Cathartic Mama Redux

Pretend I'm a Pretty Pony

2015-09-11T10:00:00.000-07:00

If it's good enough for my horse. . .

Dry brushing - it sounds like an oil painting technique. It can look downright laughable.

Now, depending on whom you ask, you'll get explanations on dry brushing that involve increased circulation and improved draining of the lymphatic system. There's a fairly concise and easy-peasy explanation over at Birchbox.

I take it down to basics.

"Here's a face brush; now, pretend I'm a horse."

Yes, I have a soft face brush purchased from the tack store that I have my husband use to brush my feet, legs, shoulders - anywhere that is experiencing pain or swelling. (Stiff bristle brushes leave me feeling like I have a sunburn.) It looks bizarre, feels wonderful, and the most ridiculous part of all is -

It works. Just five minutes or so of brushing, and the swelling in my legs will be gone in thirty minutes, maybe less. The process, which places less pressure on my body that even stroking with an open hand, even gets deep knots in my back to release. Something only a TENS unit could achieve before.

Now, that's not to say I'm pain-free. I have never been pain-free, despite everything I've tried, in the past three years, or so. But it does reduce the pain dramatically. For me, dramatically means going from a 9/10 down to 6/10.

Using my TENS will take me from 9/10 or 10/10 down to a 4/10 or maybe 5/10, but the result is very different. With the TENS, there is almost a numbness associated with the relief. As thought the area is trying to yell about being hurt, but has lost its voice. Something is being reported, but it's difficult to describe.

With dry brushing, it's more like the area downgrades from screaming to rather loud grumbling.

How do you dry brush?

Ok, the first thing you need is a brush. You will have people insisting at you that it must be made of stiff, all natural bristles.

Ahem.

Listen to your body.

If you have skin that is very sensitive, particularly fibro aggravated skin like mine that feels sun-burnt when you run a stiff brush over it - maybe you should consider a different kind of brush.

Before I purchased my brush at the tack shop (And yes, I stood in the aisle and tested everything before making up my mind. Got more than a few raised eyebrows, I can tell you), I used to use a synthetic bristle brush where the bristles had coated tips. Of all my brushes, including the softer camel-hair ones, it was the only one that wasn't painful to use.

Got your brush? Good.

Now, the basic principal is to gently brush across your skin, drawing the brush toward your heart. So, you would go toe to knee, finger to shoulder, etc. Always moving the strokes toward your core.

However, with regard to the lymphatic system, there are ports at various points on the body that allow the system to drain more efficiently. Some of these ports even align to common fibromyalgia trigger points. There is a good reference image at movementhealsyou.com.

The next part, and for me, the suckiest, is experimentation. Some bodies respond better to soft, elongated strokes. And I know some people say they have better results with shorter, firmer strokes. Take time to test out different methods, over the course of several days. Why take so long? Simply put, your body may have a more sluggish system, and results may not be apparent in 15-, 20-, or 30-minutes. It may take an hour or more for you to really feel any changes. Give your body time to adjust and talk to you.

And then of course . . .

There is always the possibility that dry brushing doesn't help your body. And that is ok, too.

I have yet, in all my years of searching, to find that great panacea that cures everything for everyone.

Physicians, friends, random-ass people in the mall, told me over and over that heat would help my fibro pain. Warm, moist compresses. Warm, dry compresses. Center-of-the-sun, fast-food-coffee hot compresses. I tried them all. And my pain and stiffness got worse. Even just the summer heat here makes it worse.

At physical therapy, my therapist tried large ice packs that covered my back, and that finally worked. Ice and a TENS unit - my perfect Tuesday.

But now I have a new tool in my bag of tricks. So while I ice down and tingle from the TENS, I just have one request. Brush me pretty, please.

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Minivan and Capris Optional

2015-09-08T07:13:00.000-07:00

Hello, everyone. My name is LT. And I've become a soccer mom.

I hope you don't mind "soccer mom" not having leading capitals. There's a small part of me that vainly screams there is a vast difference between a soccer mom and a Soccer Mom, but my hands have typed enough documents over the years to know it's less than a flicker of the Shift key, and keep the hysterical optimism in check.

I'm now an Assistant Coach to DS's soccer team, and I've volunteered to take a course to become a referee - the league is short. Okay, and they compensate you for your time ref'ing.

Let's be clear - I never expected to be assigned the position. It's one of those things I do thinking someone else will get the part, but, oh, if I do get the position I'll get an excuse to get more exercise and I'll feel more comfortable than sitting on the bleachers. I don't know how I'm pushing 35 years-old and I still don't realize those kinds of situations tend to bite me in the ass.

So, the last few Thursdays, my duct-tape-and-shoestring-body and I were on the field, trying like hell to keep up with my head coach. My herniated disc, not to mention my luxating kneecaps, was not happy, and quite loudly protested me trundling around over the uneven ground, herding five year-olds-and-under like a geriatric goatherd.

