Hearts and Flowers

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Feb 272013
 

 

I’m supposed to be writing this in Tucson, my feet tucked up nicely beneath me, while Buttercup plays with her little besties she has known for most of her life. My friend Jill said Hotel What? No, you stay here! And we nodded happily and made sure to pack the flower girl dress and the bridesmaid dress and our shoes and ask the BFF where the hell my headband and prety shrug are (they are at her house.)

I was supposed to have written three other blog posts by now that may be obsolete by the time I have time to write them. And I wasn’t supposed to be worried about a family emergency I can’t do anything about from 28,000 feet.

Instead, I’m on a plane heading from Georgia to Tucson (the third one today, y’all), for what is turning out to be the most expensive hand basket ever made. If you didn’t get the reference, ask the other kids in class, cuz I’ve got a lot of material to cover here. So…moving on.

We missed yesterday’s plane because the child had the kind of meltdown that led to her therapy. Delta rebooked us and was kind enough to waive enough of the change fee so we could afford to make the trip, but because of Life and Shit Hitting the Fan, that meant we had to wait until today for a flight.

The Four Points Sheraton across the street from the airport took pity on the sobbing mess that was me when I went to see if we could get a room.  Miss the morning flight out of Bangor and you missed your chance, period.

I was also supposed to have launched my writing and social media coaching services by now, annoyed all of my friends with requests for NEDA Awareness Week retweets, and possibly slept for more than 24 hours in the last week. But that was before the two ER trips and the day at the pediatrician and the resulting questioning looks from strangers when the five year old is wandering around with her legs so wide apart you’d think she has chaps on. The plastic doughnut she’s got hooked on her arm like a security blanket confuses the hell out of the people really paying attention, but I don’t have time to explain things like “cellulitis” and “drama queen” and “future broadway star” and “distress tolerance” and “anxiety.”

Buttercup is finally asleep after a morning only Xanax and a few deep breaths could cure (for ME, people. She’s the one who took the deep breaths).

I’m exhausted, but I’m not stupid. Falling asleep would be letting my guard down and if she wakes up and has another screaming fit because I DON’T WANT TO and LET’S GO BACK HOME, NOW!!! (she means Maine), and MAMA, PLEASE!!!!! aren’t going to make the woman sitting in front of us on the plane a very happy neighbor. She’s already turned around once to tell me she’s trying to sleep because Buttercup and I were laughing at knock knock jokes. I was like SHE’S FIVE. She rolled her eyes and turned back around, mumbling about how she has an 8 year old. Which is nice, but I’m not sure how the apples and oranges belong in the same basket. I’ve got DDDs. The woman with the stick up her ass about the laughing child who was inconsolable only a few moments before because change scares the absolute shit out of her? Well, I didn’t get a good look, but I’d ballpark them somewhere in the B-range.

My point? Just because we both have a set of  chi-chis doesn’t mean we can trade bras. And my inner child almost wishes the my own child would freak out again and make me feel like the worst mom in the world because I can’t fix it. Because then I could ask the woman how her nap was going.

Admit it. You’d feel better, too.

But karma is, it turns out, not always a bitch. We have the happy gay flight attendants chatting in the galley right behind us. This is being mentioned because 1) I miss having a gay boyfriend. I had one in college. And then there one who liked to hit on The Husband  whenever he picked me up for lunch when I was working as a reporter just because The Husband is hot and my GBF was adorable.

2) The Three Amigas are conversing, y’all. It’s girl talk and it’s lound and obnoxiously cute and I secretly hope the woman in front of me can’t sleep.

Petty thoughts? Yes. I freely admit that.

But it’s easier to be petty inside of my head while going back and forth with the therapist by email while trying to talk the child off of another ledge because something just set her off and we have no idea what it is or how to fix it or keep it from happening again. I’d rather focus on how she just woke up smiling and asked if she has ever told me that I am the flower of her heart while she plays with her ballerina sticker stage than the feeling of complete and utter helplessness that comes when nothing I say or do can make it better and The Husband has no choice but to leave us in the busy airport terminal so he can order lunch during a layover and I’m sitting on the floor with a child who went from logical, loving, and so adorable it’s insane to completely and utterly inconsolable in a matter of seconds.

