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Sunday, September 29, 2013

Stitches

So continuing the streak of semi-annual ER visits for Charlie, we made a run out to the hospital last night.  Charlie was riding on a scooter (not a motorized one, for the record...a good old fashioned get your exercise and do your part to stay healthy one) and fell and hit her head on the handlebars and got a lovely gash.   It was one of those that was small, but deep.The stupid thing kept re-opening, plus it was in her hairline...I was really uncertain if it would need stitches but luckily my mother (a former nurse) was there and said it might not be a bad idea.  If not stitches, they might just glue it.

 Now, mind you, this was the second time she hit her head yesterday.  The first time she was running in my bedroom, tripped over some shoes, and hit her head on the door frame.  That first time it was so loud that Elizabeth heard it upstairs in her bed room.  So not only did she have the new gash plus the accompanying bump from that one, she had another one (same side, mind you...) that was about 8 hours old.

I also feel the need to mention here as well that we had had a 5K benefit for my husband's godson JJ.  Charlie had decided earlier that she wanted to run it.  She had the whole thing planned out with my sister...she was going to wear her fast Princess shoes and run it with Leesha and Mommy was going to cheer.  Well, she ended up getting a little scared by all of the people there, so Alicia took off with Alexis's friend and Charlie stayed with Daddy...but she still ran at the end.  (We won't talk about being carried by Daddy...)  Then there were Cheetos involved afterwards (yes, I am crazy about my kids' food but I do allow junk on occasion...) and her white Team JJ shirt wasn't so white anymore.  When we got home, she ate some Mexican Meatball soup and dribbled some down the shirt.  Then she went outside and probably rolled in some dirt and mud wrestled a pig after army crawling through the brush to secure the perimeter of our homestead.  Point is...she was filthy.  It was a good day for her.

Anyways...So my sister and I headed off to the ER.  Alicia came with me because her husband Nick was insisting on it ("Don't you really think she might need help there?").  Since I can appreciate that kind of anxiety because it is pretty much my every day existence, Alicia came with me while Charles stayed at home with Alexis.  (Plus, then he and Nick could continue their playdate...)  I really don't think twice about Charlie's appearance until I get there.  Then I looked at her and realized that she looked really really homeless.  The bleeding wound on her forehead (since it has reopened getting out of the van...) with the dried blood on her face just added that extra touch of class needed.  She also had had her face painted at the 5K, but some of it had rubbed off so her cat's whiskers and nose now just looked like she had rubbed her had across her cheek while dropping a tranny into a Ford.

We were white trash fabulous.  I seriously expected them to call Children's Services on me.  I tried to clean her up once we walked in, but there was no saving that shirt.  It will likely never be white again.  They don't make bleach powerful enough for a white shirt to withstand a day being worn by  Char-Rambo.

We get back to the room and the doc says that the wound was just going to be glued, not stitched.  Fine by me.  The nurse comes in and puts some numbing stuff on it and says we have to wait a half an hour.  About 20 minutes in, Charlie looks at Alicia and announces, "My boo-boo's all better.  Let's go."  Apparently the numbing stuff works.  We explained to her that this was not how it worked and that the doctor still had to come back.  Charlie then choose to climb up on one of the chairs in the room.

And then fell.  And hit her head.  On the other side.  While in the fucking ER.

I kid you not.  You can't make this shit up.

So now my child has not one, not two, but three lovely goose eggs on her forehead (all from within a 12 hour period) as well as glue from the ER caked in her hair and a tiny but deep gash at her hairline.  I am going to take her to daycare tomorrow and am going to be told that I cannot have her back because look at what I did to her over the course of being responsible for her 24/7 for just two days.  I am kinda worried about the rest of today, to be honest...Charles asked me when we left the ER if they wrapped her in bubble wrap.

Might not be a bad idea.  Plus, that shit is so much fun to play with!  Keeping Charlie safe and Mama entertained...I might have to seriously consider this!

Sunday, September 22, 2013

Indecision

It is a common misogynist trope that women are notoriously flighty and constantly change their minds.  I sometimes fit that bill, though it is unclear if this is due to being female or being depressed/anxious or the pressures of society or because I am just plain old of the crazy variety.  Possibly a combo of all of the above.