And that first practice, where was DS? Having emotional issues on the other side of the field, poor thing. He gets so tense around new children, and he told my husband that he was upset that we hadn't brought his soccer ball, like some of the other children had. He finally came over to play Sharks and Minnows, but that was a brief interlude as one of the younger child (maybe 3 or 4), ignored the rules of the game and stole DS's ball, even though he was "safe".

So, back into a huff went DS, while some of the other players just collapsed on the field to rest and others were trying to make a break to the nearby woods and freedom. We tried a few more passing games, but ultimately called it.

I spent the next 3 days sleeping about 16 - 18 hours a day. I couldn't believe how shattered my body felt - practice only lasts 45 minutes!

Ok, ok, so maybe the fact that I started taking Tenex to help with my ADHD (because my insurance won't cover Intuniv) played a role. And maybe, yes, my prescriber and I weren't sure of the dose, so maybe after research I saw I was taking the maximum and figured I should cut back. And, yes, I had forgotten my morning doses of Lyrica the two days leading up to practice.

But still.

16 hours of sleep. Damn.

The only thing I've found to help, aside from my medication, is dry brushing, something I'll cover next time.

Baby Steps . . . Sorta

2015-07-28T14:02:00.000-07:00

So, one positive thing to come out of the debacle of dying relatives, lost jobs, and just general "YIKES!" moments of the past year: we moved to Garrett Co. MD.

For the most part, I like it here. It reminds me of going to college in the Shenandoah Valley. But, the majority, and I mean vast majority, of people we meet here make it clear that we are outsiders, and outsiders are not welcome. Well, their wallets are welcome, but not the people. Go ahead, try to figure out how my money is going to be spent where I'm made to feel a blight on the world. I'll wait...

Now, GC is largely known for Deep Creek Lake. And, like any other touted beauty spot, the Lake draws tourists. I don't think it would be as many as we used to see in the Outer Banks, but it's more than a fair few. Not belonging to either the local crowd, or the tourist crowd, I sometimes get a bizarre third-person experience watching the interactions of the two.

I get why almost everyone I've met users the term "tourons". There's the typical sense of entitlement from some of the tourists you'll run into. "I'm on vacation - I won't be here for long and I don't care about your backstory. I want enjoyment and I want it now." Even I, avoiding the Lake area as much as I can seeing as our house is less than 2 miles from Wisp, can feel the haughtiness and disdain oozing from the shoppers at Shop N Save or Walmart. It pisses me off, and I've only lived here about a year. As an aside, it reminds me of Eddie Izzard's description of Americans pursuing happiness. Look it up, it's worth it.

Now, so far I've bitched a bit, where's the positive?

Well, when the established population labels you as a "touron" based on where you lived before, and you have to fight to be recognized as something other than "part f the problem", nonsensical struggles lose their luster.

Such was the case with psychiatrist. I know there's not a whole lot of selection in mental health providers here, but back in March I informed my provider's office that I was beginning to have serious problems with depression, and would he like to see me sooner to look at my medication. I never heard back, even after I started cutting myself to cope with the intense periods. I was genuinely scared for myself. I sure as hell wasn't going to the local ER, though. The last time I saw my psych before that I had stressed that Lamictal made me too tired since starting the Lyrica, which just made the depression worse. My now former psych thought my best treatment option would be ECT.

I don't have anything against ECT per se. I did my undergrad work in Psychology. I know the very real benefits. I also know the side effects and risks, particularly to someone of my size. I already have memory problems (due to the fibro, I've been told), and it makes me frustrated and distressed, almost to the point of tears. Could you imagine someone like that trying to cope with the memory problems that might come after ECT treatment? Not to mention that I'd be going into it morbidly obese, with a history of arrhythmia, episodic hypertension, and breathing complications after anesthesia. Not the greatest setup.

So, admittedly not expecting great results, I endeavored to find a new psychiatrist. The behavioral health specialist at my PCP's office actually put me in touch with a nurse practitioner. I've only seen her once, but I'm optimistic. She actively tried to determine how past medications have made me feel, both mentally and physically. Yes, I was over the moon to stop Lamictal. I'm sure that has me a bit prejudiced at the moment.

But the difference . . . Oh, dear Reader, the difference is phenomenal. I know I may sound like I'm waxing manic, but I assure you, I have kept a strict eye on myself, and I'm maybe around a 5.5 on a 10 scale for mood. Maybe.

The first major difference is my mental acuity. I can actually think, properly think, almost all the time. Yes, I do still have spontaneous recall problems, sometimes. And, yes, I do still feel foggy, sometimes. I don't feel like I'm trying to think through treacle, though. My thoughts don't race around, either. They're a little more snappy to the tangential, but I just as quickly come back. That's the ADD, though, which I'll have to fight insurance on later. (The only medicine to ever help my ADD isn't approved by the FDA for adults, yay.)

