Caloden

About a year ago when my sister-in-law first mentioned to me that she had a blog, I thought, "Huh, well how nice for you. But really, do you have some sort of bizarre, pathological need to share yourself with the rest of the world?" We would send emails back and forth, talk on the phone, and sometimes when I asked her about her boys or work she would mention that she had just written a post about those exact topics. And again, I would think, "Huh, how nice for you." As the summer wore on she encouraged me to start my ownblog , and finally took matters into her own hands and set up one for me. I began rather tentatively, but by about the fourth post I was hooked. It was so therapeutic, and I was in some serious need of anything remotely healthy for my head.

For the most part I have been rather secretive about my blog. I am rather selfconscious about the fact that I blather on and on about my daily dramas and the endless posts regarding childrearing. I did tell one friend, in a bit of a tipsy red wine haze, about my blog and now when I see her she will sometimes mention something about my life and I will always cringe just the teensiest bit. We have known each other since the fifth grade, and I guess there is a part of me that still hopes she thinks me to be normal -but if she reads myblog she might guess otherwise.

I have also told my mother about my blog. For sometime I would casually mention I had posted about this or that but I would never tell her the address or invite her to read. It's petty on my part, but I have rather enjoyed this small bit or torture I can inflict upon her. Recently I broke down and told her I was considering an invitation for her and some day when I am feeling like a decent person I will giver her the address.

So with all my covert activity about this site, I was shocked when yesterday I opened up my mouth and invited a woman to read it. She works the front desk at the nursery and is an angelichardass if ever there was one. When she dispenses the paychecks she always has some sort of scandalous question we must answer before we receive our money. The questions usually pertain to subjects like -do I swallow or spit? Or, have I ever bunked with a chick, and if so, did I fancy some more? For some random reason I thought of apost I wrote back in September and thought she might find it fitting. I opened it up for her and left her to read. When I returned both she and one of my bosses were reading it and laughing. My boss left to go tend to work matters and my friend said, "Gee, I didn't know you were such a, er, writer."

I suddenly felt as though there was a chilly draft running through the lobby and I looked down just to make sure I wasn't totally naked from the waist down to my toes. Did I err? Why couldn't I have just kept my big mouth shut. Now she will know what a nut I am. She will know that I have to swallow a happy pill just to get through the days. She will know I have fantasies about sticking my toddler to the wall with large patches of velcro. Now it's likely that she already suspects as much and that I am just a paranoid freak, but I sort of feel the need to throw on an extra sweater just to combat that naked feeling in the pit of my stomach.

This is the time of year in Colorado when I fear that the warmth will never return for a nice, long stay. In a single day it might snow, rain, blow and the sun might come out for a few minutes in between each of these weather shows. I have enough instabilities in the ever changing weather of my own head, I really don't need them pouring from the skies. And the sad thing is that until mid-June there will be so consistancy in our skies. Now is this really a drama worth posting? No, likely not. But since it continues to snow, this means the ski areas will remain open until Easter weekend. That is over two weeks away. And this means that I must continue to cart Devon 40 miles, hop on a shuttle bus and entertain wee ones in the nursery all day. It is at this point that I am somewhat regretting my declaration that I would in now way teach out on the mountain this year.

I have to agree with The Grinch when he is moaning and groaning about the
Who’s down in Whoville and their antics on Christmas morning. “Oh the
noise. Oh the noise. Oh the noise, noise, noise, noise!”, he wails.
This is a refrain that loops through my head time and again on a daily
basis. It seems that no amount of Prozac in my system can drown out the
constant chaos that complies my surroundings.

