. Just as I felt I was beginning to stand on my own two feet and believe that I could be more than “just a mom”, here I was, put back in my place. I envisioned late nights with a needy baby and my destiny was cemented as being just a mom forever. The me time was short lived.

Over the last two years, I have dealt with a great deal of depression, self loathing, and downright insecurity. I’ve been fighting like hell to get back. I’m not sure if I’m strong enough yet, but I’m trying. The hardest person to convince is myself.

Ironically, the baby that was such a surprise and threw me into this tailspin of negativity and self doubt, is the same boy that brings immense joy to me on an hourly basis. He has become a strong-willed boy that thinks he can do anything. I owe him and my other children the encouragement and example that they never have to settle for being “just” anything.

The Call

tena — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 17:57:25 +0000

Last night I got the phone call that every mom of a driver dreads.

“I’ve been in an accident, mom.”

Everything goes silent. Breathing stops as the heart races and you can feel beads of sweat puddling on your hairline and your pulse reverberating in your ears.

“I’ll call you back, I have to talk the the firemen and paramedics.”

Panic.

I call him back immediately, ”How dare you do that! I don’t give a shit about the firemen! Are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” he tells me. “It’s not a big deal, everything’s OK.”

And with that, the anger set in. As long as he was fine, I was going to kill him.

Slowly and choppily, he unravels pellets of details from his shaky voice. I listen and try to piece together what emotions I should be feeling and what I can do as I have a house full of sleeping children.

The accident happened close to my mom’s house on a wet road infamous for its winding paths that I’ve warned him about HUNDREDS of times only to get eye rolls in return. I get more angry.

He had a friend in the car and his friend was being seen by a paramedic for his shoulder. ”The car is pretty messed up,” he added and I know that’s what was weighing on him the most. Whether it was my wrath for him ruining the car or the freedom that it provided to him becoming a distant memory or a little of both.

The paramedic spoke with me and reassured me that the boys were OK. A minor injury to the passenger from the seat belt and his parents were on their way.

It seemed like everything was under control and that they were fine. I called my mom and asked if she could go oversee the situation and pick him up. The kids were sleeping and I didn’t trust how I would react in the situation. I explained to her, “I don’t what I’ll do, I know he was screwing around, he’s a teenager!” I was mad. I was disappointed. I was afraid. I was overwhelmed with particulars from insurance to tow trucks.

After some time had passed and I knew my mom had enough time to get there, I called to find out if any new information was found and hear it from her. Knowing I was fired up and on my soapbox about his carelessness, “It was a BAD accident, Tena,” she whispered breathy, “Now is not the time for lectures, trust me, he is shaken up and they were truly lucky. The car overturned into a ravine just feet away from a deeper one that would have been tragic!”

I was put in my place. And suddenly that initial panic returned.

I kept seeing the images in my head and, still now, I keep seeing them and my mind is racing and dwelling on what if’s. The car was towed to my mom’s driveway and I don’t want to see it. I don’t need the visual. My mind doesn’t need a visual.

My husband came home from work and retrieved him from my mom’s. When they walked in the door, my previous anger faded, dropped away and was replaced with compassion and gratitude as I saw this scared kid, mentally damaged and traumatized with a look of dismay that you rarely see in a 17 year old boy. I opened my arms and he hugged me tighter than he ever has and cried on my shoulder for what seemed like an eternity.

My emotions ran the gamut and confused me. I wanted to lock him in his room. I wanted to take away his pain and the inevitable recaps that are running through his mind. I wanted to punish him, but then I think he’s had his punishment. A small part of me is happy that it happened, that maybe he will be more cautious now, realize I’m not crazily over-protective and that it’s not that I don’t trust him, but that shit really does happen.

I know he was lucky and I’m thankful, but with kids it’s always something testing your ability to deal. I feel like I’m waiting for the next shoe to drop. Always. And last night I don’t think I fared very well.

The one where I start talking about math and end up at lady porn, naturally.

tena — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 18:20:56 +0000

Math. When many people hear the word or think of memories of school in relation to math, they get twitchy or sweaty and ramble about how they “hate math”. I didn’t hate math. It was like a fun puzzle to figure out. I always had a firm belief that people that had that fear of math, did, simply because of the connotation it carried and the reputation, if you will, that others gave it.

Because of this, I have made an asserted effort to open up my kids’ minds and explain to them that math is fun and make it a challenge and a game that they enjoyed figuring out. I never wanted to hear “I hate math” from them.

With my son, I have been rather successful. He will be a senior in high school next year and has chosen to take 4 years of math (2 more than required) and will be taking Trigonometry next year. For a kid that is not necessarily an academic, I consider that a success.

