Laundry

When Charles and I first got married, I sat him down and told him very seriously that I hate laundry and was "not good about it."  He kinda chuckled in the way that only a newly married man who has not yet realized his wife actually farts and poops does.  Poor Charles, so innocent and naive at that time.  This was back before he realized what a pain in the ass I am and that my parents were probably super relieved that he was taking me out of their house and into his.  Well, guess what mothafucker?  Your wife doesn't lie, and "not good about it" was/is an euphemism for "would rather french kiss a herpes-infested horny toad than do it."

Laundry to me is an exercise in futility; a special kind of purgatory here on this earth designed to slowly drive even the most dull witted amongst us insane.  I should probably get more specific here and state that I am actually referring to the act of folding it and putting it away.  The actual washing and drying of laundry, well, that credit goes to the machines.  Sure, I put the stuff in there and make the laundry detergent (yes, I make my own.  Bet you never pegged me as a fucking Sally Homemaker now did you?) and turn the dial...but the actual work of that is all the machine.  Folding the shit is torture.  Forced to choose between that and an afternoon spent dancing in the rain...well, I would have to think carefully.

I am sorry, but if you say that you enjoy folding laundry, I am going to say what drugs are you on cause sista, ME WANTY.  Especially if you say this and you have children.  Sure!  Let's go ahead and get something clean, to give it to a kid who could not care less if it was or not, and will take the first chance they have to use it to blow their nose/wipe their mouth/roll in a mud puddle/etc.  What kind of a sick fuck ENJOYS watching that train wreck in anticipation of the extra work to come to an already overloaded plate?

I may be crazy.  But by God, I have my limits.  I am banking on someone creating disposable clothes like they eventually came up with disposable diapers.  Of course, then I would feel guilty about the environmental impact...stupid crazy getting in the way of being lazy!

Successes

Me:  How was your day today, Charlie?

Charlie:  Well, I painted with Lori.  And I didn't put rocks up my nose.

Sounds like a successful day in the life of a toddler.  Personally, I wish that my definition of a successful day involved having the impulse control not to stick inorganic material into my nasal cavities.

Hell, most days I consider myself a success if I don't have a panic attack over something.  Elizabeth lipped off to me?  OMG, she is going to rebel and start using bath salts and get pregnant with a crack baby.   Alexis didn't want to eat dinner?  She is going to become anorexic and die from related heart disease.  The dog threw up?  He has heartworm and is going to die and then Charlie is going to lose her mind and become a serial killer.  So on, and so forth.  A constant battle against my crazy.  Against the forces that exist only in my own mind that tell me I am not good enough, smart enough, thin enough, professional enough, woman enough, strong enough.  Sometimes they even tell me I am not crazy enough.  What are you complaining for?  There are people who are hallucinating about demons from hell raping them anally and you are stressed over not being able to control your thoughts and anxiety and depression?

My successes in life are ones that people frequently point to when they want to highlight individual success in an attempt to downplay systemic oppression.  (Incidentally, there is no quicker way to bring out my crazy than to try to do exactly that.  Or to force me to listen to anything sung by Katy Perry.  Either/or.)  I was a teen mom.  I not only graduated from high school, I graduated a year early in the top ten of my class (again, despite the best efforts of my high school to get me to quietly drop out).  I graduated from college with honors.   I got my Master's degree, then my independent counseling license.  I am a homeowner with buttloads of debt.  I live a solidly middle class lifestyle.  I survived having to bury a child and miscarrying multiple other ones.  I successfully advocated for my own health and got potentially life saving treatment.

All of those things, however, don't matter if I can't function. If I can't enjoy life.  So I take my medications.  I constantly challenge myself; my irrational thoughts.  I actively seek out fun and laughter.  I surround myself with contentment and things and people I enjoy.  I seek out the absurd and look for the humor.  I cherish the perspective that comes from the innocence of my children precisely because it gets taken away all to quickly.