Knowing my inability to deal with this factor of my life, rather unfortunate
since I have three kids, a cat, a yappy dog, a ferret, a large mate and
just 1,000 square feet of living space, I had planned carefully to
limit the audio factor during the Spring Break week. Loren went away to
Denver for a long four day weekend. Cassidy had a sleep over and was to
attend a play tonight with my mother. Matt is out doing some sort
Flyfishing.wiki thin(g sounds terribly stimulating). Devon was to go
peacefully to bed. This was all so that I could sit quietly at the
keyboard and peck away about the many interesting aspects of cancer and
heart disease. But just like the Grinch’s wee friends, my little Who’s
have prevailed. Cassidy has come down with a nasty cough and was not
able to attend the play. And once she is in the house she is my
constant shadow of velcro. This enables me to listen to That’s 70’s
Show while I try to find cancer links for posting. Devon took almost 45
minutes to sing himself to sleep. And it appears that Loren will be
returning from his trip tonight so that he can make his dental
appointment tomorrow.

I have tried everything possible to
stretch the time so that I can get Cassidy into bed and have a nice
time span before Loren arrives home, ready to chat about all the skate
parks he visited on his trip. I took a long shower and shaved the
forest that had grown on my legs (the presence of which is maybe why
Matt is so willing to spend time researching flyfishing….), I deep
conditioned my hair and then spent an hour straightening and drying
it.

But still I can hear it. The noise. Those incomplete
posts. The unwashed dishes. The unfolded laundry. The grime in between
the shower tiles. The out of date meat in the refridgerator. The yet to
be paid gas bill in the mailbox.

It really isn’t all the fault of the children. If I didn’t have all their literal noise screaming in
my face all day, I would likely fabricate the voices of the dishes and
the bills. It wasn’t until the Grinch embraced his foes that he was
able to find peace. I am so looking forward to the day when I evolve
enough to reach this level, when I can carve the roast beast and not
worry about needing to wash the carving knife and serving plate on
which it drips its grease.

When is enough ever enough? Apparently never, at least not in the noise
that chatters in my head all day. This weight thing has so many facets.
I am not at all laying this on MIM because the weight thing/body image
issue is something that I have been battling all my life. And even
before her explosive post I have been thinking hard on it. As I emerge
from my funk, begin to once again look in the mirror, contemplate
exercising -the body image issue has reared it's bloated head and
stares at me everyday when I get dressed. But I can deal with that. It
is what it is. And what it is is me. However, what does concern
me is Cassidy. From the moment I birthed a girl I became far more aware
of this whole body thing in our society. I censored the movies she
watched, discarded any pictures of celebrities and made every effort to
never utter the word FAT in her presence. I knew I couldn't do this
forever but I thought that maybe a bit of a bubble might cushion her
from it all.

Cassidy has always been underweight. The doctors used to
get on my ass about it until I brought in Matt as proof of her lineage,
Matt is 6'6" and not a stocky fellow. That shut them up and got them
off my back. At Cassidy's last ckeck up she was in the 80th percentile
for height but only the 8th percentile for weight.

But
here is the problem with it all. Everywhere we go people remark on her
figure. "Oh, you are stunning," they say. "If only I could look like
you, my clothes would fit all so nicely." Or, "Honey, have you ever
thought of modeling? You have the perfect figure. ANYBODY and EVERYBODY
would kill to look lie you." These are grown women. Women with
daughters of their own.
Now I will admit that she is stunning. And her anorexic look
does lend itself well to the demands of our warped societal
views.  But how fucking fucked up is that? And what's even more
fucked up is that it is starting to affect her. I see her rubbing her
jutting hip bones. She claims she isn't hungry for dinner. She will say
she ate a late snack at school and then not want to eat at home. She is
not even nine years old. 

Cass is going to have her fair
share of issues as she enters puberty. She is smart, intense, extremely
energetic, and looks different from any other person I have ever seen.
I can't forever insulate her from the world, she has been fighting me
to get out into it since she could walk. I just don't want to lose her.
I want her to be healthy, have a center and be confident. Is that
possible? I don't have the answers this morning. I need another cup of
coffee before I can really begin to dwell on it.
 

