So I have a new obgyn. He’s the one who complimented my “lovely pelvis”, remember? Anyway, I like him, I really do. He’s laid back and easy going, very routine about everything and doesn’t expect me to exercise or eat right. Just my kind of doc.
Then two weeks ago I got a call about my iron being low. The nurse told me to start on an iron supplement right away. She didn’t give me any directions, just said to pick one up and take them.
I went to the store and fumbled through the vitamin aisle (which I try to avoid) until I located the iron, picked the largest dose, and called my doctor.
“Hi,” I said, “Um, how much iron am I supposed to be taking?”
“Oh,” said clueless nurse, “Just whatever it says on the bottle.”
Right. Because bottles know everything.
So I started on the supplement and pumped my diet with iron rich foods. By the end of the week, my anemia was so bad I could hardly hold my head up straight. I called the doc and went in for an iron test.
“Well,” the girl says, “It’s actually a little lower than last time. Let me just ask him.”
My doc was standing out at his desk, so I overheard the conversation. “Well,” he says, “That’s not too low, she should be fine.”
Fine? “Um,” in say, “I’m not fine. I couldn’t even vaccuum my living room without nearly passing out today, something is wrong here. I’ve never felt worse.”
He gave me one of those “Oh great, an overactive imaginative pregnant woman–again” looks, made a notation and sent me to the lab to check my thyroid. He also said that I didn’t need to take that iron supplement since my prenatal had iron in it. (THEN WHY DID THEY TELL ME TO TAKE IT?) To top it off, they never called me back–that was last Thursday.
So the last three or four days have been amazingly better (aside from my new pregnant migraines). I had a gout appointment with my family doc today.
Can I just say that there is something so refreshing about a doctor who actually cares about you? Listens to you? Doesn’t think you’re crazy? ANSWERS YOUR QUESTIONS? Within three minutes my family doc had explained exactly what had happened, why I was feeling better, and made me feel warm and cozy and cared for.
And now I don’t want to go back to my heartless ob. I feel like he thinks I’m nuts anyway, and if it wasn’t for the spa-like atmosphere and monthly ultrasound (I’m so spoiled there) I would change doctors completely. What do I do here? I need a good surgeon for the C-section, but I need someone who loves me too. I’m so confused.
So I’m in Costco with June grabbing her a hot dog. Like the daughter I always wanted, she struck up a conversation with the guy behind us.
“My name’s Junie,” I hear her say.
“Oh? And how old are you?”
I looked back in time to see her hold up five fingers. Already lying about her age, nice.
“I bet you’re two,” he says.
She nods her head vigorously, then I watch as her shoulders slump and her head droops.
“My daddy’s gone,” she says in the most orphanic tone you’ve ever heard in your life.
The poor man, I couldn’t decide which of us was more uncomfortable.
“Uh,” I interject, “He’s in New Jersey.”
Akwardness…
“I mean, he’s coming back to us! He hasn’t left us or anything…”
It was clear the man was debating the value of a dog since he couldn’t even make eye contact with the forgotten mother and her poor starving child in front of him. And I swear he actually took a step away from us, like we had a scarlet “A” for “Abandonment” slashed across our chests.
It was one of those moments where I seriously considered flashing him my ring and saying, “See? Do you think he would have let me keep this?”
In that moment, I felt a kinship with single mothers everywhere. Instead of explaining our situation, I decided to go with the “Pooh on you!” attitude, tipped up my chin, grabbed our dogs and breezed past him, nose held high (although those hot dogs make me want to puke these days).
The only thing I have to say about single parenting, no matter how you end up there, is Go You. This job isn’t easy, and we might live in the 21st century, but the judgers didn’t die out with the 1900’s. To all the mom’s who are hoofing it alone for however long it might last, you’ve got love coming at you from my corner.
And frankly, we all know that in 24 hours I have to start cooking again and doing regular sized loads of laundry. I love the boss, but I’ll miss my dirty little secrets.
Apparently, I have sleep apnea.
