Directions

For a variety of reasons that I still do not understand fully myself, my position at work has suddenly changed and I don't do exclusively emergencies anymore.  This is good and bad.  Good because I don't work solely with the acutely suicidal and/or homicidal and/or psychotic anymore. Bad because it involves me twice a week travelling to a different office.  This adds an additional half an hour to my commute, one way.

Those of you who know me in real life know that according to my sleep habits and patterns, I am an adolescent at heart.  If I could stay up until 2 or 3 AM and sleep till noon-ish, I would be super content.  I am not a morning person, to the point where Elizabeth used to tentatively approach me when she would younger and ask, "Mommy, have you had your coffee yet?"  I told Charles the first night I spent the night that I was not a morning person.  He just laughed the way he did the time I told him about my aversion to laundry.  The next morning he got out of bed to let his dog out, and I bit his head off:  "Why are you getting up?"  "To let the dog out."  "Oh...zzzzzz".

I mention the above because part of the reason I left my previous employer was due to the commute.  And also because it explains what I am about to reveal next.  It at least gives some kind of rationale for my actions.

I decided today to attempt to find a different way to this particular office.  I have to go through two small speed-traps towns and I was thinking that if I could find a back road to avoid this it might be quicker.

Now.  Let's just talk for a minute about what real-world talents I have.  I can open a screw top beer on a picnic table or counter edge.  I can tie shoes so they are less likely to come untied.   I can soften brown sugar once it has gone hard.

I cannot find my way out of a paper bag.  I have the navigational capabilities of a deaf drunk bat.  People like me are why GPS were invented.  To me, directions are similar to making gravy (another real world talent I lack.)  Why bother when I can open a can or make my older sister do it?  It is not like I do this that often.  Same with directions.  Why bother when I seldom go anyplace new and I can have a little nifty machine tell me in a pleasant female voice exactly what to do and when.

I have been to the city that this office is located in exactly four times.  Three were to the exact same place (my children's pediatrician's other office.).  I am not exactly familiar, is what I am trying to establish here.   Even typing this out, I am questioning what kind of logic made me think that it would be a good idea to try to find this alternative route with nothing but my iphone to lead me.  And since I still have not figured out the whole map app on my phone, it may as well have been paper directions.

I am that person who would drive around with the mapquest directions and accidentally hit the hobo on the side of the road as well as your dog too, all because I am trying to read and drive at the same time. I tend to multitask (five open...) and when you are going 55 MPH, eating yogurt is one thing but trying to read directions is another.  Figure in the GPS.  I am saving the hobo, and your little dog too. 

Saving hobos and dogs.  It's what your GPS can do for you.  Why am I not in advertising?

Vacation

We just got back from vacation today.  We spent a week on Hilton Head Island.  Yes, you read that right...the woman who hates water spent a week on the beach and in the pool.  Yes, I swam.  Yes, I allowed my children to do so.  I will admit that I had a much better time at the beginning of the week when Charlie freaked every time we tried to go into the ocean (or the river, as she kept insisting on calling it) or into the pool.  By the end of the week she was a pro and I accumulated no less than 5 additional gray hairs.

Further exacerbating my dis-inclination towards water was the fact that something fucked up started to go on with my ears.  At first it just felt like they had water in them.  Then it progressed to sharp pains.  It sucked.  Swimmer's ear, maybe?  Who the fuck knows.  It was just awful and more ammunition in my fight against the dark force that is recreational swimming.  My husband got me some drops that helped somewhat, but not until I missed spending time with a friend who had dropped by on her way to Myrtle Beach with her boys.  AGAIN...SEE?  Another reason why water is the devil!

Someone (actually, a couple of someones...) had suggested a decongestant.  That sounded like a mighty fine idea until I remembered that most decongestants make me want to crawl out of my skin.  I would make a poor meth addict, I think.  Taking a decongestant and then being confined 14 hours to a minivan with my children, husband, sister, and brother in law?  When taking a decongestant makes me want to scratch my insides out from the imaginary crank bugs that I swear to God are crawling on my arteries?  No thanks.  I'll suck it up, buttercup. Going through the mountains was fun, as well as trying to hear anyone speak below the decibel level of a freight train.