So yes, Charlie...it was a good day.  Keep on not inserting rocks where they don't belong.  Mama is proud of you.  But mostly, I am proud that I was able to tell you that rocks don't belong there, and that I am still here to hear about your painting.

I survived.  That is my success.

Rocks

Conversation with Charlie today:

Me:  Charlie, was that a ROCK that just fell out of your nose?

Charlie:  Yes.

Me:  What the...Charlie, rocks don't belong in your nose.

Charlie (genuinely surprised):  No?  Rocks don't go in my nose?

Me:  No Charlie.  Rocks go on the floor.  Or your hands; you can hold them in your hands.

Charlie:  No rocks in my nose?  Rocks don't belong in my nose? Or my mouth?

Me:  No rocks in your nose or your mouth.  Or your ears for that matter.

Charlie:  Rocks go on the floor or your hands ONLY.  Not your ears.  Not your nose.  Not your mouth.

Me:  That's right.

Charlie:  OK, Mama.


Notice how when she is doing something she isn't supposed to she calls me Mama, not Mom?  Children sure do have a knack for doing shit like that.  It is probably some kind of defense bred into them through generations of survival of the fittest.  Otherwise human parents would be abandoning their young left and right.

Really, Charlie?  A fucking rock?  I thought it was bad enough when you climbed on the stove to eat Alexis's birthday cake.  Or when you decided to learn to crawl up the stairs before you walked.  Or when you charmed the socks off of my OB during your C-section when the first thing he saw when he cut into my uterus was you making a kissy face at him.  You were all duck face before it became a popular Facebook meme.

I sure hope that means that you will be a good leader, like presidential material, vs a bad leader like Branch Davidian cult leader.  Honestly, some days it is only that hope that keeps me plugging away with you.

Glad I could clear up the confusion regarding the proper placement of rocks for you, though...

Toddler

I was contemplating today Charlie's tyrannical reign over our household.  It is so not fair what the little assholes that we refer to as toddlers get away with on a day to day basis.  So, seeing as how I have little else to do with my time because I sure as hell am not going to spend it doing things like laundry or housework or anything productive, really,  I started to think about how life as an adult would be if we were to act like toddlers.  Examples:

Returning from a bathroom break to a full staff meeting:

Me:  I WENT POOPY!!!!

Boss:  Did you wipe?  And wash your hands?

Me:  I used soap!


Charles gives me my dinner, my absolute favorite meal:

Me:  I don't like that.

Charles:  OK, then, don't eat it (goes to take the plate away)

Me:  I WANT THAT!  GIVE ME MY FOOD!  (arches back, bangs head on back of chair, then tips it over in a fit of rage.  I then expect to be comforted because of the injuries that I caused myself by not eating food that I love.)


Reading a blog on the Internet:

Charles:  OK, time to go to work, honey.  Put the computer away.

Me:  NO! (Runs to the other room and hides)

Charles:  You can either come with me or I'll carry you!  (Heads towards me and picks me up.  I instantly go limp and increase my weight magically and against all known laws of physics by about ten fold while shrieking like a demon from hell.)


Nap time:

Charles:  OK, time for nappy.  Let's go night night.

Me:  NO!  I NOT TIRED!  (while yawning and rubbing my eyes)

Charles tucks me into bed.

Me (five minutes later):  I HAVE TO GO POTTY!

Brings me to bathroom.  25 minutes later:

Charles:  Did you go?  No?  OK, you are playing.  Time for nappy.

Me:  I HAVE TO GO POTTY!  (Goes instantly limp; carried upstairs kicking and screaming.)

37 seconds later:  Sound asleep.


Seriously, it sounds so ridiculous when it is an adult acting like that.  Why do we let those little tyrants rule us like this?  If you ask me, they are way smarter than we are with that whole "My cognitive capabilities are not developed yet" thing.  In my next life, I want to remain a toddler forever.  I will happily trade being an adult for being forced to take a nap as the worst thing to ever happen to me.