This is a very serious disorder, it happens when you are constantly woken up in the middle of the night and find yourself never able to slide into that oh-so-blissful refreshing sleep much of the world enjoys.
The bad news is my case is untreatable. No mask is going to help, it’s not due to my tonsils or recent weight increase (we can blame the heart burn on that), and no doctor on the face of the planet can help me.
Why? Because I have June apnea. My daughter wakes up every hour, on the hour, crying/kicking the door/begging for chocolate milk (which I totally give her so don’t judge), only to surface for good at approximately 5:30–during which time she’s chipper and happy and wants nothing more than to climb in bed with me and TALK MY HEAD OFF for two hours.
Honestly, I can’t even stay awake these days to watch The Office, my body is so exhausted with this total lack of sleep. And she’s not waking up for nothing, there’s always some “Bad lion!” or a ghost or a monster or just a lot of pointing at the closet. The girl is having some serious bad dreams, probably brought on by our creepy old Care Bears videos that she seems to be obsessed with.
All I can say is that Daddy will be home on Thursday and After Hours Daddy Duty will start that night. Boy, I can’t wait to sleep with him again.
Thank you Morgan, I’m pretty sure this one was your idea.
Somehow I managed to make my deadline last week and opted to write about the new 12th Grade Optional plan Utah Legislature is considering. I would say more, but I kind of already wrote 700 words on the topic and don’t want to waste your time. Click here to read this week’s Standard Examiner Top of Utah Voices column.
How is it I have so many wonderful friends on the internet and that so few of you are inaccessible to me in real life? So cruel. I love you all, I felt such an outpouring of love/support/empathy/humor from everyone yesterday, it was better than flowers.
So I have this funny thing that I like to attribute to my pack of angels. If you’ve been around long enough, you might have heard me mention that my angels have this thing with music. Specifically, theme songs. It seems that when life is at it’s roughest and most dramatic moments, I flip on the radio and that BAM! There’s a song playing just for me that can’t possibly be a coincidence.
(Like remember me telling you about the time Jason and I had that huge fight about him not wanting to dance in public, then how he got out of the car ON THE FREEWAY, IN A TUX, and walked to a gas station to call a cab? And how as soon as I got in the driver’s seat I flipped on the radio and heard, “And I’m never gonna dance again! Guilty feet have got no rhythm…” Seriously, this is not a coincidence.)
So last week I had one of those really really bad days. It seemed that everything that could possibly go wrong had gone wrong, and I was trying to buckle three bawling kids into the car with very little success, and I finally lost it. It was my first big cry since Jason’s left. I smacked my head against the garage wall, let the drool run down my face and bawled my head off for a solid 47 seconds. It felt great.
Once I composed myself enough to climb in, I turned the key and started the car. The radio was on, and instantly I heard, “Ooh ooh child, things are gonna get easier…Ooh ooh, things’ll get brighter…”
I know Father in Heaven must be seriously aware of me because He sends me little snippets of comfort all the time. Brownies on my doorstep, music that makes me laugh and cry at the same time–how could I ever doubt His existence and His incredible love for me and mine (His)? It’s like one of those hidden pictures in the Highlight’s magazine, if you look closely at your day you’ll see all sorts of additional messages and moments that you’d otherwise breeze right by.
I guess what I’m saying here is that I know I’m not alone, and I know I’ll never be alone. Whether it’s friends like you or Aaron Neville on the radio, He’s got my back.
As I sit here, hair in tangles and mascara down to my cleavage, I have to admit something rather horrifying. I’m not as good at this as I used to be.
Last year when Jason left for five months, I was mostly strong and sporadically happy, but totally competent. Right now? Not competent. Not strong. Rather wet in the face and ridiculously emotional. And what, pray tell, do I have to be so emotional about?
My bar. The one in the kitchen. That nasty, festering nemesis that no matter how many times a day I clean, it spontaneously produces orange slices and broken crayons. floating amid puddles of water/yogurt/apple juice.
