So much to do, so little time!

Anxiety on the receding level means action on the mommy level. Grief is still there, depression is lurking behind (in a shadow, obviously) and anxiety still has me grinding teeth and thinking stupid thoughts while missing other thoughts of greater value, but the energy to do the things of family living is returning to our family life. Luckily, I still don't have a job, though it seems possible in the future. I keep telling friends I cannot fathom how I ever had a full-time, high-intensity job AND cared for kids and home and did all that therapy for Hannah, lived with a depressed and slow moving husband (in secret he may have been speedy, I am still not sure) and...!!!...then started on therapy for me, then spousal suicide and then more therapy for Claire, then me...then arrgghhh...then I remember that I was propped up with oxycodone from November 2010 to March 2013. And then propelled by PTSD, grief, sobriety and the need to eventually get better, then ... .... .... PRESTO! I now operate at roughly 65% and climbing of who I used to be before I married a depressed! lying! manipulative! wrongly made! sort of beautiful in a flawed but beautiful manly and deeply fucked up manly way kind of man and had children with him and eventually had all my own previous flaws and insecurities meet up with special needs! Depression of self plus spouse! Life threatened babies! Death of a parent (and beloved dog)! Life in a CAPITAL L Sense, plus regular life and fell the fuck apart. Boom. Did I mention BOOM!? So now, I figure 65% operational skills is not bad, considering. People say you need a year for grief, you need a year to get equilibrium in recovery, and obviously you need a year plus for PTSD due to its earth shattering and ass kicking nature. So sixteen months since spousal death, this is not bad, not bad at all. Except ALL. Kinda bad still, honestly, but not AS bad as before. A win!

We live to fight the good fight, and smile a little today. Knowing there are more smiles tomorrow and beyond.

In the last two weeks I have spent 40 hours or so pulling weeds, been social repeatedly on as many as four days in a row, volunteered at church, co-parented other peoples' kids as well as my own, gone to continued therapy, sorted the detritus of about the last two plus years in my homey mess and recycled or tossed quite a lot of it, and been validated for how I have cared for my daughter with a metabolic disorder and CP by people in the know who say I have done well by reducing PT and just living. I have read books to my kids and encouraged them. I have loved myself, if not fully, at least I have tried, and told myself it is OK to gain weight while I am in triple recovery, and I bought clothes for me in this size, to reconfirm my affirmation. Firm is a word that partly fits, except for when I jiggle a lot. I have prayed and meditated, though not always with feelings of peace. I have felt optimism, pessimism but less so, hope, despair (natch) but then, hope some more, belief I can truly make my journals of turmoil into a book that might help others recover from trauma and despair, doubt, and, ultimately, belief, again. We have been to the zoo, swimming lessons, the lawn mower repair shop, book club, the store (too many times to count reliably) and I almost set up the computer again to receive pix so I can catch up on holiday and event posts.

Crap, I am pooped. But also, I am having some extra coffee so I can keep going.

Less gloom, more zoom!

In less gloomy Gas Food Lodging news, both girls did a painting for the school talent show.  Each girl wanted to paint something near and dear to her heart, so Hannah painted a picture of her favorite stuffed pony, Sharley.

Claire painted her cousin engaged in her "all Katniss, all the time" favorite activity.

At the talent show I felt blessedly grateful that neither of my children plays the clarinet or drums, and had a very strange conversation with a very conservative friend about her daughter's hula hoop skills and the lack of a future in hula hooping although pole dancing might be lucrative in the health and fitness realm.

Hannah is suddenly very attached to her Daddy shirt which still smells faintly of her father and which she can roll up, cuddle, and seemingly animate with emotions and interest. "No, Daddy shirt wants to go, too!" I put the brakes on Daddy shirt going into the store, and thought it best he not attend church, though he will be allowed to stay in the car.

At church today, as we took communion, Hannah chewed the host after dipping it in the chalice, and her response to the phrase "the blood of Christ, the cup of salvation" . . . was "oh, juicy."

We went tubing with a friend, and Claire did not love it as much as Hannah did. Hannah loved it a lot. Fortunately for me we got a picture of the joy that did not include my mountainous er, um, mountains, which remain larger than Hannah's head and dominate most pictures.

Let's talk about PTSD, let's talk about you and me

That title has a tune in my head, just so you know. You can imagine your own to fit it you don't like mine. When I was more myself, and sometimes now, I sing in my head and sometimes aloud, though you wouldn't really be happy to hear it.