Second amazingly awesome and fantastically fabulous difference? I've gone down two pants sizes in about six weeks. Yes, I'm a tad more active. I mean, I'll have a day where my back and body pain is around a 4 instead of an 8, so I'll try to do more on those days. Granted, I pay for it the next day, back up to an 8 or higher but the fatigue isn't quite as bad as when I took Lamictal. I'm dead tired in the morning. And left to my own devices, I can easily sleep 16 hours on those days including naps. But my body responds to persistent prodding better. I can goad it into action with a little caffeine (a cup of half coffee/half water, maybe). The fatigue on Day 2 after the activity of Day 1 kinda negates the benefits, so in talking with one of my PTs today we decided it has mostly been water retention and some general swelling to ease. Still, two pants sizes!

I can actually get excited about stuff and have the energy to be excited. My husband told me that he and my mother had discussed how they haven't seen me this "alive" in a long time. I told my PCP and my therapist, this is the first I've actually felt like myself in over two years. Not "manic", not "depressed", just able to think clearer and feel something other than sluggish.

Oh, and just because we stopped Lamictal, it doesn't mean I'm off medications entirely, so please do not be overly concerned. My entire health team and I watch everything like hawks. We're just trying a new combination to test the waters.

Off to enjoy what remains of the day. I hope you do, too.

Let's Begin to Begin.

2015-07-21T10:40:00.001-07:00

The universe amazes me and leaves me awe-struck at times. The plethora of right turns life had to take for me to see a single day lily growing at the edge of the woods behind me? Breathtakingly fascinating.

And then there is the uncanny knack my life has for encountering monkey wrenches the size of Toledo when I try to make some positive headway.

No, this isn't a rant about the "unfairness" of life. Actually, this has more potential run the other direction.

As I was preparing the second post for this revived blog, I met with my psychiatrist. It seems he felt, with my depression worsening, that we should increase my mood stabilizer dosage. The only issue with that, and believe me, I did my best to stress this point - Lamictal has never helped to mitigate or curtail my swings. All it has ever done, with 100% effectiveness, is make me bone tired. So, with the Lyrica in my system now for fibro, guess who went back to sleeping 16 hours a day? That should sound like an awesome vacation for a mom of a young child. Believe me, it wasn't.

I mean, I was belligerent without meaning to be, and I think I could have started several world wars had I been placed in the right (or maybe wrong) place during those days. Because as anyone should know - tired people can be cranky. Exhausted people can be downright vicious. And when I'm that exhausted, I'm not snappish and abrasive because I don't care about you. I'm that way because I'm trying to hold back how strongly I feel the urge to just ream people out over things like not transporting dishes the 3.5ft necessary to go from the sink to the dishwasher.

Still, I was determined to come out of the depressive cycle relatively unscathed, so I tried to immerse myself in keeping up with my Gratitude Adjustment and Positive Projections every day. It didn't work so much as I'd hoped. I kept forgetting to write things down, which meant I would berate myself for forgetting, which ultimately made me feel worse.

Right on the heels of the fatigue from the Lamictal came another blow: the hard drive in my laptop apparently died. Now, I say "apparently" because it appears I may be able to revive it, but we'll get to that later. At the time the BSOD appeared, I almost passed out. The laptop in question was the only device in the entire house with ye olde telephony modem. (The house is in the middle of the land economic and technological development forgot, no LOS for a satellite provider, and no reliable cellular data.) Being wiped out from the meds, it took me almost four weeks to develop a workaround.

At that point, after a long night fiddling with drivers and settings, I had restored modem access and was at the library with my son, getting things together for the upcoming school year, when my mom called and said she was having chest pain and had been throwing up.

"Fuck," I thought. I knew she was having a heart attack, and I told her to call an ambulance, but she insisted on waiting for me to drive her to the hospital. That meant at least 15 minutes to get home, get her in the car, and then at least 20 minutes to the hospital to drop her off at the ER so I could pick up DH from work and come back. It occurred to me halfway to get DH that I realized I hadn't eaten yet that day. Bright spot that day - I discovered Sheetz's fried macaroni and cheese bites.

In the ER, the doctor treating my mom tells me, quite calmly mind, that my mother is having a heart attack and there is no cardiologist at that hospital, so she will need to be treated to Mon General in WV for treatment. Which, I suppose, is better than calling the janitor with a plumber's helper, but still . . . No cardiologist? How about they change the sign out front to "Kinda-Sorta Urgent Room: If this is a life-threatening emergency, go anywhere else"?

It is an hour drive, roughly, into WV, so the doctor made the mistake of mentioning that airlift could have been an option in front of my mother. Oh, she was going in a medevac. It didn't matter that the weather was threatening an impromptu trip to OZ. It didn't matter that the little voice in my head screamed, "$$$!!!!" And mind you, it is very strange to have your internal monologue scream symbols at you. She told the doctor she wanted to go via air transport because she's a pilot, and that was that. She made it to WV just after dinner time.

DH, DS, and I didn't make it there until after 9:30 at night. Our initial route to the hospital took us in a complete circle, so we decided to go home, take care of all the animals, and then head out again. We walked into her room in the cardiac unit, where my mother had the audacity to be the outward picture of health. "Just give my cell phone, and you guys can head home. I don't want it to get too late for you." It had just taken me the better part of 3 hours, all side-trips and shenanigans included, to get to the hospital. I parked my ass in the recliner and stubbornly partook of the free guest wifi. Dammit if I wasn't going to get something out of the experience other than clogged arteries from fried cheese. The mac and cheese bites were good,though.