It’s the In Between that does it. The Before, too. And sometimes, The After comes into play in the form of night terrors because we went to a Mexican wedding and my little girl isn’t used to hands reaching out constantly to touch while she hides behind my dress because she wasn’t exposed to any of the cultural craziness I was growing up. The Before is a bitch because no matter how much time we have to prepare her for any change, it’s never enough. The In Between just comes into play on days like today when we have two layovers and three planes for a 3,ooo mile trip.

Because once we got on each plane? I’m in familiar territory. I’m in the place where I am a flower and inside her heart.

Exercise & the Eating Disordered Mind

 3 Responses »
Feb 152013
 

 

Exercise and The Eating Disordered Mind

I just had a 20 minute argument with The Husband about his need to be excited about EXERCISE and GOING PALEO because he just read A BOOK and now he sees the proverbial light. He wants EXERCISE and is full of suggestions for what I NEED TO DO and and it’s all in the book (which I have promised to read) and LET’S GO, TEAM!!!

It’s probably a good time to point out that I can’t eat anything that isn’t Paleo anyway and am allergic to most of the Paleo diet. I read the things he is reading now last year and saw the light with regard to how my own body responds to sugars and carbs and grains (not realizing allergic issues played a serious role, also) and then got pissed off when the doctors told me I can’t eat eggs because there went most of my meal plan. In any case, I am happy he’s now understanding things I have been saying for so long but I’m also not able to explain to Captain Cheerleader that I don’t respond well to the RAH RAH RAH when I’m just keeping my head above water.
Here’s the problem: I am eating disordered.

My Body Image issues are fucked on a level I can’t even understand, and I carry an epi pen for the very food allergies which I ignore when my brain is in self sabotage mode. I need to be active without thinking it’s EXERCISE because if it’s EXERCISE my mind will shut down and I will swan dive into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

Ice skating is the perfect example of something I can do without feeling like I’m doing anything at all. Just to get an idea, I did plug in my current estimated weight (I don’t know the actual number because it’s a trigger for me) and figured out that an hour of recreational skating was more than enough to feel good about. I just started and love it. My legs hate me when I’m done, but I can do it and I go back for more.
Yoga is the next step back to normal. Once I am one with my Ohm I can breathe in some serenity and move on to Zumba or something else I know I enjoy and can stick to and that isn’t just EXERCISE! I love this man, but how do I explain to someone who has no concept of an eating disordered mind trying to claw it’s way back to normal that there is absolutely NO FUCKING WAY I am lunging from the kitchen to the living room because it’s simple and easy to do because it’s not just going to be something I’ll stick to. I’d pay lip service. I’d go for the “college try.”

And I’d put on a pretty decent show before falling flat on my ass, figuratively speaking, because I’m not going to stick to lunging from one room in my house to another because I didn’t want to do it in the first place. It’s just an open invite for the next pity party to start before the celebration even got a chance to kick off.

It’s gotta be one step at a time. My therapist nodded today when I explained to her how if I focus on anything 0ther than how I feel, I’m back at square one and square one tastes like brownies. She’s only been seeing me a short time, but she at least pretended to understand with a thoughtful nod and well-timed chuckle. The Husband, however, is at a loss for what to do.

He is excited because he wants to support me. He is excited because he loves me. He is excited because EXERCISE isn’t a bad word to him. He’s I love him. I love his support. And I understand his concern. I also want to strangle him whenever he gets all Pollyanna on me and starts chirping about EXERCISE and then gets all annoyed when I glare at him for being an asshole.

Okay. No. I get it. He’s not being an asshole. He’s trying to help me.

But sometimes his idea of help is getting all I CAN FIX THIS and YOU JUST NEED TO STOP THINKING THE WAY YOU DO because he is the kind of person who has the mental strength to make things happen just by thinking them. I love that about him. I also hate that 1) My mind doesn’t work like that and 2) I wish it did.