Unfortunately the iron supplements aren’t working as fast as I’d like them to (even with the additional oysters, liverwurst, and strawberries I’m eating) and just getting everyone breakfasted and dressed has me seeing spots and needing to put my head between my legs.
So, in an attempt to force energy this morning, I fired up the Oreck and made it through one room before nearly passing out. I collapsed on the couch in the family room, unable to move, and immediately wanted to shoot myself. Stuck on the couch, I had a bird’s eye view of all things disgusting in my house: the undercarriage of the bar, the television stand, and the bottom of the bookshelves.
To make matters worse, June thought I needed a little wake up call and spent the next five minutes beating me to a bloody pulp while all I could do was sit with a pillow over my face and cry like an idiot.
This whole motherhood thing has been very enlightening today. Apparently I have limits. Who knew?
PS – I just realized I have a deadline today for my TOUV column. I need 700 words of something opinionated? Anyone? I’ll pay for a good idea right about now.
Great news! According to the Chinese Birth Chart (mother’s age and the month of conception if you’ve never tried it) this baby is going to be a girl. Can I just say phew? I’ve been wondering what I would do with another boy, what a relief to know that I don’t have to worry about it. And for the record, the needle trick says this kid will be a girl as well.
Of course, on the flip side, I’ve been through this three times, and there are certain flags that I can’t help associating with boys and flags I can’t help associating with girls. Take the bagels and cream cheese, for instance. Harrison and Rex received a lot of their cellular makeup from Einsteins. We all know I’ve had the same problem with this child, and I didn’t want to get near a bagel with June.
And then there’s the leg hair. With June’s pregnancy, my leg hair got noticeably soft and girlie. With the boys, I became Amazon Woman of the Universe. I’m kind of leaning toward Amazon Woman these days (although part of my problem might be the fact that I haven’t shaved my legs in four weeks and I have to wear jeans under my dresses at church so the hairs don’t poke through my tights).
Let’s face it, I’m going to love this kid no matter what it is, I’ve been here before. There is no way in Hades I could do anything but be instantly in love with this child, boy or girl. But at the same time, I’d sure love to get rid of all these boy toys and just keep the girl stuff around. Another girl would be so convenient and cute, and there’s always the very, very slight chance I might actually get a child that looks something like me. I think I’d kind of like that. (If you’ve ever met my husband you’ve probably realized that our kids all look EXACTLY like him.)
And in case you’re all wondering, we won’t be finding out what this baby is until it takes it’s first breath of sterilized air. Isn’t waiting so much fun?
What in the heck has happened to girls today?
I’ve recently adopted a family of adorably teenage daughters into my life. They live down the road and have become a regular fixture in my house over the past few weeks. I love these girls, having never had the chance to work with the young women, I find them fun and refreshing and extremely entertaining.
I also want to pull my hair out.
The more I listen, the more I realize that the fine art of Catching a Man went out with the cell phone. Apparently, girls today sit around and wait for boys to text them, then they immediately text back. To put it bluntly, they’re about the most available, unexciting things to ever happen to The Chase (of which they know nothing about and have no one to teach them).
Lucky for me, it seems they’re all dying to learn and these girls are not only listening, but they’re putting the good old rules into play. And let me tell you, it’s amazing what happens to a boy these days when he can’t get ahold of a girl he likes. Eventually, he gets so desperate that he CALLS them. Or, if the girl is really good, he’ll actually COME OVER.
All I can say is there’s something to the old adage, “A man chases a girl until she catches him.” Like I told these girls, the rules aren’t for catching a husband (since they worked on every man BUT Jason), they’re for protecting your heart and making sure that boys don’t take advantage of your tender feelings during the dating years.
Sadly, girls today don’t even know that we have all the power. News flash: we do.
So we all know I’m big on forcing my six-year-old to tell me I’m beautiful, but I realized today that it might not be clear as to why I force such compliments from him.