And that was the shitty part. Hard on its heels came a flurry of happy surprises - rockstar parking everywhere I went, paychecks higher than I had anticipated, my mother only had a very mild heart attack and stroke, found money in various forms. And yet, it was hard to enjoy them because I know that the rhythm of my life meant there would be hell to pay after our good run was over.

Maybe its my age, but there is a certain beauty in knowing how that rhythm works now. Yes, I do expect the shit to hit the fan when I'm on a run of good luck. Despite what people used to say in high school, I'm a pragmatist, not a pessimist. I know that there will be good day and bad days. In my life, the better the good day, the worse the shit that follows. Or, maybe it's that I have to go through the shitty days first to reach the great days. Either way, I know that good and bad won't last forever. Now that I'm on to you, Life, let's see who wants off the roller coaster first.

Are you ready?

2015-05-03T02:42:00.000-07:00

I think things have finally reached a stage where I can attempt posting here again.

My plan last time I checked in – the one involving quitting work to become a SAHM – didn’t work out quite so well. Like, not at all.

It took a bit longer to finalize things with the transfer of our old house (June 2013), which meant that we didn’t move in with my mother and grandmother as scheduled, which meant that I had to go on working in tech support (when I wasn’t on sick leave) to make sure we had enough to cover childcare expenses. But, I found out by eavesdropping in the break room (hey, at least I admit it – and, really, can it be called “eavesdropping” if I was at the complete opposite of the canteen and the geniuses held their conversation at a level to be heard over the TV and shenanigans from the call floor?). So, it was stated that people in supervisory/management positions were deliberately looking up Facebook pages, Twitter feeds, blogs - anything written by employees - to see if they were complaining about work.

Now, I’m relatively behind seeing that people are releasing damaging information and quietly addressing it. Like, if Chef had checked MySpace to see if people were talking about being stoned while on the job, I could kinda see that because, let’s face it, more than one person would have done just that. But, the blind testing described in the canteen? It extended to people just bitching about having to listen to callers cuss them out without recourse. Now, yes, in the past we were granted a little room by some supervisors to disconnect a call after four or five personally-directed F-bombs from a customer. Likewise, if a customer threatened to harm us personally, we could inform them that we were disconnecting the call for security reasons and please call back.

Then the powers that be decided agents could no longer deliberately disconnect a call for any reason, except to call the customer back immediately following a dropped call or to troubleshoot their phone system. This followed the introduction of the “resolve everything on the first call” initiative, largely directed by a meeting where-in a lovely bar chart indicated that too many resources were spent addressing issues it was felt could have been handled in one session. Now, when questioned what percentage of those calls was due to irate customers calling back because they had been disconnected for safety/security reasons or because the customer had called back on their own because, for example, the agent had told them their issue was not eligible to have expedited case resolution, it was relayed that the analysts had determined those calls did not warrant a large enough portion of repeat entry calls to require an exception. Ideally, we were supposed to immediately connect those customers with someone above our pay grade. If we're going to be honest here, we weren't supposed to let customers hold our line hostage, but if there wasn't a superior available (and believe me, I had a running record of screenshots where there wasn't a single person available) you basically just had to sit and listen to abuse until the caller either gave up, or someone finally became available.

I’ll throw my own experience out. In the years I worked for the company, I’d disconnected a call for profanity less than five times, and I think only twice for a personal threat. However, I had witnessed people trying to accost employees leaving the building, or even trying to force their way in, multiple times. The fact that the company had decided protecting its employees’ safety and rights to human decency (as some people perceived it) massively pissed people off. When most of us signed on, there was no clause about having to sit and listen to Joe-with-the-Entitlement-Issues dehumanize us. It was attempted to argue the change in requirements fell under agreeing to work in a changing and flexible environment, but you can only dress up being a dick so far. Then the company wants to hold people responsible for bitching about their jobs. That’s almost as nuts as expecting a woman who is deeply in love with someone, marries them, then one days finds her spouse is beating the shit out of her and calling her a whore, to keep her mouth shut and not tell her friends and family. Almost.

I usually make it a rule not to mention fellow employee or company names directly, anyway, but I didn’t trust my supervisors (well, one supervisor in particular) not to go off and running through my profiles.

So, I let my pages fester. I could pull off laziness being the cause of their demise easier.

While muddling through, I began to experience massive pain in my shoulders when I was touched (later diagnosed over a year later as fibromyalgia), but searing pain in my right leg was ever present. Like, “there is real danger of losing bladder control” kind of pain. I was initially supposed to be out for just a few weeks while I was on PT for IT band syndrome, but it turns out the painkillers (that didn't help, anyway because it wasn't an IT band issue) triggered a depressive episode, and I ended up out for about seven months. Great from the standpoint of avoiding office drama, but lousy when your short term disability is denied and work threatens to cut you loose. So back I went, not really 100%, but knowing I needed one last push at some money for my son’s first year in Pre-K. I was back for about a week when a couple higher ups asked, rather bluntly, why I hadn’t promoted in all the years I’d been there. Well, gee, do you guys remember the hiring freeze that’s been in place since the recession started? If there are no openings, where would you like me to go? Aside from Hell, I already work there.