There are so many things this week about which I could, and really should, post. But really why? It’s Saturday night, and that in of itself reveals a large chunk of my non-existant social life, and I just don’t think I can convince myself to rise to the occasion of the deep issues of this week’s bloggishness. We just completed a dinner of barbequed pork sandwhiches with sides of baked beans and a beer to wash it all down the gullet. Now, I don’t eat pork, but Matt was fairly sure it was really turkey so I took him on his word and gobbled it down. Did I think about MIM as I munched and slurped? Oh yeah, I did. I have been thinking about her and her post and the aftermath all week. But, mmmmmm it was crazy tastey. Made all the better by the fact that Matt and I actually got a moment alone to eat. Loren is out of town for the weekend, Cassidy is upstairs watching some horrid Hillary Duff movie and Devon is tucked away in his crib. On that note, I think I’ll go make the roll of cookies I bought at the store. They’re oatmeal-cranberry. Hope my ass isn’t too big in the morning. But if it is, maybe I’ll whack off all my hair to detract from the attention of my fatness. My hair is quite long, super thick and quite luxurious. The shock of a Natalie Portman doo might make them all forget my portliness for at least five days.

I have been thinking long and hard about MIM’s post and L’s response to it. That’s a pretty volitile subject as evidenced here, and I suspect many other places in the bloggish world. But really, who wasn’t a few pounds lighter when they hooked up with their man? I was 115 when I first met Matt. After the first two kids, I hung out at a farily comfortable and curvy 130. But after Devon was born I packed on another 20 and currently tip the scales at 150. And I hate it. In my case, MIM is right on target. In the stagnancy of my depression I lost my self-worth, sought comfort in the Nutella jar and forgot what it felt like to get my heart rate up above 75. These days I know when I bend over to retrieve vegetables from the crisper drawer that Matt no longer has the urge to rush in the kitchen and fondle my behind. And that’s a bummer.

However, as I look at him and his waisteline that has quietly expanded in empathy to mine, my attraction is not diminished. I like round things. Our cat is fat, our dog is plumpish and our ferret is rotund, not that I am at all equating my attraction to my mate to that of the animals -let’s not go there. But I do know that as Matt and I are beginning to pull ourselves back together, because that’s what it feels like -as if we have scattered bits and peices of ourselves about for the past two years, that we will again go for bike rides together. We will go on hikes and evening walks. We are talking abut joining the local rec center that has a child center where Devon could play and we could both workout together. In college we used to go to the rec center in the evenings -he to play basketball and running for me. It was a courting ritual of sorts and always lead to good fun.

So although I do not fully agree with all of MIM’s thoughts, and I have likely let them morph into thoughts of my own since I read her post, I do see her point. For me I think it all comes down to balance. There is a juggling act for all families. Those precious commodities of time, money, energy, sleep, love for the kids, love for the mate and love for the self are all part of that daily balance. To take care of yourself with an hour of walking means giving up that time of playing Go Fish with one of the kids. Sometimes an afternoon nap is far more important than earning some money, and then to compensate for the nap the next exercise hour is knocked out in order to work in the evening. Sometimes as I look back on the day while I rub the roundness on my soft belly I feel completely satisfied if I have kept most everything in a healthy balance. Did I let Matt know I love him? Did I listen to Loren and respond to his questions? Did I show Cassidy the depth of my love for her amazing self? Did I keep Devon safe, dry and fed all day? Did get the laundry done, folded and put away? Clean the kitchen? Provide a healthy dinner? Did I get some exercise time for myself and make healthy eating choices -not always too likely. But if I answered the previous questions in the affirmative that is usually good enough. But there does need to be a balance between them and me. Their needs and mine. And that is what I am working on.

But, oh dear, I took all that brewhaha and made it all about me. But it is my blog, so why not. I think it helps with the balance….

She will be then end of me. I have known this since she was in utero. I had to be on bedrest with her at six months because her constant flips and table dancing caused me to have too many contractions. After she was born I began drinking coffee just to get through the days. I, who would be sent on a caffiene high for hours from just one Coke, took to drinking coffee throughout my days just so that I could continue to walk upright and breathe at the same time. Now almost nine years later she is smarter, faster, has more endurance than me and will ultimately take me down. I could go into today’s drama, break it down to where it started, how I blindly walked into it and how she was the victor. But really, does it make any difference? I think not. The same scenario will happen tomorrow, next week, this summer….