But then, if I saw things the way he did, I wouldn’t be referring to myself as a life-long recovering bulimic, would I? And if he did get it, that would mean he saw the word EXERCISE the way I did, for the same reasons I did, and we’d both be a raging mess.

I’m pretty sure he is right and I argued illogical things because that kind of goes par with the course. But the fact remains that I know myself. And right now, it’s one step at a time. If I jump into the deep end before I’ve even gathered the strength to tread water for a sustained period of time, I’m just going to end up letting myself sink. And I don’t intend to let that happen anytime soon.
So we argue. About the inside of my head. Because I can’t explain. Because he loves me. Because I feel like an asshole for not being as excited as he is about EXERCISE because the word leads me down a worm hole of calories burned and weight lost and BMI and self worth and you’re a fat ass and here’s a brownie and Ben & Jerry’s is NOT a single serving food and then I find myself hitting bottom again, wondering how the hell I got there and cursing yo-yos.

And there’s that epi pen in my purse to think about.
I just fixed my head again. I’m working on the rest of me.
I just need time to move out of this fog and into the place where EXERCISE isn’t a bad word. I’m not there yet. And it makes him mad because he only sees the woman he married fighting his support and concern. It makes me mad that I can’t explain it without turning into a five year old with my arms crossed yelling I DON’T WANNA!
But that’s where I’m at and that’s where it is and he loves me and we argue. And he thinks I’m blocking him and I explain that no, I’m actually not because blocking would be nodding my head like I’m okay with everything he is saying and all for it and then dipping into the Hershey candy bar stash we have in the pantry for his work lunches after he’s gone to bed. Me arguing? Me bristling in front of him and telling him to shut up and just listen and let me grab my ice skates and head for the rink for open skate time? Me telling him that I’m not lunging in the house just for the sake of lunging in the house because lean muscle mass matters? Me rolling my eyes and calling him an asshole for not understanding?

People? That’s progress. That’s communication. That’s me not bullshitting and then closet-eating with the chocolate I’m allergic to. Because my body doesn’t function well with sugar. Because I am allergic to the world. Because I function best on a strict paelo diet not because it’s a diet but because that’s how my body needs to be be nourished.

Because I am eating disordered. And because I’m trying to focus on loving myself just the way I am and then starting over every time the sun rises.

So he goes to bed. Not understanding.

And for that, I am grateful because that means he’s still going to push and I’ll continue to push back.

Every time he pushes, I’ll push back.

And become stronger for it.

 

Why I Write NonFiction

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Jan 212013
 

My child is driving me batty. The Husband doesn’t understand this, of course, but he also didn’t understand why I started crying when the ultrasound tech told me I was having a girl, either. The bottom line was, quite frankly, that raising me almost broke my mother and I was feeling preemptively sorry for myself.

I love my girl. With a fierceness that explains all that Mama Bear protecting her cub stuff. Think Merida and Queen Elinor in Brave. Think of your own girl and how you love her and are drove to banging your head into a wall in what probably equates to an even 50/50 split.

Think of all of the parenting milestones that no one ever tells you about. Like how one day your sweet little girl, bedecked in bows and too much pink, will suddenly (and without warning) outgrow crabby into bratty then boom–bratty morphs into bitchy and you’re left wondering how in hell you’re going to survive when the child who is five realizes she has hormones and starts trying to negotiate for a later curfew and the keys to the car.

The Husband is clueless. The child is pouting and pissy and arguing everything you say for the sake of arguing before she realizes she’s totally against no TV for a week, no iPad for two, and has no interest in that pony you were going to buy her tomorrow just because and then you have to try not to laugh because it was funny even if she’s now pissed off even more that you are the meanest mom ever because you won’t buy her a fucking pony.

So you open up your browser, log into Facebook, and tell perfect strangers who sometimes get it more than those that know you ever will how your day is going. And this is what it looks like.


The End.

Moving to Maine in November: Insominia & Other Stories

 1 Response »
Nov 022012
 

Buttercup loves her, too.