But it turned out that the ban on new positions had been lifted, even if the selection was mostly limited to supervisor positions in a department I loathed. As one of the supervisors I “gelled” with pointed out, any interview would be good practice, and no one said I had to accept if offered the new position. Off to interviews I went, trying to learn the easy, smooth confidence of Patrick Maitland.

Just a couple of weeks later, my grandmother passed away. It was exactly one week, to the day, that I took her for a physical and bought her a wheelchair. It was also about three/four weeks after I went back to work, which pissed off some people who felt I shouldn’t need more than the three days of bereavement time that was standard to get my family's shit together. Well, let’s face it. My bipolar swings had reached the point where I would be out of work for three months or more while I waited for the depressive or hypomanic swing to pass. My mood stabilizer had never prevented them in the first place, but I did notice they lasted longer after my second son was born. What happened next was inevitable, really.

After working thirteen-hour days multiple times a week for OT, hypomania from really set it. I went back out, after less than three months actively working, I think. HR asked when I expected to be back, and I gave them a timeframe I said I thought should be in the ballpark. Well, it turned out I was wrong. My doctor said I would be out for probably twice as long, if not more. And I don’t blame the company, per se, for cutting me loose when you look at how often I had been out. I did, however, find it illogical to cite, as one of the reasons for separation, that the timeframe my doctor quoted was much longer than what I had quoted. I get that I’ve been bipolar for quite some time, but I’m still not the medical professional who actually knows the expected time needed for the prescribed medications to begin leveling things out. Partly because it’s a bit like spinning a prize wheel to see what treatments we’ll try this time, and partly because, and I think I mentioned this, I’m not a medical professional. Seriously, who believes that going to the patient and getting a guesstimate on recovery time is wise? Anyone?

So, that chapter of my life ended. In the interim my family has had some japes, scrapes, and misadventures that I now feel far enough off the company’s radar to share again.

Temper, Temper

2012-08-10T21:06:00.000-07:00

I took my mother and son out on a shopping jaunt yesterday. Nothing dramatic, just a quick trip through the grocery store for some staple items. However, we made the mistake of taking my son out directly after his nap.

About five minutes into the store, my son started to fuss, and the fussing progressed into a full-blown, teary tantrum. Ordinarily, I would have my husband take my son to calm down while I finished, but with my mother in tow, and just a few things on my list, I pushed on despite the theatrics. My son wanted to run around the store, and, as any parent knows who has been in a busy store, particularly one on re-stock day, it wasn't about to happen.

As I've mentioned before, my mom and I differ in parenting styles. My mother is much more indulgent. Case in point: I told her to watch my son for a second while I grabbed a piece of ham from the meat section, and I turn around to see her taking my son over to a rack of toys. I motored my way over as fast as I could before she could even touch one of those toys.

"If you give him the toy now, he'll think that throwing a tantrum will get him rewarded in some way," I calmly stated, turning the cart, and my wailing child, back toward the household items. I wanted to shout, "Oh my God, you flipping saboteur! Have you lost what little mind you have left in the graying meat-case you call a head?", but I didn't. Probably a good thing. Probably.

"I told him that he could have it," she replied. I walked on, but re-stated that we needed to send my son the message that throwing a tantrum doesn't yield whatever he wants. After he settled down, we gave him his afternoon snack, and that seemed to restore his sense of balance.

We were on our way out of the store when there was a piercing shriek from outside. A woman, somewhere between my age and my mother's, was struggling with a girl who was probably about six or seven. It turned out that the girl wanted to ride in a cab on the way home, and her mother said "no". The girl was shrieking as loud as she could, not because she was in any danger, but because she wanted to attract attention. Every time she let loose, she would glance around to see who was staring. It was a power play with even odds on who would win.

I felt for the woman. I think most people did, really. She kept saying she didn't have the money for the cab (something I can well understand given the rising cost of food), and her daughter kept screaming louder with every refusal. She was still screaming by the time we had finished loading the car and were getting in to leave.

I looked over the car to my mother and, pointing to the shenanigans, said, "And that's what happens when a child gets their way from a screaming match."

Loss of Independent Sleeping

2012-08-06T18:37:00.000-07:00

Our family is preparing for a big change. In approximately four weeks, I will be leaving the work force. At the same time, we will be moving from our current home into my family's home in horse country.

My mother is beginning to struggle to care for my grandmother. If they're both honest, they have always gotten on each others' nerves, but with my grandmother's failing hearing, my mother is more on edge than before.

In addition to trying to combine two households into one, we're also preparing my son for the move. Right now, we all have our own bedrooms. When we first move in, we will share a bedroom until I can re-convert my old bedroom from a library. There appears to be little peer reviewed literature on the subject of sharing a room, but not a bed. Co-sleeping is one of those issues with strong support for every side of the decision whether or not to share a bed with your baby or young child. Personally, I don't want to open that can of worms. There has been much said already, and it isn't the issue at hand.

