My Week Off

For the first time in more than a year I decided to take a few days off of work. I did take two weeks off (almost three!) when I had Lulu, but I don't think that was exactly a vacation as much as it was putting the pieces of myself and my life back together after a baby shattered it. Babies! So cute! Such jerks!

Why didn't I plan ahead and secure a Forever Lazy for my days off is beyond me. This is such a personal failure, I am so disappointed by what could have been. Clearly, to maximize my week off, a Forever Lazy would need to be part of the picture. Not an actual picture, mind you, because under no circumstances would I be photographed in one of those things.

The laptop safely stowed on top of the entertainment center, I took my days off. I wore my horrible brown velour pants (they have witnessed everything from my JLo phase to three pregnancies and two labors,) and made a serious commitment to doing nothing.

Only it's hard for me to do nothing. So this is what I did instead:

• Finished a painting. 
• Cleaned the kitchen at least twice.
• Thought about some really awesome and funny blog posts. 
• Forgot those funny ideas.
• Watched a twenty-year-old episode of Law & Order in the middle of the day. 
• Rewound a razor commercial
• Thought about how weird it is that Donald Sutherland is playing President Snow in The Hunger Games movie when I always pictured President Snow as Ron Paul (not a political statement.)
• Watched all the Downton Abbey episodes I'd been saving (this is a political statement.)
• Issued a memo to all household babies: stop growing.*
• Went to lunch with some out-of-town friends at a location that is beyond my radius.
• Got mad at Toddlers and Tiaras because no, your 15-month-old does not "love to shop," nor does she have "great fashion sense." 
• Decided that my 7-month-old "hearts getting 170 on her LSATs" and "has a real affinity for international monetary policy."
• Wrote a letter (in my head) "Dear Children's Clothing Designers, Stop making Peter Pan collars for babies. They never stay down. My baby always looks like a vampire."
• Drank a Diet Coke at 11pm and stayed awake until 4am. For no reason.
• Crawled under the covers during broad day light and napped two days in a row.
• Lived the dream.

It was hard work doing nothing for four days in a row. I almost needed a vacation from my vacation of sitting around my house. I don't know how you ladies of leisure do it.




*The entire memo:

Cjane's Vlog

Hey Jet Setters,

You can catch me today over at Cjane's on her vlog. We have serious stuff to say. We don't try to hide it at all. We're dealing with it right out in the open.

Note to Self: Next time you're on Cjane's vlog, sit up straight and don't point your chin up so your neck doesn't look ginormous. Like Tyra says, you have to know your angles so you can work them.

How I Started Taking Zoloft and Saved Myself

You don’t have to read these, but they do provide background, in case you’re interested:
Part 1: Where I'm Honest-written from in the middle of my last depression
Part 2: The Nothing

8 Months Pregnant and Feeling It

Almost a year ago I was pregnant, had been through some personal upheavals, and was on the edge of major depression.

 After the depression that ate the year after my second son was born, I made everyone I know promise to get me help if I ever sank that low again. I made a plan with my midwife that included starting medication at the 36th week of pregnancy. I also made a vow to be honest with myself about how I was doing. In my case, I know that while my depression can strengthen under stressful circumstances,  it's primarily a hormonal shift due to pregnancy. And I knew, sitting on the couch, with giant tears rolling down my cheeks, that I was beginning the descent into depression.

What were the symptoms? A whole lot of crying, sleeplessness (more than usual,) anxiety, and a profound inability to deal with my life. Things that shouldn’t be a big deal were increasingly insurmountable issues. I couldn’t handle even basic tasks--like making it to the post office. The idea of filing taxes had me as flummoxed as coming up with a formula for cold fusion. And it didn’t have to be that way. So before anybody else had to, I called my midwife and told her that we needed to move the plan up. I asked her for the lowest dose possible, because I am extremely sensitive to medication. She gave me a prescription for 25 mgs of Zoloft and told me I could break them in half if I needed. My friends giggled at the dose, but, hey, different doses for different folkses.

I learned quickly that I had to take my half a pill at night, or I’d be too sleepy to function during the day. I also figured out that I needed to dial down even further and take half a pill every other day. It was just enough to rescue my emotional free fall, but not so much that I was catatonic. Within a couple weeks I was again able to handle my life. I was functional again. There were side effects (primarily the drowsiness) that I needed to manage, but the Zoloft worked. The anxiety, the anger, the hopelessness eased; it was almost miraculous.