No one expects the Spanish Inquisition, and no one expects a train wreck in their personal lives. That dissappointingly inadequate what to expect when you're expecting book doesn't cover special needs in the way lives are ultimately experienced, no one expects a spouse's suicide or chronic and destructive lying, and when those things happen it is rather distressing, to say the least.  Did unexpected life events come when you were unprepared, and did you feel powerless to deal? Then you have trauma.  Do you relive it, get your ass kicked by it over and over in your head and heart and body, and find yourself lost in a loop of crap? Then you may have PTSD.  I didn't feel OK about accepting that diagnosis last year before my life took a turn for the worse in February.  I thought PTSD was for Veterans, police, etc., and people would think it was bullshit if I said I couldn't function because I feared losing my child if she didn't eat, but once I had even more trauma on a whole new level of awful, and stopped medicating myself with oxycodone, now I do really know it was real PTSD before and it got bigger and badder than ever this year. Among the many things I avoid that remind me of the worst things, talking about the worst things rates pretty high up there, but dumping some out seems to be part of getting well, and if it helps any of you, then let's get better together, 'cause staying lost in a mental health mire of nightmarishness is a lousy option for any of us. Self medicating was always a poor choice and is no longer an option for me.

What I didn't know about PTSD before would fill a large academic volume, and getting to know it on a personal level, it is full of assholery and deserves a poke in the eye, just in case you wondered.  I imagine the shrinks know that it is the result of self preservation mechanisms gone awry.  Much like an allergic reaction though, when you feel anaphylaxis you really have to wonder what good histamines are in doses that can kill. I am tired of intrusive thoughts, tired of a racing heart and pounding ears, tired of my arms going numb and tingly when I feel anxious, or even when I talk on the phone about anything of any importance.  I am tired of hostage dreams, I am tired of the fear I feel when I see a car that looks like my husband's (and I know where his is as it is disabled and in my back yard but it still scares me) and I am tired of wondering when I won't be so tired of these and oh so many other things that upset my apple cart hourly.  So now you know why I stay home and watch Downton Abbey on Amazon and don't take calls and texts and emails even from the people who love me and want to help. I don't really like having to explain how sick I am almost as much as I don't like how sick I am.

Sobriety is my most joyful thing, next to my lovely girls.  Sobriety gives me hope over PTSD, oddly, even though the power triumvirate of PTSD, anxiety and depression led to my addiction.  I feel my best doing outreach at my treatment community, and the most like who I used to be, but I know ifI don't kick some PTSD butt then I won't win the war.  So, let's get crackin'.  Let's talk about PTSD and women and mothers and parents and survivors of the unimaginable.

I will be staying home for a while, not working, as I find that my energy level tanks much earlier than before, and no one will think I am sober if they see how much my hands shake.  Frankly, if people knew how busy my mind is recalling memories, avoiding memories, and keeping myself from screaming then they wouldn't think I could pay attention to much else anyhow.  So I will be back and talk about this more, here, where it is safe.  Thank you.

The one that got away, and other domestic failures

Observe, the tri-tip roast.  Notice the extra sparkles, glinting on the surface of the carefully prepared meat, perfect for a Sunday dinner?  No, those sprinkles are not a new take on an old theme (glazing) or I guess maybe they are, but not intentionally.   While this roasted at a fairly high heat, per a carefully chosen recipe from the Internet, natch, the Pyrex pan exploded.  I wish I hadn't been out shopping, as it purportedly gave out quite an unexpected BOOM when it went, which had followed a few sessions of the smoke alarms going off as the olive oil burned off the roasted root vegetables also being prepared.  Sigh.  Yes, I am that good.  I stayed away long enough to ensure my husband could get the oven cleaned up and order in pizza.  Happy Anniversary, Lord Honey!  We had actually celebrated with a date night the previous evening, so it wasn't too likely to cause marital devastation, even though we courted each other with me preparing food for him while he worked on my house for free, thus generating a perpetual expectation that I can provide a decent meal every night.  Not so, but whatevs. 

I don't have my tree.  I took last year's Christmas cards off the mantel today.  I have yet to complete the long threatened toy purge although I did at least begin.  But the middle of that project leaves things in a muddle, rather, as the 17 pieces of 17 toy sets are sorted back into a harmonious grouping of like things alike, leaving roughly 1900 pieces of toys on the floor waiting to be grouped.  I have not completed my Christmas shopping, and I have baked nary a treat for my neighbors. 

Eggnog, it's time.  Come to Mama.  Bring Captain Morgan's spiced rum, please. 

Haiku Friday: Potty Training O My

"Don't toucha mah bum!"
She screams at me angrily.
How else can I wipe?

She wipes standing up,
does not understand dripping.
I wish that she did.

Ev'rytime she pees
she asks "school bus?" hopefully.
Connection's my fault.