Conversations XI

Me:  Elizabeth do you remember when I was dating?

E:  Not really.  Why?  Are you going to start dating again?

Me:  (sighing)  No, Charles won't let me date.

Charles walks in:  What won't I let you do?

Me:  You won't let me date.  Selfish bastard you are...

C:  Well, everyone has their quirks.


Me, talking to my boss:

Me:  Well, I don't see myself quitting any time soon, unless my husband decides to finally unearth his (imaginary) money he has hidden from me.

Boss:  Unless you win the lottery...

Me:  Well, that is on my to-do list.


Alexis, looking over my shoulder at my Facebook page ads:

A:  A free phone!  Wow, mom, I want a free phone!

Me:  Uh, no.

Later on, talking to Charles:

C:  Did you tell her she could take an innie-and-an-outie bath?

Me:  Yeah.

C:  Oh, I just told her she couldn't.  I'll text her and let her know...oh, wait.  You didn't get her the free phone...


Dumping some Epsom salts into Charlie's bath:

Elizabeth:  What are you doing?

Me:  Putting Epsom salts into Charlie's bath.

E:  Really, Mom?  Charlie is crazy enough without bath salts.  You are going to turn her into a zombie!

Victim

I wept today.

I heard the verdict of the much publicized Steubenville rape case and I wept.  The trial frequently made my blood boil.  The sheer amount of privilege that is present in this case burns me up.  "I didn't know what rape was".  "She has a history of lying".  "Yeah, she was puking and I thought she was dead, but she consented."

All tired lines brought on by a rape culture.  All so insidious that no one really realizes just how damaging they are.

Women are still property.  Women are still meant to be playthings for the "good kids".

I am sorry, but if they were really "good kids", there would not have been a rape.

Probably an inflammatory statement, yes.  But there is such a pervasive sense of "I am sorry I got caught..."  One of those kids even said in his statement to the victim, "I am sorry that those pictures got sent around."  Not, "I am sorry I violated you and degraded you and raped you".

The parents stood up and tried to blame alcohol.  Not ONE SINGLE PERSON tried to stop and think, "Maybe we should just NOT RAPE.  Maybe we are NOT entitled to sex.  Maybe a woman CAN and SHOULD consent."

People are still worried about the "bad light" that has been shed on Steubenville.  This frequently happens when unexamined privilege and systemic biases are yanked out from behind the curtain.  This stuff does not happen in isolated incidents.  Violence, drugs, rapes...society supports them.  It is not just Steubenville.  They just happened to have gotten caught.  Everyone needs to change.

How many more victims do we need to have before this happens?   I just hope that it is not too late to rehabilitate those boys.  I hope that the victim gets some measure of peace, though I know this is unlikely.  I hope that the community looks within itself to change.  I fear that this is also unlikely.

Emergency

On Friday, I got a call from the daycare.  Charlie had been kind of off that morning, but it wasn't enough for me to take off work (and let's be honest, if I called off every time I was cranky, I would never be at work...).  The teachers there knew this, and had called me concerned.  She hadn't eaten anything that day, which is not all that unusual given that she is a toddler and they possess a magical ability to extract nutrients from air.    What was concerning was that when she woke from her nap, she was shaking uncontrollably.  Not like seizure shaking; like she was shivering.  No temp, nothing to explain it.  Then she could not get off her cot or pick up her goldfish crackers.  Concerning, no?  I called the doc and they said to go ahead and take her to the ER.

Now, Elizabeth and Alexis, I have been to the ER a grand total of two times between the two of them.  This will make Charlie's third visit.  WTF, child?  She is a train wreck, health wise.  Hell, before she was a year old she already had had four different specialists involved in her life.