 

It’s midnight. The grandfather clock tells me so, loudly, and interrupts my five-year-old’s current explanation for why she is still awake and will she grounded from that birthday party this weekend because she is?

Yes.

No.

Maybe.

No, I have to. I haven’t gotten any work done (or even started ) and I have to keep her from a birthday party on Saturday even if we are moving or become the mom who never follows through on consequences. I know the move is on her brain and its causing anxiety and many mixed emotions so I’m trying to be lenient. But it’s midnight and she’s just now allowing herself to relax enough to drift off.  Sometimes t all boils down to wishing Benadryl made her tired because I can’t keep clocking in at midnight and stay sane.

We drive to Maine in 16 days.
I can’t sleep when I’m anxious.
She may never see this little boy again so I have to let her go to the party and I can get firm another time, right???
We drive to Maine in 16 days and I am going to miss my first best friend so much it hurts because being connected via tweets and texts and status updates become different things when time zones hamper communication and plane tickets are required before scheduling joint pedicures.
Buttercup can’t wait for snow and white Christmases and spring and running barefoot in the grass. I can’t wait for seasons and new adventures and the next chapter. We both understand that we have to go because severe mesquite allergies and Southern border living are not a good combination. It sucks, actually.
We have so much to look forward to.We know we can’t stay and we have known for a while and instead of just looking for rentals, we are actually looking into purchasing a home. There’s email and post cards and promises to video chat with the friends we love.
There’s so much. To look forward to. That we are leaving behind. That we are trying to bring with us.
Doesn’t make leaving easier.
I climb out of bed when I know she is asleep, tuck her in, and kiss her cheek and give in to her innocence like she knew I would but promise to be firm when…well…not today. We are going to the party on Saturday. And I’m pretty sure she’s going to be up until midnight tomorrow, anyway.
That’s okay. I understand because the BFF sent me a text message that simply read …
Please don’t move
…and I won’t sleep at all.

Even When I’m Not Supposed to be Writing…

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Oct 292012
 

Photo credit: MG Photography & Design in Rochester Hills, Michigan

 

We’re in the new rental. Mostly settled. That means We’ve unpacked enough to survive, gone through enough to donate just for the sake of creating a walking path through the sea of boxes that remain, and we have cable and Internet.

A few more notables: Buttercup has been pulled from the local school district after much internal drama because we feel homeschooling will work better for our family. So far, only three people have called me crazy to my face (which actually means via text message because that’s the same thing) and everyone else is politely looking the other way. The cool thing is I now live on a block that has at least 2 other homeschooling families, so while in my subdivision we are totally not the weird people. Just online. Or if you invite us over for dinner and happen to live outside of our subdivision.

And I’m selling baby clothes. I guess I didn’t think writing up ads for cloth diapers and Gymboree jumpers was going to be as depressing as it’s turning out to be, but it is. I’m not just selling clothes. I’m putting prices on memories and letting go of hope. I’m the oldest of five. The Husband is the youngest of four.

Buttercup wasn’t supposed to be an only.