While I might possibly be the vainest girl you’ve ever met, forced compliments from my kid don’t actually do anything for my self esteem. Yes, I like to watch him blush and laugh and say, “Mom!” when I make my regular request, but as far as feeling better about myself, it really has nothing to do with that.
Today on the way to church as he was getting out of the car, I gave him the usual parental advice that comes on Sunday mornings. “Okay, tell me I’m beautiful.”
“Mom!” he said, slapping his forehead in the most adorably embarrassed gesture a six-year-old boy can make, “Why do you always make me say that?”
So I told him. “Harrison,” said I, “Someday you’re going to be a husband and a father, and it’s critical that you learn to tell the women you care about that they are beautiful every day. Trust me, it will make them happy, and you want your wife to be happy.”
The best part? He totally got it. I could see the little light bulb pop in his brain. And I know that my brainwashing is paying off, because when Junie came out this morning in fresh pig tails with a cute little outfit on, he said, “Oh, your hair is so cute!” What woman doesn’t love a man who can give a sincere (or even fictional) compliment on a semi-regular basis?
I know my husband loves me, but giving compliments has never been his strong suit. It’s my job as a mother to make sure my boys grow up and not only appreciate the women they love in their minds, but say it out loud and say it often. And as far as June’s concerned, there’s nothing more important for a girl’s budding self-esteem than hearing kind words from her brothers.
You want a woman to feel beautiful and good about herself? Tell her what you love about her, and tell her regularly. Sometimes we don’t even realize how much we need that kind of support until we hear it.
My mama is here for an entire week. That means Prime Rib to go (which unfortunately turns my stomach right now) and serious closet de-cluttering. I found out today that my hemoglobin is freaky low right now, which explains the crazy lack of energy and constant fatigue. Thank goodness for phlebotomists. I’m starting on iron supplements. The upside is more energy, but there’s nothing like legitimately pulling the fatigued and pregnant card (not that this will cease with the increase in energy).
In the meantime, here is this week’s article. Honestly, it was one of my favorites to write, laughed all the way through it. Life is so funny sometimes.
For those of you who missed it (because I took it down), I am officially knocked up. Almost to fourteen weeks, according to yesterday’s ultrasound (but who’s counting), and can I just say THIS HAS BEEN THE HARDEST THING NOT TO TELL YOU. You, my dearest friends who I tell everything to, keeping this to myself has been positively painful.
Luckily, the bagel stage has passed, and I’m finally starting to get glimpses of life in the second trimester. As many of you know, we’ve been working on making this child for over a year, and can I just say Hallelujah to never going through a first trimester ever again. This is it, our final attempt at procreation.
I’m planning on having the Doc fry those tubes when this kid comes out, and with my already impaired non-fertile plumbing, I’m pretty sure we won’t have any accidents that aren’t divinely planned (feel free to insert your favorite Friend Who Got Pregnant With Her Tubes Tied story here).
And so, now that I’m feeling better and the need to whine about raw meat and frozen chicken nuggets has passed (see? Aren’t you glad I kept it to myself?), we can get on to the good part of pregnancy. My boobs. Just between us, I forgot about the magical boob fairy that visits during that first trimester, it’s the one consolation prize to all the nastiness.
So here I am, emerging into the best and only nice part of pregnancy (I’m referring to my boobs again), and there’s no one here to enjoy it with. So lame. I would say it was his loss, not mine, but this is the last time I’ll have a rack like a teenager’s that’s not surgically enhanced and I’d like to enjoy it. The clock is ticking buddy, get yourself home.
So I’m reading The Bobbsey Twins to Harrison right now. Even though it’s slower than molasses and completely outdated, he’s way into it.
Now you would think that by choosing an old standard, we’d be totally safe. But I might as well go straight to Captain Underpants because there are moments when I actually have to censor this book.
Take their cook, Dinah. Every stinking time she talks, the author reminds us that she’s black and/or colored. I, of course, leave that part out because it seems so totally inappropriate and irrelevant. And when it talks about her husband, Sam, I get the distinct impression that the author is highly, highly racist. In fact, I do quite a bit of improvising where Sam is concerned because the book is hell bent on making him sound like an idiot. (Don’t worry, I’ve made Sam sound impressive enough to be the next president.)