The ear situation aside, it was quite fun.  This was actually our first significant vacation with all of the children.   Charles and I had gone down last year but left the kids, much to Elizabeth's chagrin.  Tack on another three months of therapy there... The kids did great on the ride down...not so much on the ride back but it turns out Charlie's eczema flared up in her butt crack so I imagine that was not so fun for her, poor thing.  We swam, we shopped, Elizabeth got to zip-line due to my brother in law and sister sitting through a time share presentation.  The little girls built (and destroyed) many a sand castle with me and I got more sun (and sand in my vagina) than I should.  We will definitely be returning again, with ear drops this time!

Five

It is hard to believe sometimes that it has been five years.

Five years since my world was turned upside down.

Five years since I learned things I never wanted to know.

Five years.  Half a decade. Kindergarden age.  The Wood anniversary. 

It has not gotten easier.  I dread the days leading up to July 2 like no other.  No matter how much time passes, I don't think that it will ever get to the point where I can work that day.  Where I can think of the events of that day without a panic attack.

Where I wonder how the hell I carried on and functioned and why the world did not stop when mine was falling apart.

Five years.  Both so short, and yet so long.

RIP and happy birthday, Gabe.  Mama misses you every day.  And Mama will never allow you to be forgotten.

MHPMHD

A few months ago, a group of co-workers and I got together for some one's birthday outside of work.  A pretty small thing, considering that hundreds of people probably do it on any given day...but it was revolutionary for us.  We talked, laughed, drank margaritas, and had such a good time that I made the executive decision that we would have a monthly Mental Health Professionals Mental Health Day, otherwise known as the MHPMHD.

Most people don't realize this, but therapists are people too.  The work we do is very important, but we are severely underpaid, overworked, and under-appreciated.  Hearing stories of abuse, terror, pain, misery, and just humans being the very worst they can really wears on a person.  Hence, the importance of caring for one's self.  Most mental health agencies will not do it for you.  They want to wring every last drop out work out of you they can and then will still tell you that you are not doing enough.  It is disheartening.  Much like parenting, in fact.

Right now Charlie is in the midst of a knock down, drag out fit.  She is pissed at me because I am making her play with her toys.  (Call Children's Services, y'all. I am so abusive.)  Not only do I have a toddler to contend with, I have a teenager as well.  Teenagers are really more like toddlers than they are adults, but they have more words and really aren't quite as portable.  Then I have the 6 year old who is totally focused on rules and all of the perceived injustices that are wrought upon her at the hands of others.  Shit gets crazy all up in here, yo.

Most days I am perfectly content to stay at home and referee.  Most days I don't mind the crazy that is both my house and my job.  I thrive on it, in fact.  I chose this and I love it.

But...I need a break.  I need to see my coworkers outside of work where we can laugh and let loose.  I need to NOT be with my family for a few hours.  I need it for my sanity.  I am crazy enough on my own; I certainly don't need their help.

It has gotten to the point now where every once in a while, I can feel the depression starting to creep in.  Like an ominous storm cloud encroaching, it slowly sneaks up with the intention of wreaking havoc on my mood and my ability to cope.  This tells me it is time to engage in some self care (mind out of the gutter, pervs!) and to remove myself.  To go and do something for me.

Does it always work?  No.  Sometimes the depression stays.  Sometimes the storm does not blow over, and it stays and is destructive to my soul and mind and it sucks monkey balls.  Sometimes the storm is able to blow over, like all those times when the hypervigilant peeps at the National Weather Service tell you there is a tornado coming and issue a warning and then are all like, "Oh!  Just kidding!  My bad!"  But you still have hunkered down and prepared yourself because you just never know.  Maybe this is the time that the golf ball sized hail will materialize and destroy your carefully cultivated garden and dent your vehicle and leave you with a huge mess to clean up.

The MHPMHD is designed to be the basement, the storm lanterns, the battery powered radio in the storm.  Sometimes it materializes, sometimes it does not.  Sometimes there is clean up, sometimes not.  It is preventative.  Hell, if I thought it would fly with the IRS, I would totally deduct whatever amount I spend on those days as a job or a medical expense.