As an infant, I slept either in the cradle in my parents' room (it was a big-butt cradle) or in the crib in the nursery. After my father left and I had outgrown my crib, I had to share a bed with my mother for a while until the bedrooms in the attic could be updated. It never struck me as odd that I didn't have my own room, even when I went to friends' homes and played in their (typically) well-appointed bedrooms.

I don't worry so much about the effect sharing a room will have on my son's sense of independence as I do about the effect my snoring will have on his quality of sleep. That's right - I have smaller than normal nasal passages, so I'm a noisy sleeper. In fact, with my current sinus infection, my husband describes me as sounding like a diesel truck. (Have I mentioned how much I love him?)

Beyond that, I worry about what effect sharing a room will have on the dynamic between myself and my husband. We do most of our talking in bed before going to sleep. We unwind in bed with our laptops, even though we know experts (ahh, those darn experts) say that the bedroom should be used for sleep only. Well, sleep and a limited number of extracurricular activities. If my son continues to go to bed at 7:30, though, I think the list of activities in the bedroom will be quite limited.

An Uncanny Knack

2012-08-04T17:14:00.001-07:00

<p>That's right, my family has an uncanny knack - for getting me sick. I have been out from work for some time now due to issues from bipolar. Finally, I have been feeling better, and I am starting back to work next week. (I think. They have yet to give me a firm date.) What an awesome time for my husband to bring home a sinus infection from school.Ordinarily, I don't really mind getting sick. I' m one of those people who gets past the worst of a cold in a few hours. Sinus infections, on the other hand, always mean fluid filled ears for me. Which muffles my hearing just enough to make it difficult to hear calls on a headset in a boisterous call center.

A Riding Rant

2012-08-01T18:26:00.003-07:00

Watching the cross country portion of the eventing trials at the Olympics yesterday, I was taken back to when I used to compete in my childhood through early twenties.

The Hunter-Jumper division in which I competed was very politically biased. Your trainer affiliation mattered as much as your performance, or your appearance. I never had any patience for knowing which judge liked what with their coffee. I always just wanted to go into the ring, complete my class, and go put my feet up until the next the next class. Most of all, I wanted someone else to ride my horse in the under saddle portions.

I damaged my knees at an early age between all the time I spent on horseback and playing volleyball. Ironically, the over-fences classes never caused me pain, despite the pressure it places on the knees. And in lessons the under saddle workout didn't bother, either. But for some reason, when I would wear my field boots in competition, the pain during the rising trot was excruciating. I tried Advil, Aleve, all kinds of OTC medication to try the dull the pain, but nothing even made a dent. I tried multiple times going to doctors for treatment, but they mostly wanted to discuss my weight in the saddle. I had built huge muscles from riding. Most of the riders you see are very slender, with beautifully lean muscle build. I build muscles like I'm on steroids, only without the use of any enhancing drugs. As it was explained to me, the combination of the bulk from the muscle in my thighs with a large Q angle was putting too much pressure on my knees. The suggestion each time was "lose weight", but they never offered any pain management.

By the time I was a Senior in high school, I was exhausted. I had been on diet drugs for almost three years solid. Every time I took adipex and pondimin, I would lose bulk from my middle, but I could never lose anything from my bust or, of course, from my main muscle groups in my arms, back, and legs. The result was a frame that looked attractive enough on the ground, but in the saddle I never looked as though I had lost any weight. I can remember my instructor telling me how fat I was at 135lbs, a size 6 around the waist. Even then I was still a D-cup and my thighs were bulky as ever, so I guess from her perspective I must have looked like I wasn't trying to get slimmer.

I was also tired of the politics of the local show scene. I hated that certain judges would automatically discount riders based on the color of their horse, or whether they were wearing a navy pinstripe jacket versus a solid navy jacket. I never really had an issue because my mounts were mainly chestnuts or bays, but I did ride a gorgeous paint at one point. There were two judges who would never pin her above fourth place, even when my ride was technically clearer than the horses that placed ahead. Ah, well, gotta love subjective scores.

Which brings me back to the Olympic eventing. There were snide remarks yesterday regarding Niklas Lindback's tie and how it came out of his jacket during his jumping round. He had a decent round except for two downed rails, which begs the question, "Who cares?" It wasn't as though his pants split in an embarrassing way or his attire was unclean after warm-ups, and it definitely didn't happen during the dressage phase. If the biggest complaint you have with a rider's jumping round is a minor, minor, appearance fault, which has nothing to do with the rider's score, while there are rails falling, then perhaps you shouldn't be commentating for that sport. Equestrianism isn't a national pastime , and when a good rider is brought low for something unrelated to their performance, let alone their worth as a human being, it only makes it harder for people to understand and appreciate the skill involved. If you want to make negative remarks, there were several riders who not only "took an extra step" as you put it, but completely buried their horses at the fence. One can certainly find more to say over those gross errors than "he should have used a tie tack". And, bless his soul, Lindback quietly tucked in his tie at the end of his round, no embarrassment (for really, there was none owed), and completed his ride.Lindback's was a nice round to enjoy for highs and lows, as he and Mister Pooh work well as a team. The same could be said for Jonathan Paget, whose tie also came out, even though he did drop arail. In the end, style should matter less than substance in jumping, where you have enough to worry about between downed rails and time faults, and the commentators should recognize that.