I can tell when the child is not feeling well, though.  Mostly because she isn't smiling sweetly at you while toying with the blade of the knife she keeps strapped to her ankle or throwing her toys around in a rage because you dared to suggest to her that maybe it isn't a good idea that she stick that metal hanger into the light socket.  She also tends to be more cuddly.  Now that I miss from her being an infant.  She would just snuggle into the center of your chest and look up at you and smile.  Now she will look up at you and smile, but once she figured out the key to mobility the snuggles dropped off.

She is feeling better now.  She started to have diarrhea, and the diagnosis was that it was caused by a bacteria.  The shaking was mild dehydration and low blood sugar from not eating.   Few doses of an antibiotic and the BRAT diet and she has bounced back.  She still is not 100% though.  Today, we were up in her room and she was sitting naked next to me doing puzzles (don't judge; I was picking my battles and clothing was not one I wanted to. That or I'm a lazy and inattentive parent). She then just snuggled onto my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck for a hug.  This is not something that she does spontaneously.

I kinda miss the days when it didn't take an emergency for her to want me.  When I picked her up at the daycare, the first words out of her mouth were, "Mama, I couldn't get off my cot."  I think it truly scared her.  Little Miss Independent she has always been.  I am so grateful, though, that even though she thinks she is grown, she still feels that she can come to me when she is scared or sick.

Even if she would be totally my first choice for backup in a bar fight.

Mom

Charlie has recently discovered that she likes birds.  Why, I don't know.  They are creepy as hell if you think about it.  Their beady little eyes, their beaks (really?  What kind of creature has a protruding mouth that is hard?), their unnaturally small legs and feet...CREEPY.  I hope to God she never finds out that people keep them as pets...

At any rate, she will constantly point out birds to me when we are driving.  Most of the time she gets an "Uh huh, I see..." because hello, remember I ignore my children whenever possible?  Also there is the whole I am driving and it usually does not work out so well when you turn around to look while going 60 MPH thing.  This morning, though, she was insistent and finally goes, "MOM!!!  LOOK AT THE BIRDS!!!"

Mom?  MOM?  WTF, child?  I am not Mom.  I am Mama.  Mom is entirely too grown up.  Next thing I know she will be putting on lipstick and listening to the devil's music, AKA anything sung by Katy Perry or Ke$ha, while casually trying to figure out ways to have boys shimmy up the pine tree in the front yard to sneak into her room and smoke pot that turns out to be oregano.

Mom is what a teenager calls you.  Usually accompanied by slamming doors and rolled eyes.  Sometimes both if you get a twofer that day.  Mom is not what my little Char-Rambo calls me.  She calls me Mama, ever so sweetly while looking me right in the eye and defiantly pulling her shoes off after I just fucking told her to put them on and GODDAMMIT STOP FEEDING THE FUCKING DOGS OR THEY WILL NOT LEAVE YOU ALONE WHILE EATING!!!  (For the record, I have never actually said that to her but I totally thought it.  All caps in my head, too...)

I am not ready for my baby to be grown up enough to call me Mom.  I want her to stay innocent.  Elizabeth was talking to me about prom today.  Fucking prom.  Do you know what kids DO at prom?  That is big kid stuff.  Who gave her permission to talk about prom?  Who gave Charlie permission to call me Mom?  Next thing I know, Alexis will be talking about getting her driver's license.

I think I need some oregano...

Laughter

So since I was off work this morning, I was posting a lot on Facebook.  Mostly just the random ramblings of a deranged mind, really, but I hadn't had time off during the week for a while so it felt good to make an ass out of myself during the week.  Someone posted a comment on one of them, something about always making her laugh.  This of course got me thinking about some kind of touchy-feely metaphorical bullshit that I can post here about the importance of laughter in my life.

One of the main ways that I knew something was wrong after Charlie was born was that I had no desire to laugh.  I still did, of course (given that my husband was shocked as hell when I told him what was going on) but I did not actively pursue it the way I do now.   I went through the motions on the outside, but on the inside I would have been screaming if my psyche had the motivation to get itself up out of bed and to pour the gin out.  All I really wanted to do was to crawl into a bed and fade away.  I did not want to hear my children's laughter or to joke with my husband.  I had no motivation to seek this out.