Most days I am perfectly content.  I am content to do things like throw elaborate birthday parties for my kids and their friends with crazy complicated homemade cakes, to bake homemade bread and grind chicken for homemade gluten free chicken tenders.  I am content to spend my time at home with my family, and just occasionally going out.  I am mostly happy in my job and sometimes confident that I can do it without causing lasting harm to people.  I am usually happy living in BFE (though if the chance came to move back to where I come from, I would probably snap it up in a second).  I am happy with my house though I realize its layout is not ideal.

But.

But there are times I question just staying at home on the weekends with the children.  There are times I think that I might want to look at a new job.  Hell, there are times I consider moving into an entirely new FIELD.  I consider working part time.  I look at other states to live in as well as other cities.  I consider cutting my hair, painting walls, rearranging furniture.  Just...a change of some sort.

Where does this restlessness with my situation come from?  When changes are forced upon me, I get pissed at the lack of control.  It causes my anxiety to skyrocket and the crazy in me to come out in ways that probably adds months if not years to my children's therapy totals.  But when things get too mundane, too routine...I start to look for ways to change it up.  I am a mass of paradox that way.

Or ODD.  Really, either/or.

Variety is the spice of life, I suppose.  I always try to strive to be something unique and not like ordinary cinnamon.  Maybe cardamon, perhaps fennel.  Certainly not savory.  That spice just sounds like it is trying too hard with its name alone.

Just as long as I can control the amount of fennel, I guess.  Cause there is nothing that ruins a dish more than an overabundance of fennel.


Thursday, September 12, 2013

Enemy

There have been many articles written about the whole idea of not being a superwoman, all packed with touchy-feely bullshit about how women need to support each other and not be so goddamned competitive.  I don't know about all of you, but this just makes me feel even more like shit because I'm doing it wrong.  I am totally competitive and constantly feel inadequate.

I make my kids homemade bread?  Someone else is growing their own organic, GMO free wheat.  I researched area daycares to find the best fit for our family?  Someone else is homeschooling their child and teaching them Mandarin, Spanish, and how to make macrame.  (Does anyone ever actually use macrame?  What IS it?  See, I am even more inadequate because not only do my children not make macrame, I don't even fucking know what it is.)  I started running again?  Someone else just completed their sixth marathon.  I helped a client verbalize their feelings about a trauma?  Someone else helped theirs function well enough with schizophrenia to hold a full time job.

It goes on and on.  This has nothing to do with societal pressures, the mommy wars, being catty or bitchy.  This is strictly from within.  This is all from the voices in my head.  I am my own worst enemy.  I am the one who tears myself down.  I am never good enough for myself.

I have been this way  since God was a boy.  I would hold myself up to unrealistic expectations and beat the shit out of myself when I did not meet them.  The problem was, I usually could meet them so that just reinforced my unrealistic expectations for myself.  The cost, though...well, just my sanity (or what little I do possess...)

I have felt myself recently slipping into beating myself up.  I work full time.  I have three children.  I have way too much debt.  I have three dogs and a cat.  I have a house to care for.  I'm helping to organize a benefit for a friend's son.  I'm going to run in a 5K.  I'm a little busy, maybe.

But.

But I still mentally harangue myself when my house is not clean.  Hell, I still compare my house to that of people who probably make triple what I do.  I compare myself to other men's wives regardless of whether she is someone my husband would even find attractive anyways.  I beat myself up because I am not feminist enough (a REAL feminist would not have these concerns!), because I am not trained enough as a therapist, because my children aren't in enough activities, because we are not as financially sound as I would like us to be, because I don't coupon, because my family sometimes does not eat dinner together, because I don't have the energy to start a small business, because the dogs are overdue for going to the vet, because I require coffee to make it through the morning, because I hate mornings, because sometimes I want to leave work to get home to my family, because sometimes I don't want to leave work BECAUSE OF my family,  because I must be a horrible human being if I have the very real experience of my family driving me crazy, because I get depressed when I think about all of the evil in the world, because I don't have time to do all of my hobbies, because I have not picked up my violin in over a year, because I don't take my children to the library enough, or the movies, and we have never been to Disney, and, and...

It is me.  My thoughts might be fueled by society and flamed by mental illness.  But I am my own worst enemy and I sometimes feel helpless to stop it.