Turn off that TV

2012-07-28T16:27:00.000-07:00

I know, I know - not another post about watching less TV. Well, yes and no.

Yes - I am an advocate of limited TV time. My grandmother watched me as a child, and her method of babysitting involved popcorn and whatever children's programming happened to be on at the time. Children's programming for her ran the gamut from Mr. Roger's Neighborhood to Santa Barbara (an old soap opera, for those who missed it). Somewhere in the mix I developed a love of educational programming, not just shows like Sesame Street, but Nova and National Geographic, as well. Thanks to those programs, I earned many an "A" on my science exams. Ok, so having an aerospace engineer for a grandfather didn't hurt, either.

On the other hand, I spent so much time solo that I'm a little awkward around people,still. But, as I'm finding out, even educational programming can be of little use to a child with expressive language delay. The AAP recommends unstructured play and family interaction for those with speech or language delay. I support this wholeheartedly. My mother is another story. She doesn't want to plop my son in front of the TV the way her mother did, but she does believe it's O.K. for him to have the TV constantly on as "background noise". Since the official assessment two weeks ago, I've had more leverage to try cutting out TV completely in the afternoons after my son wakes up from his nap. Mornings are a little more tricky, because I wake up late most days, which means that my mom is on her own. Well, let's not forget Sportacus and Super Why are there every morning, as well.

I'm curious how other multigenerational families handle similar disputes. Ultimately, I am Mom, so hear me roar in our home. The problem with that approach is the sore throat that inevitably arises. There are very few multigenerational families in our community, and those with whom I've spoken automatically defer to the eldest member, regardless of whether their input is "correct". I know I shouldn't say there is a "correct" and "incorrect" when it comes to this issue, but I think leaving a child in front of the TV, all day, with no parent stimulation (and you'll note I'm stressing NO parent involvement), is on the incorrect side of things.My mother's approach, while in the gray area, does something I feel is incorrect - it countermands my in front of my child. I don't like the mixed messages that are sent to a child who is already struggling with viewing me as an authority figure.

Can You Hear Me?

2012-07-26T20:35:00.000-07:00

My son had his first audiology exam today. It was a behavioral audiometry, with my son sitting on my lap for the test. I wish I could say we passed gloriously or failed miserably, but we fell somewhere on the middle. The best that could be said, he does hear better with one ear, but we have no idea with which ear.

I think it would have gone better if he hadn't been clinging to me with his head buried against my chest. Also, he appears to be having trouble with fluid in his left ear again. We received a referral for the head of ENT since this is a recurring problem. We also received referrals for speech pathology and another audio exam. Right now, we have to wait until the ENT appointment at the end of the month. That has me on tenterhooks. I'm not the best at waiting for good vs. bad news.

The Storm is Brewing

2012-07-25T20:09:00.000-07:00

Soon, I will have to turn in my resignation to The Powers That Be. I have decided that five years, just a measly five years, in tech support has sufficiently soured me on life that I need to spend some time looking for the good in people again.

I also decided that I need to focus more time on son. He was recently diagnosed with a speech delay, and while children all over with speech delay improve with moms who work outside the home, I feel that I need to be home to work on our relationship. There is a closeness between my son and my husband, and between my son and my mother, that we don't share. When things go wrong, or if something upsets him, my son will go to my husband or my mother before coming to me. He doesn't respect my authority as a parent, either, which scares me when I need to take him somewhere alone.

I know this invites criticism of my skills as a parent, and I'd be the first person to say that I need some help in that area. Hence the desire to become a SAHM. I freely admit that I put the majority of my time and energy into so many things outside the home that I have become the person who realizes it came at the sacrifice of their home life. I guess you could say that it is fortunate that I have come to this realization early enough in my son's life that any permanent damage can be mitigated.

Illiterate Cats

2012-03-24T20:00:00.000-07:00

Our home is a full home. We have two dogs, two cats, and a soon-to-be two year-old. Among the clutter and confusion that can occur in any home sporting two working parents and a precocious child, we have our lovely chart of house rules. It used to hang in the center on the first floor, but had to be moved to a space by the fridge to make room for a much needed whiteboard. Either way, its commandments are clear. Be kind. Take turns. Use words, not hands. And you essentially have the idea. There is one major problem with this litany of Thou Shalt's -

Cats don't read.

At least my cats don't.

Tory, our female, has decided that, after a month of him living with us, she now hates Trey (mostly referred to now as Poor Trey). Trey was adopted when Haephestus (Fezzy), my cat of seven years died due to complications from saddle thrombosis. Like Fezzy, Trey is very laid back, but unlike his predecessor lacks the desire to be the dominant cat. Tory, like some power-crazed despot from unkinder eras has launched herself into a campaign of unlady-like attacks and fur-flecked set-to's.