Though I liked math and was always rather good at it, my twitches came with reading. That same response that many have to math, I have to reading. I read slowly and my comprehension was less than stellar. When I would take standardized tests and have to read an excerpt about coyotes in the North American habitat and their predatory ways, my eyes glazed over by time I got to the second sentence. I could rarely be confident in answering the questions that followed and wasted most of my time flipping back the pages (though you’re not supposed to) to find the answers.

As a result, my reading scores were always low and I felt like a failure, it was my Achilles heel. And thus my wall was built up against reading. From a young age, I avoided reading at most costs. I’m ashamed to admit that the last books I can remember reading by choice for leisure were Sweet Valley High books in the sixth grade.

I tried. I just could never find anything to keep my attention or keep me awake. Seriously, reading a book is like taking a large dose of Klonepin with a vodka shooter for me… my eyes get very heavy and before I know it, I’m lying in a pile of my own drool (not that THAT has ever happened, of course.)

Because of my avoidance, I’ve missed out on a lot of trends. I never read any of Oprah’s Book Club selections. I never picked up a Twilight book (in fairness, that’s not only because of my disdain of reading, though. I take issue with the goofy vampire premise.) I wait for a lot of raved books to come out in a movie and have to listen to others say what a disappointment the movie was compared to the book.

Lo and Behold…

I have stepped out of my comfort zone. At the insistence of some friends, I downloaded my first book, 50 Shades of Grey by E.L. James. I won’t lie, I was anxious with fearful thoughts and inadequacy of my reading ability started flooding over me. Will I be able to follow? Will I be able to stay awake? Will I read it so slowly that by time I done, people won’t even be talking about it anymore? I was told it was heated, if you will. Sexually charged. Eh, what did I have to lose? Sounded like a good risk to take.

And guess what?

All it took was some lady porn.Two days later, I downloaded my second book and I’m a nap time away from downloading my third (it’s a trilogy, I have no idea what I’ll do when I’m done.) My DVR has never been more overloaded with unwatched TV and my kids are puzzled by the amount of unfinished laundry and the fact that I let them make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for themselves for dinner the other night so I could sit in my room and read.

Even though my point of reference is rather limited (see: last book I read 28 years ago), I don’t think it’s greatest literary work. Far from it, really. A thesaurus could have come in handy during the writing of this (the character’s last name is Grey and she describes his eyes as grey no less than 64 times, is it just me or could she have thought of another adjective?)And maybe some knowledge of how Americans speak (we do not “go fetch our purse”.) A 22 year old woman calling her vagina her “sex” is just distracting, frankly, and each time I read it, I imagined her whispering the word and giggling girlishly into her hand.

Have you read it? Let’s talk? I can finally be “in” on a conversation about a book. This is a big moment for me, y’all!

My Glamorous Getaway

tena — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 17:01:37 +0000

You know it’s been a trying last 15 days with my kids home on spring break when I’m actually looking forward to getting away to get the underneath of my gums scraped with sharp tools.

I’m going to get my first deep dental cleaning today (for half of my mouth, that is apparently how they do it. Which is painfully disturbing to me as I anticipate how unbalanced my mouth will feel for the week until I get the other half done… and then still, one half will technically be cleaner than the other half, it will be an ugly vicious cycle of dirty mouth asymmetry.)

And I am looking forward to it. Not the blood and the spit uncontrollably rolling out of my face and that nails down a chalkboard sound of scraping, but the getting out the house and having thoughts in my head not interrupted by screams of children crying that someone was mean to them or telling me that the basement has flooded.

I need a break. I need it bad. I don’t think that this will be the recharge I need, but it’s a start. Or else soon, you will see me with my freakishly half clean mouth standing on a clock tower on the 10:00 news, threatening to jump.

High Strung Intervention

tena — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 21:42:20 +0000

If you would have asked me a few weeks ago, I would have told you that my kids are really good. I know, everyone says that, and usually it’s not true. But with me, it is. Or at least, it was.

People always commented on how well behaved my kids were. Not hyperactive or loud, fairly shy and quiet, just the way I like it. Sure, I bitch about them and their neediness, but when it comes down to it, I was really lucky. They know I’m not a morning person, they stay away from my chocolate stashes and admit that I’m waaaay smarter than their dad.

When they did act up or have their moments, it was on a tag team basis. One at a time.

However.

Lately there has been a change in the tide. One that I’m not happy about. They are ganging up on me in the greatest proportions ever.

And this guy?

TOTAL RINGLEADER. (I know, but he’s so fucking cute, right? You see my conundrum.)