But this evening I did come up with a bit of hope. What if there were a time released Valium patch. There a zillion patches these days. Nicorette, the birth conrol patch, etc. Lots. So why not a Valium one calibrated to kick in for those difficult hours of the day. I would program mine to begin at about 3:25, five minutes before Cass gets out of school. It wouldn’t have enough kick to throw me on my ass, afterall I do have three kids and I have to be in the here and now to make sure they don’t scald themselves with hot water or staple their hands to their homework. But it would contain enough magic to take the edge off so that her kicking and screaming wouldn’t assault the senses in such a hideous manner. The patch would then taper off around bedtime, leaving me useful for such tasks as laundry, scrubbing the random sink, perhaps meeting up with Matt for a quick spank. I think this idea has merit. It beats duct taping her mouth and hands and leaving her in the hall closet -not that the thought has ever entered my mind. It would be cheaper than boarding school. And I would likely feel pretty groovy. But today, as I had no Dream Patch, I strapped on my new Super Bra, tied up my running shoes and hauled my ass out for a jog. It didn’t fix everything, she was still attrocious when I returned, but I was too damn tired to be deeply bothered.

Yesterday we, Cassidy, my mother -AKA Mia (or on my/her more malicious days, The Miatch), Devon and I, marched in the local St. Patrick’s Day parade. Our town/almost city is an odd mixture of reformed hippies, hippies hanging on to The Freedom Dream, ranchers, Dot Com Yuppies and ranchers who have sold out big to the Dot Com Yuppies. The St. Patty’s Day parade once consisted of one or two cars and a renegade King and Queen couple who would dress up in green wierdness and race up and down Main Street at some point in the afternoon. Up until several years ago our town had an open container policy, so I suspect the paraders had imbibed liberally before their annual tyrade. The parade is still pretty off beat. The solar energy crowd turns out with their alternatively powered vehicles. The King and Queen are still self appointed. And it basically consists of kids, parents and dogs dressed in green garb marching from one end of town to the only Irish Pub on the other side of town. Cassidy, with her flaming red hair, is always a big hit. Yesterday when we showed up, the king and queen took a fancy to her and she was appointed as their candy girl. After the parade we headed to the local church where we enjoyed a feast of corned beef and cabbage. Well no, not really. That’s a disgusting meal and it is not at all why many people love this holiday. There was green jello and amazing desserts, so it was not all a lost cause. On the way home I asked my mom to stop so that I could buy some beer to dye green, since I have never in my life gone out for a green beer on St. Patty’s Day.

Once home I tucked Devon, who was on the MOST AMAZING chocolate high ever, into his crib. Matt eyed my lone Corona and shook his head at my sorry attempt to participate in the holiday. We put the big kids in charge for a few minutes and marched off to the beer store in search of better things. I should insert here that Matt knows a thing or two about brews. He can discern which bottles are purely for pussies, such as my personal favorite (and the one I had purchased last night -Corona) and which are the True Ones. Since we live in the middle of our wee metropolis, the beer store is just two blocks from our front door. Matt chose something worthy and I found something called Irish Mist in an airplane bottle size. We went home, I dyed my Corona, had a glass and then poured the Mist. Mmmmm, yummy. And that was that. Good St. Patty’s Day.

Today was a blur of kids and noise. We had an average of five kids here at all times, with that number sometimes expanding to eight or nine. That’s alot of bodies for 1,000 square feet. By tonight I was a jumble of exposed nerve endings. Remembering the peace of last night’s Mist, I made some lame excuse to go out to the store and went in search of greener pastures. I located a bottle at the beer store and returned home. By this time Loren and all his friends had gone off to an overnight birthday party, Cassidy’s friend had gone home and I had tucked Devon into his crib. I sipped my Mist and after a few minutes all was good. I said to Matt. “Wow, sure does pack a serious punch. Dontcha think?”

Cass, seeing an opportunity, said, “Hey, Mom, want some more of that? And when you’re done can I have a puppy, preferabally a large one?”