Monday through Friday during the week, I see very ill people.  I see people who actively want to end their lives, or other's lives.  I am pretty sure that I have looked into Satan's eyes a few times too.  I see people who are hearing voices telling them to do awful things.  I hear people tell me about the awful things that others have done to them.  I see misery, sadness, despair, and a kind of grim trudging through the day to go to bed to get up to see another.  Bleakness.  Pain.  Sometimes evil.  I am steeped in it.

Yes, I know I chose this.  I still love my job.  However, I would not be able to cope with it if I stopped laughing.  Any mental health professional who is reading this will be nodding their head because they know.  The laughter is the antidote to the poison of what we do.  It can truly numb your soul.

But even before I entered this field, I sought out laughter.   I tend to be a sucker for men with a sense of humor.  I strongly preferred comedies over dramas or horrors (and now I just really tolerate dramas and will not watch a horror.  Or anything with violence, really.)  Now, even more so, I have made it my mission.  There is not enough laughter.  If I can make someone laugh through my ridiculousness (and honestly, it is a little frightening how ridiculous I can be); if dropping the f-bomb at inappropriate times and engaging in hyperbole can brighten someone's day, I'm all over that like a teenager is all over news of Harry Style's most recent break up.

Desk

I realized the other day that my desk at work is strangely symbolic of my psyche.  It is for the most part, on the outside, neat and organized.  The inside is another story completely.  The top drawer of my desk is full of post it notes with important information jotted on them, mints and eye drops to address my chronically dry eyes and mouth, my phone, stickers with the hotline number on it (I hand those out like candy in my job...), paperclips, old pictures of my children that used to hang on my wall, my car keys...basically a modge podge of my life.  The drawers to my desk are crammed with papers that I need, filed in neatly labelled compartments and easily accessible...but full to over flowing.

That is how my life is.  Full to over flowing, but with things I need...work, my children, my health, my social life.  All neatly organized on the outside, but a million different things going on at once.

There is somewhat of an illusion there.  I guess I appear to have things together, but in reality there are always many different things on my mind that I worry about.  This is the curse of the anxiety that I carry.  No matter how much I am able to organize, how many lists and plans I make, it never feels like it is enough.  There is always more I should be doing, ways that I am lacking, people I have failed.

If I were to look at my life as lived by another person, I would probably be pretty impressed.  I was teenage mother.  My child that I had at that age is a pretty fucking fantastic kid.  I did not fall apart after I had her.  I fought and worked and scrambled to get my education.  I make a difference in people's lives on a daily basis.  I own a house, and (mostly :p) pay my bills.  I have a husband who loves me unconditionally, and two other children who are pretty neat as well.  My kids have not killed anyone yet, and if they have they are smart enough to know how to not get caught.  I have creative outlets that I enjoy regularly.  I have taken many steps towards becoming a more healthy person, inside and out.

Why is it that I am so hard on myself?  All of these things, when looked at in someone else, are pretty damn awesome.  All I see when I look at myself is the mess that is inside the desk.  I see all of the things that I feel I should be doing.  All the info that I can't remember;  all the reminders that I need to function.

I surely can't be the only woman who feels this way.  Society judges me in myriad ways, despite all of the successes I have.  My kids aren't learning Mandarin, my house is not spotless, my assessments at work aren't as polished as I would like.  I must not be a good enough mother, wife, worker.  I feel tremendous guilt when I drop one of the many balls I have going, and external forces that show others who appear to have it together more than I do certainly do not help.  The external "desk" that we all have is deceiving.

I need to remember this.  I am not the only one.  Should, must, have to...words I need to eliminate from my desk, and from the desks of others.  I am human.  Not a desk that can be manipulated to suit someone else's needs.