After Lulu was born I increased to the full daily dosage. The precipitous hormonal shift after you have a baby is almost unbearable. Most women suffer through a few weeks of those “Baby Blues,” but if it doesn’t get measurably better, you need to get that sister, wife, daughter, friend some professional help. Back during The Nothing, I couldn’t admit to myself that something was wrong, even though those closest to me knew I was in a bad, bad place.

This time, it was completely different. I could be present for my baby and my family. I could keep working, I could deal with my life (as much as you can with a newborn.) It was radically different and radically better than my last baby. When Lulu was 5 months I began to slowly taper the medicine. I reduced to half a pill every day, giving myself the permission to take a full dose if I began to feel myself slipping. I checked in with friends, they checked in with me. I was honest about missing doses and when the taper was too strong, I corrected. I don't have to use anti-depressants forever; I can use them when I need to because they are a tool to help you live your life without the disruption of depression.

Baby Lulu is now 8-months-old. She’s the sweetest light of my life. Bouncy, crawling, nursing, silly, independent, trying-to-walk baby. Chubby cheeks, pouty mouth, smile that brightens everything. And I can be there for her, and for my sons, husband, friends, and work.

I am here for my life.

Are Your Toilets Really That Clean?

Anytime I see something that seems to be absolutely ridiculous, only one thing comes to mind, "Are their toilets really that clean?"

Let me explain.

Take the entirety of newspaper online comments. Yes, all of them. The mean, stupid, cruel comments that trolls leave on news outlet stories are mind-boggling. Are their toilets so clean that they have nothing better to do than leave nasty comments? Are those bathrooms just sparkling, filled with fluffy towels, and lightly scented of the freshest rain?

There's the world of crafting: where people make painfully tiny things out of the plastic tags they've collected from bread bags. Where every last cereal box is transformed into either a layered diorama of pioneer history or a darling hair bow. Does she really have that kind of time to devote to a craft that most of us find inexplicable? Are her toilets truly that clean?

What about writing out a scathing comment to leave on someone's blog? Are your toilets so clean that you have the energy to pick out a bunch of words, arrange them in a text box, fill out the captcha, and "submit"?

How about deciding that a woman's jeans are too skinny and denying her the right to take a test? Is your house so tidy, your bathroom unfettered from any hint of yellow and freshly stocked with new soap?

If your books are arranged by color, just know that I would like to powder my nose at your house.

Your spatulas are alphabetized. Your pastas are in jars sorted according to size. You have time to watch Two and Half Men. Because if your baseboards are clean, we don't even need to ask the question, the answer is, "Of course."

How about sending the author of a post a really long email detailing their many failings, their lack of parenting (or excessive parenting,) their moral bankruptcy, calling them to repentance, explaining how your ecclesiastical leader told them that a certain behavior was wrong and now you're passing it along in the hope that you can save their eternal soul? Are your toilets really that clean?

Really?






(Disclosure: Are my toilets so clean that I had time to write this post? No.)

Et Voila

I have a problem: people who spell "voila" any other way than "voila".

The only exception? If you happen to spell it "voilà" with the accent. 

Please. You have to stop. No more "wala" "walla" or "wah-la"

Because you're killing America with bad spelling.

If you spell "voila" as "viola" I will giggle a little, because I used to play the viola. However, it's hard to imagine you finishing some cool project and yelling "VIOLA!" (although it is a lovely instrument with a beautiful timbre, so I kind of feel you on that one.)

Carry on.

Moist

Moist. Moist moist moist moist moist moist. Moist moist moist. Moist moist. Moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist.

Moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist. Moist moist moist moist moist. Moist moist moist moist moist. Moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist.

Moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist. Moist moist moist moist moist. Moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist. Moist moist moist moist moist moist. Moist moist. Moist moist moist moist moist moist moist.

Moist moist moist moist moist. Moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist. Moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist moist.

Moist.

The Raisin Defense League

Alright.

That’s IT.

I like raisins. I do. I think they’re delicious.