Necessary for my mental health, and for yours too.  In fact, I am going to challenge all of my 7 readers to do this.  Once a month, to take a few hours out of a day and do something for yourself.  It can be getting together with friends and having lunch; going for a serene walk by yourself, or going window shopping with your mother.  Just something.  Slow it down, and care for your mental health.  Care for your soul.  See what a difference it makes.

Rainbows II

I recently had to do an assessment that sent me to my knees for a variety of reasons that I cannot go into (HIPPA, yo!).  This was the kind of thing where I really struggled to maintain my composure and in fact, lost it during the session.  Luckily it was clinically appropriate.  I got back to my office, shut the door, and sobbed for about 10 minutes.

It was a rough day, to say the least.  It really did not get any better after that.  Thank God for 5 PM.  I went to pick Charlie up from the daycare.  She jumped up and down, she was so happy to see me.  That helped.

I take her to the Jeep and strapped her into her car seat.  There, across her cheek, was a small rainbow. I have hanging in my rear view mirror a prism that was my grandmother's.  I vividly remember it hanging in her dining room window, above her cart of houseplants.  She always had the most beautiful plants, and her  violets were always so vibrant and a deep purple.  Obviously I did not get the talent for growing house plants as they enter my house and just kill themselves instead of waiting for me to do it for them.  Anyways, this prism always shone rainbows all over her dining room and I always was fascinated by them.  This prism has always been in my car, and at various times does shine rainbows.  However, it had never done so at this time of day as it just did not catch the sun where I park.

Until this day.  There it sat, a small rainbow with no explanation for how it got there.  Never saw one there before, and have not seen one since.  A rainbow, just when I needed it.

I am not going to comment on beliefs about God, heaven, and the afterlife.  Mostly because I know that my  whole 7 readers run the gamut from the extremely devout to outright atheists, with everything in between.  And quite frankly, what I believe is what I believe and none of your business. Could the rainbows be a coincidence?  Absolutely.  Humans do look for meaning in the mundane.  I am incredibly comforted by the idea that my son is looking out for me in some way.  Whether it is true or just me grasping at straws, it was comforting.

Shorts

 Two days ago:

Charles informed me that he is Lord of the Spider Monkeys.  When asked why he went to the dark side, he just shrugged and said, "Sometimes you have to go rogue."  (Related:  I posted this on Facebook and it is very telling that no one questioned why my husband would be telling me that he was Lord of the Spider Monkeys.  Telling about me or my Facebook friends...well, I'll let you decide.)


This happened tonight:

 Charles:  I have some khaki shorts my dad is going to give me.

Me:  Oh, good.  You don't have any.

Charles:  Yes I do. You bought them for me last year. (Side note: Wife of the year I am not.)

Me:  I did? 

Charles:  Yeah, for when we went to Hilton Head.  I keep them in my underwear drawer.

Me:  Wait...Your UNDERWEAR drawer?

Charles:  Yeah, that is where I put my good clothes...wait, why are you laughing?

Me:  YOUR UNDERWEAR DRAWER???

Charles:  Yeah, it makes perfect sense to me.  That way they stay nice and I don't wear them to work in around the house.  Why are you still laughing?

Me:  Just...never mind.  Go shower.

Charles:  OK.

(Comes over to give me a kiss.  Tries to eat my Adam's apple afterwards in a misguided attempt at showing physical affection.)

Me:  WTF was that?  Don't ever do that again.  You were trying to rip my throat out like some kind of wolf.  Or...a spider monkey.

Charles:  Well, I am the Lord of the Spider Monkeys.

Me:  Go shower.

Charles:  You want another drink while I am up, since you are all wrapped up in your cocoon there?  (Mind you, it was close to 90* today and I was wrapped up in a blanket.  My feet were cold; sue me.)

Me:  It is my anti-spider monkey cocoon.

Charles:  It doesn't work.  I can still get you (said in a super creepy voice.)


I should probably start putting ads on this blog to pay for my children's therapy...

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.