I would try to insert some of the many pictures I took of the parade, Devon with chocolate all over his face and all the kids from today, but Loren is gone tonight and I haven’t the foggiest idea of how to extract them from my camera. So instead, I think I’ll go look for some more of that Mist….

Last night I went to my second Weight Watcher’s meeting. Not one to rush into things, I took three weeks off to see if it really was the right club for me. But after all that time the only pants that fit me are my awful J. Lo knockoffs, so last night I sucked it up, checked into the meeting, stood on the scale and sat through the meeting. I don’t remember most of the meeting because not only did I not lose weight, I actually gained some. Yes, on the Celebrity Fit Club that mean sargent fellow would have chewed me out something fierce about my inability to control my self-indulgent ways and buckle down to healthy eating habits. So I’ll give it a whirl. Today is fairly nice out and Devon has gained some of his voice back so later I think we’ll try a stroll in the jogger. In the meantime, I have cut down on the sugar in my coffee, didn’t snack on the kids’ lunch items as I was packing them and I might not go to the store for Cadbury Eggs today.

I really don’t know when this whole getting off my ass thing became such an issue. I used to exercise everyday, it was as much a habit as brushing my teeth. I loved to exercise and tended to lean towards bitchiness when I didn’t get any. As with many things, I suspect Devon’s arrival might have something to do with it, but I think there might be more to it than that. Two months before he was born, my midwife was killed in a car crash. We had planned on a home birth because I can’t take any drugs -they make me crazy- and so a hospital birth seemd rather pointless. Plus I had already done it two times so putting a hot tub in the living room and then going up to my own bed with a new, pink baby seemed like a swell idea. She was a fabulous woman and I trusted her completely. I have no idea why she wasn’t wearing her seatbelt that day. A week after her death, our ferret escaped through the cat door and the neighbor dog, being a canine with carnivorous habits, pierced his chest. I was shaken by Jeanette’s death but losing Mickey the Ferret sent me into crying fest -funny what can set off a person. So then we had to go through the process of finding new medical care for Devon’s birth. We went the hospital route, ended up with a lovely midwife and Devon was born, sans complications. However, seven weeks later he was diagnosed with his heart defect, two weeks later he had surgery and then we were home. About four weeks later, over the Thanksgiving break, Matt, the children and I were in Provo visiting his family. We went out to find a mall, because shopping seems to be the official State of Utah past time, and I crashed Matt’s car. Into another car. I was a basket case. It wasn’t a bad crash. But the fact that I had smooshed our moving vehicle into another one with all my children inside of it left me more than unsteady. When we returned home I couldn’t bring myself to renew the tags on my VW and chose to drive Matt’s damaged car or take the bus instead. And so my adorable beetle, named Baby Beluga, sat in the drive all through the winter, spring, summer, fall and continues to sit there now. At this point it needs some work and I just haven’t been able to tackle it. We have some funds set aside and, I hope, within the next month or so I will again be tooling about in Baby B. The failure I experience everyday as we pile into Matt’s car or figure out creative transportation options has almost run its course.

Sometime during the dark months of last winter my anxieties must have gotten the better of me and I slipped into depression. I think it was a combination of post partum issues, the traumas of losing Jeanette and the ferret within a week, the fear or giving birth. Follow up that with the initial shock of Devon’s diagnosis, the rush to get the surgery done and the knowledge that his life was not a true certainty and I was shaken. Plus, the winter months with all their cold and darkness are always hard for me. I like the sun. I like to wake up and the sky is light. I like to go for long walks after dinner and sit out on the patio to listen to the sounds of evening. In so many ways last year felt like failure and loss to me. There were so many days when I would look at the kids and want to cry because I knew I was such a lousy example of motherhood for them. There were many times when I seriously considered ending it all. But when faced with the horror of where that would leave Matt and the kids kept me from crossing that line.