And the more I read, the less credible this book becomes. To hear them talk, you’d think there was nothing in the world more wonderful than having two sets of twins, because obviously, they’re all best chums. I mean, Nan and Bert do practically everything together, and Freddie and Flossie (Flossie? Really?) couldn’t be more perfectly matched in coloring or temperment.
I guess what I’m really trying to say here is that THIS BOOK IS A LOAD OF CRAP. It’s such a good thing I’ve got Ramona Quimby and Super Fudge around, or I’d be feeling really bad about my parenting skills right about now. (By the way, Super Fudge is way funnier now that I’m a mother.)
Here’s this week’s article (written last week). This is what happens when you get up in the middle of the night and write to meet a deadline, then submit it real fast without letting it simmer. When I read through it today, all I could think was TMI. No one needs to know this much about my vacuuming problems.
So it looks like my kids will be staying here this weekend, it’s a no-go with their grandparents. I don’t quite know what to say, other than I want to throw up and run away to Ireland.
I was thinking about this whole single parenting gig today, and I’ve decided that really, it’s just a mind game. It’s not like Jason being home gives me much reprieve from the laundry, or the housework, or the endless stream of “I’m hungry’s” that fly from my kids’ ever open little mouths. Granted, he’s pretty good about handling bath time and pitching in with bed time, and he does usually does the dinner dishes. Okay, he helps me. A lot.
And even when I try really hard to look at the big picture and give myself a lousy pep talk, I can’t seem to shake feeling like I’m mostly alone in the world. Do I sound whiney enough? Cause seriously, I can turn this up a notch if you’re not feeling it.
So here I sit, mopey, depressed, and feeling like if any of my children even looks at me, I might fly into a crazy woman rage that involves large quantities of sugar and even larger quantities of telelvision. Because right now, I’m trying incredibly hard to be a good mother, but all those auto-pilot parenting tricks are calling out, “Use us! Use us! Come on and abuse us!”
I have an hour and forty minutes until my first-grader is home. He’s so high maintenance, wanting to be constantly entertained, I don’t know if we’re going to get through the rest of the day. Seriously, sometimes life sucks.
Quick update: I just got off the phone with my darling little sister-in-law who swooped in and saved the day–she’s helping me out on Saturday for a few hours so I only have to cancel one of the events I had scheduled for the weekend (oh yes, there were events). Hey, sometimes it pays to ask. Love you, Hayley!
So Jason called me yesterday afternoon. He’s in a seriously secret place and we only get to communicate at night when he’s done with all his classes/homework/gun cleaning/pizza parties. We visited for a second, and he says, “So how are you doing, really? Are you okay?”
I took a second for a little self evaluation, and I realized something rather frightening. I’m doing great. Sure, last week I was clinically depressed, and sure I laid in my bed until noon on Saturday eating Captain Crunch and reading magazines, but that was then. Apparently, I am a highly resilient creature. I was surprised at my own very honest response.
“You know what? I’m great. The kids are great, the house is great, we’re actually doing just fine.” And I meant it.
Who knew that I could get over him so fast? Who knew that I could be such a rocking single parent who has managed for the past two nights to NOT scream like a crazy woman at my kids (much), even when they’re awake after 7:30 pm.
Of course, maybe part of this is the fact that my kids will be spending the upcoming weekend with their grandparents, and I know on a very important level that I will have some time to regroup and drink up some necessary alone time in a completely kid-free zone. And let me tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever looked forward to a weekend so much in my entire life, honeymoon included (okay, it’s a toss up).
I’m just thankful for the friends and family members who haven’t forgotten us, it’s times like these when you can really see who gives a crap about you. Honestly, after that last three day weekend alone, in the house, with three kids for 72 hours, I almost lost it. Thank goodness for relatively expensive babysitters.
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