SO THERE.

from the pedia of wiki

Know what’s even better? When raisins are in stuff: trail mix, cakes, oatmeal, granola, cinnamon rolls, strudel, and cookies. I just blew your mind, boom. You’re welcome.

However these days it seems that raisins have fallen out of favor. People hate raisins! No really, they despise raisins. Guys, they’re just grapes. You love grapes. Everyone loves grapes. People who don’t like grapes probably hate Christmas, mothers, snowflakes, and baby dolphins.

But back to hating raisins. Raisin hatred is endemic, no, it’s pandemic. “Eww, it has raisins,” people say. What, you don’t like little drops of sunshine in your food? They even pass on cookies because they have raisins. Not eating a cookie because it has raisins? That’s bananas. I’ve even seen raisin hatin’ plaques on people’s walls. There is ANTI-RAISIN DECOR.

Even my children have turned on me. “I hate raisins,” they say.
 “No, you don’t,” I answer.
“I don’t want that cookie, it has raisins!”
“But you just asked for ants on a log and that’s just celery with peanut butter and raisins.”
“Well, I just don’t like raisins in cookies,” My stupid four-year-old says. What does he know, anyway. 

(NOTHING. He knows nothing.)

I like to soak raisins before adding them to baked goods so they’re plump and juicy. I even like when one of those raisins gets to the bottom of the cinnamon roll and it’s a little hard and burnt on one side. My mother-in-law uses chocolate covered raisins in oatmeal cookies (tell me that’s not a stroke of genius.) If anyone asks, the Kirkland brand chocolate-covered raisins are the best. I think raisins in my curry are delicious (like this seena with raisin curry.) In Morrocan foods raisins are divine; sweet bursts in warm spiced savory tagines.

I don’t know how you can hate raisins, unless you also hate world peace. And golden raisins? You stop right there. I listened at "golden," but you had me at “raisin.”

Raisins do not deserve your hatred. They deserve your adequate respect and healthy snacking.

So let’s hear it for Raisins! Be part of the Raisin Defense League! Don’t let them get bullied into some sort of dried fruit purgatory. Stand up for raisins, because raisins are good and right and awesome.

Heck yeah, RAISINS!

About the New Girl Scouts Cookie: Savannah Smiles

The movie was better than the cookie.*

 ≠

Thank you.






*Disclaimer: I haven't actually eaten the Savannah Smiles Girl Scout Cookies, nor purchased any Girl Scout Cookies of any type in the past 18 months (broke,) and while I usually prefer Samoas and Thin Mints (who doesn't, Trefoils,) I can't tell you definitively that Savannah Smiles are delicious or not delicious, but that the name does offend me as someone who saw Savannah Smiles approximately one million times in the early 80s and considers that movie a wonderful example of the "bumbling kidnapper" genre, which genre name I just invented, and as a movie that still functions as a time capsule view of the area surrounding my hometown, I simply find it annoying that no one, especially not respected journalists, has even mentioned Savannah Smiles as being a movie FIRST and not a cookie.

Amen and pass the Oreos.

Freezing Time

In the chilly morning I’d pulled baby into bed to nurse with me while Proximo snugged in on the other side of Lulu. The three of us under a pile of warm covers and bright eastern light.

Lulu stops nursing, turning around to laugh at Proximo’s little tickling fingers, his now lanky arm crossing her chubby tummy and wiggling into her sides. One laughing meant the other would laugh, which meant that I would laugh, all of us in a triad of soft happiness.

“Let’s go camping!” Proximo exclaims, pulling the white sheet over our heads until the cotton brushes our cheeks and fingers.
 “Is this our tent?”
“Yes!” Lulu reaches out with her dimpled hands and touches the sheet, rolling between us, little toes tucked into a sleeper. She grabs at Proximo’s glasses. He giggles and says, “No, baby.”
She turns her attention to my glasses, smears them with tiny prints.
“I want to lay on your belly,” he says.
"Why?"
“Because it is soft. Move over so I can have the warm spot.” (This warm spot is his obsession, the place our bodies have heated, if we get up from the couch, or a chair, Proximo rolls into a ball and claims our seats.)

I oblige, moving to the colder half, a baby on one side and a child on the other, laughing over me, under a sheet, in a cozy house, the cold January winking at us from outside the window.