Poor Trey. And poor darling son, who has been wakened the past two nights by their tussles outside of his room, adjacent to the cats' room. (Yes, the cats have their own room in our house - it's too small for a bedroom, and it gives them a break from my son.) In fact, I hear Tory tuning up right now. Time to dispense some nightly justice in spray bottle form. If that doesn't work, someone may wake up to find themselves the proud owner of a pernicious little tortie.

I think I can

2011-10-19T06:00:00.000-07:00

They say it takes 28 days to form a new habit or replace old habits and thoughts.

I've been working on developing new thought patterns for five years, and I'm still not there.

BT (my Bodhi Tree, if you will) would say, and has said, this indicates that I need a clearer picture of what I want to change. BT's mantra over the years has become "When you know what, you'll know how."

I've always found that to be a bit too simplistic for me.

In my case, I think my weird-ass blend of bipolar-ish disorder, ADD, and OCD has an unseemly amount of influence.

Yeah, I fall in the bipolar range. It pisses me off to be "in the spectrum", but that's for another day. My brand of BPD swings between three states: severely pissed off, depressed, and hysterical because I'm despairing and enraged at the same time. Good shit. I'd say that level of unpredictability would make it hard to maintain any attempts at lasting change.

Then, there are all of the external factors. All of us have friends, family, or just random assholes and angels who move through our lives. Sometimes they bring peace; sometimes they leave pieces. (Why does that sound like a greeting card??) At this point, I seem to have averaged about 50/50 on how I have affected others. But, I am a wrecking crew magnet.

If you are a person who attracts destructive forces BT would probably say, "You might want to look at that." No disrespect, BT, but telling me to just look hasn't worked in five years. We may want to look at that.

I Can't Believe I Said That

2011-10-09T04:00:00.000-07:00

Liam fell off the chair we have on the front porch for him to sit and wave goodbye to Mamere. He's ok, just a goose-egg and a new found respect for staying off things.

I, on the other hand, I was so startled I turned into my mother circa 1996 - "I have had enough of this shit!"

My son was too far into his Toddler Tears to care, but my husband looked sick. As though I might fully morph into my sixty-odd years-old mother and never come back.

Is it wrong that it gave me ideas about how to scare him next time he doesn't want to get up with our son? Give granny some sugar, baby!

Step One

2011-09-26T22:52:00.000-07:00

The first thing you need when you decide to make any life-altering change is a plan. So, in the words of the person who got me started down this path, "What do you want to change?"

In the past, I've tried making changes that almost always failed. I would start a new fitness regime, only to run out of steam when stress piled up in my life. I would try to change my thought patterns, only to fall off track when I would feel too tired or agitated to focus on change. As for the spiritual side of things, let's just say that God, Allah, Susan - whatever name you want - probably has a back room betting operation on how long it takes for me to go off course again.

Oh, I have plenty of faith. I have plenty of brains and plenty of brawn, too. But I never seem to be able to get all three working at the same time.

Back, then, to the question at hand - what do I want to change? Well, first would have to be my job. I just went back to work, yesterday, after eight weeks of leave, only to find the place as depressing as ever. The job used to be fun, and everyone (ok, almost everyone) walked out laughing and smiling at the end of the day. Now, the fetid piss-stench of soured hope and decaying dreams fills the building.

And as bad as that sounds, I have to confess that complacency has kept me in place. I love the perks of my job, especially the discounts on services like my cell, and I can do the job half-comatose on migraine meds. I can't even say that last part about raising my son.

In conjuction with a job change, there has to be a change in diet and exercise. If I take a position, or secure the loan for my own company, it's going to require more energy than my current point-and-click position. And my son would like a mom with more pep, too.

Your (Not Really) Daily Dose

2011-09-25T17:25:00.000-07:00

This is an old comic from Penny Arcade, and the sad part is that in four years, most of my tech support calls are from people like this. Actually, I think my brain may have snuck out like Tycho's, now that I try to think about it.

First post

2011-09-24T22:23:00.000-07:00

The last few weeks I've been examining my life in a roundabout way for several courses I'm taking. I wasn't thrilled with what I saw, but on the other hand I've not killed anyone and at least my family likes me, so it could be worse! ^.^

In all seriousness though, my husband just took a 50% pay cut, I'm working a job I hate, and I hardly have time for my family. There's definitely room for improvement.

So that got me thinking. What do I want? I know the answer is different from when I was in high school or starting college, with big ideas (very skewed ideas) of how my life would go.

Like the part about your metabolism going to hell along with your shoe size after pregnancy. None of the pregnancy books do it justice. And I don't mean weight - it's like my body looks at all the different chemical signals flying around and says, "Fuck it." Uh hello? How about some reparative work on my joints? Carrying a 10lb baby is no float in the birthing pool.

So, I'm overworked, running out of money, and practically dead spiritually and emotionally. I figured I'd let life take me to my poorly lubricated knees for a breather. Ouch!

And then I realized. When life takes you to your knees, it's what you do next that defines who you are.