Things are definitely getting better. Spring is coming, although Colorado springs consist mostly of mud, and the days are filled with more light. Most of the time I have hope and am excited to start each day. But it’s still a fragile balance. These past few have been so harsh. With Matt being so sick, followed by Devon, Loren and Cassidy getting sick, I am again feeling that fear of being able to get through the days. I am having such a hard time focusing and completing tasks. This morning I got up and showered for the first time in days and I might even make it out of my pajamas today. I’m going to try really hard not to eat all the lunch snacks so that the kids have fun lunches for Friday. I’ll try not to leave the wet laundry in the washer all day. And I’ll try to celebrate the day or at least just enjoy the here and now.

There are no words to properly describe my current hell. It began two nights ago at 12:30 a.m. when Devon began screaming from his crib. I sat up, took one whiff and knew bad things were to come. An unnatural stench wafted from his nest as he gripped the bars for all he was worth. I picked him up, undressed him and took a peek in his diaper. Holy Mother Mary. There was soup in there, at least a quart, and it was gruesome. Poor little guy kept lifting up his rump in an effort to get his parts our of the burning stew. So I wiped him off, slathered him up with diaper goo and tucked him back to sleep. Again at 3:46 and 6:00 a.m. we repreated the rump routine as he became more distressed with each emission. Monday I called in sick to the ski mountain and stayed home in an effort to minimalize whatever it was that was brewing in Devon’s lower colonic region. I called my doctor just to be sure I didn’t need to take him in, but when his assistant related to him that Devon had been exposed to a positive flu patient (my father), he quickly prescribed Tamiflu to prevent any further damage. I am somewhat blasse about health things since Devon’s heart defect diagnosis. On the one hand I can take just about anything the medical community and my karmic muse have to dish our way. On the other hand, I move pretty fast on just about anything when it comes to him. This said, I picked up the prescription, made small chat with the pharmacist -who I have gotten to know really well this winter, and headed home for a good night’s sleep.

At 12:30 a.m. Cassidy woke me up telling me she had just vomited in her bed. I figured there was no use getting a sponge and bucket out at that time of night, so I took her in the bathroom, wiped her off, gave her a swallow of water and one of Matt’s shirts to sleep in and tucked her into our bed. As I laid my head on the pillow Matt told me that he too had barfed a few minutes before Cass did. “Hmmm,” I thought as I drifted into slumber. I awoke a few minutes later as Cassidy began shivering uncontrollably. She had to throw up again, so into the bathroom we trotted. She made it to the sink. And then we headed for the kitchen for a sip of Gatorade. This time she made it to the garbage can where she emptied yet more of her dinner, and just as she was through, I heard smoebody vomiting in the upstairs bathroom. “Ouch, your poor dad,” I sympathized.
“Uh, no. Duh, that’s Loren. Can’t you tell his cough?” Gotta love her even when she’s down, I told myself.

Sure enough. It was Loren. And so for the next four hours Matt, Loren and Cass proceeded to vomit in nearly every receptacle in the house. At one point I simply laid down towels along the side of the bed so that Cass would hit something absorbant as she heaved over the edge.

Today was a series of repetitive actions on my part. Issuing ginger ale and gatorade, wiping Devon’s ever-redding bottom, cleaning out sinks and emptying the garbage cans. I called the doctor again, made small chat with the pharmacist again and dispensed Tamiflu to everybody. Matt was brave enough to straggle into the office for a little over half of the day. My mother was angelic enough to take all of the barf laundry and bring it all back: clean, warm and sweet smelling. Cassidy and Loren were old enough to recognize that a mother running on two night’s of no sleep is as lousy as a super depressed mother. At one point Loren even asked me if I was still taking Prozac and if he could do anything to help make my day softer. Tonight Devon was good enough to go to bed at 7, Matt turned it in at 8 and Loren and Cassidy followed at 9.

I am currently without any symptoms. No flu here. Not yet. So maybe my karmic muse does care. Maybe she is sparing me. Whatever the case, I have had nearly two hours of silence tonight. That in and of itself is almost enough to heal nearly 48 hours of hell. Almost. But if pressed, I will feign exhaustion and hint that I need a day at the spa.