He seems to get into more shit by the hour.

And the others? They complain. About everything. The cereal isn’t the right kind. Dinner sucks. This one sprayed body spray in that one’s eyes. He used all the hot water. She ate the last granola bar. I bought the wrong toilet paper. OMG. And that was just one hour. I freaked out, called them all ungrateful pieces of crap and fell asleep crying and playing Draw Something on my phone (I’m tenakim and my OCD is really noticeable, I take a long time to draw awful pictures that look nothing like the thing, but whatever, it calms me.)

I’m seriously having a hard time keeping up. Their poor behavior is just piling on another thing that I can’t control.

I have issues with control. I need it. But lately, I’m unable to keep it. I’m losing grasp. I have always been able to keep things going, but I’m not handling it well anymore. If I had a dollar for every person that told me to relax and just let some things go, I’d have like $10. Eleven if you count my doctor who told me the same thing as he was upping my Zoloft yesterday. So I bit the bullet along with a frighteningly large dose of antidepressants and last night I took a big step in the right direction. I let my daughter make brownies for her friends for school.

The whole time my mind was racing, there’s going to be eggshells in that batter, she’s not mixing it up enough, she used too much oil, she is TOTALLY going to drop my pan and then I’m going to have to clean that shit up. But I stayed away. We/she made it through, she didn’t drop the pan, she got a stomach ache from eating too much batter and there may well be eggshells in the brownies, but what the hell do I care? I’m not eating them. AMIRIGHT?

The house didn’t burn down and I was able to get some work done and go to the bathroom (albeit while the baby was eating perfume), but it was a small victory nonetheless and I’ll take it.

I am going to try and keep “letting things go”, letting go of more control and accepting that I can’t do everything all the time. And my kids are off of school starting today for TWO WEEKS today, wish me well. I will need it. And they will probably too.

Hello Old Friend, Anxiety, You Asshole.

tena — Thu, 01 Mar 2012 20:46:17 +0000

Hey. Remember when I thought I was going to stop writing about downer shit? Well, forget that. I’ve been trying to catch my breath long enough to formulate a few sentences in between crying and avoiding laundry. It’s been hard since my son’s new thing is eating handfuls of potted soil and I have no Xanax on hand. I have also been ignoring the fact that I am sweating profusely and am dizzy 95% of the time.This week has been a trying continuation of a pattern that seems to just want to knock me on my ass.

And my husband is home for 6- COUNT THEM- SIX-days that are NOT a vacation! I’m overjoyed. **sarcasm font**
I’ll just have to deal with him being home since a good friend pointed out that we are simply too busy to hide the body and deal with all of those messy details right now.

In other news, We survived the plague. And by “we”, I mean everyone but me. Eleven days of gross shit (literal and figuratively) happening in my house. Gross things that you don’t want to know about. A violent stomach bug claimed each one of my kids, one at a time. One after another, after another, well, you get the idea. Five times over. And one kid, twice. And a 47 year old man who was really the biggest pussy of them all.

My body, however, has not let me down. It was a fucking rock star. No sleep. Voracious appetite. A few nights I felt this bug trying to take me, but I was stronger than it was. Which I’m honestly a little torn about. My waistline could use a little stomach bug and my Viking appetite could benefit from being knocked down a few notches. But, honestly, who would keep things going?

I don’t have time to get sick. I can’t lay in a bed for a day or two. Who would make chicken soup, keep the fridge stocked with white soda and popcicles, and keep the dog away from stepping through puke. No one, that’s who.

My daughter’s musical is this week. Last night was opening night and I *may* have cried. But not in the typical “I’m so proud of her, where did she get all this tremendous talent and confidence from” mom, kind of way. Rather, I actually cried in an “OMG, she is Belle and she truly loves the Beast and how kindhearted he is.” She convinced me. Goosebumps. Tears. The whole shebang. She is a REALLY GOOD actress! Like, frighteningly so. I knew that she loved to sing. I knew that she was dramatic, but I don’t think I realized until last night that her evil powers could be used for good other than causing grey hair, screaming and starting migraines. It was a very proud moment.

(and yes, that is my asshole baby yelling in the audience.)

This week I also had another daughter’s birthday and a 1st grade program adding to the absolute overwhelming feeling that I have to be everything to everyone at all times, simultaneously. Being pulled in a hundred different directions, not wanting anyone to feel slighted, and per usual, being too hard on myself.

So it’s been fun (not really) and I’m clearly in a super stable place right now (again, no, I’m not.) I try to throw humor in to convince myself it’s not all that bad, but I gotta say, it’s not working so well.