I told her "big girls"
got to go on the bus MORE.
She holds me to it.

So tomorrow we
must go on the city bus
as a poor second

I have to make good
or I will be made to pay.
Three year old despot.

How did I get here? Letting the days go by, you say?

And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here? Letting the days go by . . .

I can't stay awake anymore to blog my every thought . . . what happened to those days last year when I posted three or four times a week? Not that there are no things to post about, oh no, not here. Big stuff happens here. Ahem. Are you sitting up and taking notice? A certain toddler made a poo-poo in the potty. And this just in: farts are funny to little girls! Claire farts and then laughs maniacally, saying "I'm just a tootin' machine!" Hannah toots and says "toot" quite softly with a big smile on her face. Both know how to say excuse me, they just don't choose to. This is how I'll get them back for the flatulence of pregnancy - by memorializing their gas for all time on the internet! But more than the simple fun of farting we are seeing exponential growth in communication and understanding with Hannah and depth of analysis in Claire. I don't quite get how Hannah learned to copy her sister pretending to be asleep while she gets taken out of a car seat, but just like her sister, only the smile gives her away.  How could a child whose body works unevenly learn to falsely hold all her limbs slack until I have her tucked onto my shoulder to carry her in and then she giggles to tell me the game is over. We seem to be in one of those spells where the whole world changes moment by moment, each little girl learning something new about every 15 minutes. Frankly, I am a bit dizzy with all this activity.

In the last few days I have had to explain super heroes, plumbers, super hero plumbers, people who beg for money, homelessness, why brothers kill brothers (we watched the Lion King) and I've spent quite some time on how to pronounce S.  No wonder I am so tired!  We found ourselves sort of narrating the Lion King movie to explain things to Claire and to help Hannah keep any attention on it (actually it is OK if she is attending to other things, but I know she is tracking some of what she sees because she frequently mentions "bad guys" and I have to assume this comes from the movies.  I hope so, anyhow.)

. . . brothers don't always kill their brothers.  It's just that particular brother who is bad.  No, that is not why I don't talk to your uncle much.  No, I don't think either of your brothers will do anything like that to each other.

. . . it was a misunderstanding.  He didn't mean to break his Mama's heart and go away.


. . . and here the rains are coming so now the plants come back, and then the animals that eat plants.  See, now the prey have come back and the lions can eat their friends . . . well, the lions can eat.  Pass the popcorn, honey!

. . .

I am unnerved by many rather grownup behaviors that keep turning up around here . . .

Hannah took her first turn through the house in her big sister's toy high heels without crashing to the ground.  Her skinny little legs looked rather adult and Lord Honey took note that the shoes were high enough to tighten her calf muscles.  I am not entirely certain this is what her physical therapist meant when he said he preferred it if Hannah used a variety of types of footwear.

Claire keeps putting scantily clad Barbies on top of the toy piano. 

In two months Claire starts kindergarten. 

How did I get here? 

The alliance of Dentists, Diet and Dialysis Centers thanks the Utah legislature for keeping candy in our schools

Never let it be said that I am afraid to make a fool of myself in the name of good, clean fun. No, not I.

The St. Patrick's Day Parade in our town generally has more participants than viewers, and many of us enter in the "novelty" category. This year's entry focused on the wisdom of our state legislators deciding to keep vending machines in the public schools to keep receiving the money generated, despite health issues for kids who choose Frito's over the hot lunch. The kids along the route enjoyed cheering for M&Ms on the hoof, regardless of the sarcasm, but the parents liked us even more. The only unhappy folk were Claire and Hannah, riding in the stroller and feeling chilly, even under the heavy duty felt Reese's bags I made them wear.

Hey honey, was that peanut butter you put in my chocolate?

The clothing changes around here would make you think we are high fashion models

You may insert platitudes here about how pride goeth before a smackdown. I didn't hit publish on my last post because I wanted to put in some updates about Claire's general sassiness and Hannah's well being. Harumph!

I have now had been puked on, shat on, and had snot smeared on multiple body parts, and made one middle of the night trip to the pediatric ER. Good times!