For Sale
* Honest baby tee 12-18 mths
* George newborn white dress worn 1x after baptism 0-3 mth, plain white diaper cover included. 
* Old navy blue striped skirt 18-24 mth 
* Gender neutral newborn sleeper (baby) 0-3 mth
* Pink striped hooded dress 18-24 mth (plain pink diaper cover incuded)
* Old navy burgundy dress pink collar 18-24 mth 
* Pink tutu up to 12 mth (used once for 6 mth photo session & Halloween) 
* Vincent size pink frog shoe sz 16 euro 
U of m lined windbreaker 18 mths – $6
I start with the basics. Photograph each piece. List the size and write a brief description. Calculate a fair price that allows for people to talk me down a bit and feel like they got a deal. I try to ignore the images in my mind with each item I put in the box marked “baby items for sale.” I remember almost all of it. And my mind took more photos than I realized.
This sleeper she wore when I was hospitalized the third time for severe mastitis in her first six weeks. I’ve got a photo of her on my chest, head held up, nurses stunned she could already do that. I list it for $2.
* Dress my Godmother brought back from one of her trips to Puerto Escondido in Mexico. Not for sale.
 * Children’s place adjustable waist 18 mth ruffle jeans – $5
* Brown old navy winter baby boots 6-12 mths
* Matching Hawaiian  hat and onsie set (worn once for an island themed wedding right after she was born) $5
* Carter white spring sweater 9 mths (used for Easter & other special occasions, no stains) -$3
* Pink sweater, newborn, knitted for me by my grandmother who never learned to speak English & wanted my mother to name me Erika because the woman on the soap opera she couldn’t understand was glamorous & feisty, not for sale
* The yellow one she made me, not for sale
* 6-9 mth jeans with white dog embroidery. Not sure of brand. Perfect condition $2
* See Kai run black sandals sz 8-$10
* Open back summer dress top & ruffled diaper cover, white, no stains. Sz 3-6 mth (I should know when she wore this but maybe I shouldn’t. Dad died when she was 5 mths old. I’ll set this one in the maybe pile) Oh wait…never mind. We sold that one this afternoon.
* 1 Carter’s white newborn onsie. Still white. I promise this means we forgot to put this one on her and not that I bubble wrapped her through babyhood. 50 cents
* Make that 2 Carter’s unstained white newborn onsies for 50 cents each. 
* More handmade baby clothes. One for me by Guela. A few for baby by my sisters ex-mother-in-law. One outfit worn for hospital pics. None is for sale.
 * Newborn tee, super tiny, no sz, maybe hospital issued. Free with anything else you buy
* Gerber onsie, 0-3 mths, still white. I’m starting to wonder what small miracle allowed this to happen. She wore this one. I know she did. And yet I can’t keep a white t shirt stain free for longer than it takes me to cut the store tag off. I now have a complex.
* Random but not random pink flowered newborn summer romper & diaper cover. I don’t know when she wore this & that bothers me. But I need to put this one away for her with that little pile of memories to pass down one day
* 3-6 mth  cotton pants & matching hat. We’re keeping the shirt on the dog stuffed animal we made as a keepsake. Her name’s on it. I’m making myself be practical. Daffy never wore pants so I’m not allowing myself to keep those. See? Progress.
* Pink sweater for me by Guela. I see the photos of me wearing this in my mind. I see the ones of my child in the frames. Not for sale.
* 0-3 mth gender neutral sleeveless onsie. White. Stain free. I should maybe start going to church regularly again.
* 3 mth gender neutral white sleeper. I know I won’t get up in time for the Sunday morning mass. But Saturday at 5 pm is totally doable. Maybe. Fine. We all know I’m not going and spending the entire mass explaining to Buttercup that church and Easter egg hunts are not synonymous or the explicit difference between being Catholic and Mexican-Catholic…because there is.
* Gender neutral onsies of various sizing & hospital issued baby tee. All as a package. Now questioning why white is such a popular color for clothing meant for adorable little beings who live to eat, sleep, poop, & spit up.
* Pink frog face pre walkers (not in original packaging) sz 17 (euro)
* My baptismal bonnet. Wow.
* 12 mth turquoise tee. My dog Walks all over me. You’ll buy it from us for your firstborn, still convinced your friends with older kids are all heartless bastards. *Your* dog will not get demoted. There will be 2 walks per day, trips to the dog park to socialize, & that Christmas stocking Will Get filled. The walk…right…. After you find something you can wear out of the house that doesn’t have spit up on it, the baby has woken from her nap, and you change because she spit up on you again. You give up & barely register the dog didn’t even get excited when you jingled the collar while there was still hope. But you tried. And your dog still loves you. We promise.
* Robeez pink pre walkers sz 0-6 mths. Loved this brand. You totally will too. You’re welcome.
There. All listed and pretty on the private Facebook group saving me the headache of dealing with a garage sale.
And then The Husband comes home from work with news. We are being transferred to Maine for his job and it’s going to happen pretty quickly. It’s time to repack. And maybe I can buy enough gas to get us from Arizona to Maine after I sell the last seven bins full of the dreams.
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