Hannah wouldn't eat when we did our stealth milk maneuver on Saturday night, wherein we sneak up on the sleeping baby, poke a bottle of milk in her mouth to tide her over for the night, and slip away. Instead she coughed, then hurled, then wailed. We changed everyone's clothing and tried to settle in, got more barf, changed again, then again, then I headed to the hospital when it appeared she could keep nothing down. After a few hours and some time on the glucose IV, her labs looked good so we were allowed to leave, and I got the two of us in bed at 7:00 a.m. to rest a few hours. The discharge nurse told me not to feed her for 36 hours and to stick to apple juice for better digestibility. Hannah also had an "angry" ear infection in both ears so she went on antibiotics, and between the stomach virus, the juice, and the bug killing in her gut, she developed some super powerful pooping skills, and managed to go through three pairs of pants and the walker seat in the first half of the day alone. We kept the washer running just about full time. I talked to the metabolics doc on call who agreed with me, that Hannah should be given food if she wanted it, and certainly breast milk, and he spouted some common sense: no human condition is improved by starvation. Aha! Once the virus caught up with me last night, it was finally clear to me just why Hannah didn't want to eat or drink much of anything. Puking sucks! But, we muddled through and gave Hannah small amounts of whatever she would take, only some of which came back up, so we avoided going back to the ER. She seemed to sleep better on me, so I slept in the rocking chair in her room so I could 1) give her comfort 2) keep her more upright (bonus: easier to roll her over when she puked if she was right on me, and then the puke could flow in an orderly fashion downward) and 3) I would be more likely to know if her condition suddenly worsened to the signs of metabolic crisis that would leave me scrambling. And, she didn't want me to put her down. I actually used the toilet holding her, because she and Lord Honey were both sleeping and strangely, it was easier to pee without getting her off me. Perhaps the powers that be have made Hannah smaller so she is easier to carry until she is up on her own. Claire didn't get the bug until yesterday, when she "throwed up on her pretty purple dress" and got sent home. We had to put up with some extra redheaded grouchiness until the ibuprofen kicked in, and Lord Honey and I spent some time wondering just what we had done to deserve all the extra body fluids. Claire, bless her wee heart, can hurl in a bucket! The last stomach bug she had found her without any control or powers of prediction, but she is now advanced enough to have never once fouled a parent or piece of furniture. Say it loud, I'm proud! No one has actually hurled today, although we still have some chills and queasiness here and there. We learned some MCADD lessons. Learned that even at 18 months of age, spilled breast milk still doesn't stain a shirt but breast milk that has been forcibly ejected does stain, even a new Gymboree shirt. We learned that Hannah's regular and specialty docs are very invested in her care and always take my calls. We learned Oxi-clean really can remove green poopiness. We learned Pedialyte tastes like ass. We learned that if the binky is missing, we should check my bra. We learned the prescription ear drops may be worthwhile. We learned much, and we are tired.

Destruction, chaos, and the brink of financial ruin, I kind of love you

I couldn't put this post up yesterday because, hello, destruction on September 11, not cool and all that. I did think sorrowful thoughts though, and when I woke up I checked online news first thing to see if any anniversary events of violence were ongoing, because I worry about such things. I thought sorrowful thoughts about us all collectively, and about a friend who was activated right after and served in Iraq and who, I think, has suffered for the experience and I am sorrowful for her pain. However, the demo man was scheduled and wanted to begin ripping down the old to make way for the new. Our man has not been busy in recent months given the lack of new construction and fewer folks remodeling their homes, so he was ready to start right away as soon as he could organize the men, machines, and dump trucks.



I loved the sounds of my trashy old building being smashed to smithereens. It amazed me that the wood crunched so in so satisfying a way, and sounded not unlike dry tinder under my feet on a walk in the woods.



The man in the bobcat could not stop smiling as he pulled the building down. Neither could I! I was filming the demo process for my kids to see later and I kept finding myself shouting "Sweet" or "I am so glad they started they work when I could take the day off" or "Honey, the kids will love this" and really meaning that I loved it and couldn't get enough. After he pulled the whole building down I was tired, as if I'd done it myself.



City building officials have been incredibly aggravating. This project ups my debt level to heretofore unknown levels.



I am doing the dance of joy.




We borrowed the money for this part of our project eighteen months ago, before the crashiest part of the economic crash. We meant to do the garage last year, but were sidetracked by the length of time it took us to finish the basement, redo the main bathroom and have a baby with greater than expected needs. Had we not financed it then, we might not have been able to, given the drop in property values. Did I wonder about the wisdom of completing the project? Well, yes, but I got over it. I noticed yesterday as the old garage was demolished, I had no misgivings at all about these expenses, and it was pretty liberating. I can hyperventilate some about expenditures. Twenty years ago I might go clothes shopping to blot our some emotional upset, and feel a little sick as I charged my way through comfort buying but it never stopped me. When I got student loans I worried about the mortgage on my head. When I purchased my first home I had many sleepless nights thinking about how I could possibly borrow so much. Somehow yesterday I felt no such misgivings, and I still can't figure out entirely why.

Am I happy to pump thousands of dollars into the local economy? Am I a good neighbor, showing my civic pride in improving my home for the betterment of my community?

Really, I just like covered parking.