The Loser Within

I have an inner battle going on.

Like, pretty much constantly.

It's basically a battle between 2 voices.  One voice tells me, "Keep moving. You can do it. You rock the casba."  The other one tells me, "You're tired. You can't do this. You're not good enough."

My problem is that the bitch voice is more compelling, louder, and easier to believe.  When I'm on a run, the bitch voice is so loud, it drowns out the music blaring on my ipod.  On days like this, where I can hardly peal myself off the couch and the to-do list looms large, the bitch voice screams, "FAILURE!"

But I keep going. I keep running. I keep moving.

Cause fuck the bitch voice.

This is Where I Whine

There are times in life where being tired is a right of passage.

College
Graduate School
Being a New Mom

These are times where being tired and working endlessly brings solidarity between the masses.

You stay up late studying with friends, brag about the "all nighter" you pulled, writing that paper on the Psychodynamic Underpinnings of Mythology and Fairytales over dining hall bagels.  In the grocery store, you pass a new mom and exchange a look.  "Hang in there."

These days I work.  I work all the time.  I work Saturdays.  I work 12 and 13-hour days.

I've been doing it since May.  This grueling, soul-sucking pace was supposed to end in June. Then July. Now...the end of September.

And I'm tired.

A bone-deep tired that no amount of coffee can fix.

I need someone to tell me it's okay, they've been there, keep going, keep moving.

Because it's lonely being this tired.

My Babies Are Cute...And Greasy

Happy Friday.

My babies are cute.

And they will make out with you (or your phone) at any given chance.

The End.

It's All Fun and Games Until You Get Crabs

It's been over a week since we returned from our beach vacation but I'm sitting here, staring at my blog, with basically nothing to say about today.

So, I'm kicking it with a stale topic- Being at the beach. 2 WEEKS AGO.

Can you smell the desperation?

This is also what happens the morning after a 13 hour work day (hold me).

So, the beach was good. Babies liked the water.  Behold:

 Brendan and I spent zero time together because of man-on-man action.  The only day I got pictures was the first when we brought our beach baby posse with us.  The rest of the beach days went down like this:

 

And then, on the last day, I got mauled by a crab.  It was either a crab or the LochNess monster.  There I was, innocently peeing walking in the ocean, minding my own and Wham! I got all Forrest Gumpy-

"SOMETHING BIT ME!"

And pretty much I scrambled out of there as fast as my shitpants swimsuit could carry me.

And that's what it's like going to the beach with me and some twins and some crabs.

The End.

A Taste of Reality

A realization this weekend as I ate Cheez-Its for dinner (for the second time in a week).

I don't eat right.

On my food tracker, those little fruit and vegetable icons stay mostly unchecked.

My water intake is woefully inadequate.

Maybe it's just a reflection on the kind of week I had- A week where I worked 6 days. A week where 3 of those 6 lasted 11 hours. A week where I flopped on the couch at the end of the day and the thought of putting even a miniscule amount of effort into what went into my mouth seemed monumental.

And on nights like those, it's easiest to grab something that can just go in my mouth without any preparation.

But when I sit on the couch eating pizza for breakfast and I look out the window at the passing joggers, these kinds of choices demand attention.

So, I'll keep tracking. And I'll try to be honest with myself.  And I'll try to make what I eat a priority.

Cause, I guess in the end- That's what it's all about. Trying.

Babies on a Plane

This is why we won't be flying again for another year.  And when we do it, I will gladly fork over the cash for 2 extra seats.  Because lap-babies are for the birds.

These pictures are shit. But so was lap-baby flying with 2 strong-willed toddlers who don't understand sitting still for 5 hours. ::shudders::

It all starts with dread

You know the next 5 hours will suck your will to live

Also- Is that man behind us sniffing glue?

And then the middle finger to airline protocol, decorum, and human decency

Next up- The Crying

Much to the pleasure of our fellow travelers

 Screaming on a Plane - Not just for babies anymore

And finally, a quick 20 minute nap before landing

I know this is the universe's way of punishing me for all those times I groaned and rolled my eyes about the baby who was REALLY disturbing my flight. 

Well played, Karma. Well played.

Awesome Things

Ever run into something and think, "God! I wish I had done that." ?

Everything here, fits that criteria:

This went viral several weeks ago, but it's the funniest damn post I've ever read.  You may have seen it, but I don't care.

Why You Should Learn to Pick Your Battles

On vacation, this magical website was brought to my attention.  (Side note: This is how I cook and why I sometimes have Cheez-Its for dinner. Sometimes = last night.)

My friend, Levi, introduced me to this gem. His statement: "It's basically how I would run a company...basically..."  Which is why I don't want to work for Levi.  That, and all his heavy mouth breathing.

Warning: The language is not child- or work-friendly. But is deliciously sailory.

Have a great weekend, Everyone. See you Monday.

The Best Thing I Ever Ate

Vacation was about as relaxing as can be expected when you're toting along 2 curious, strong-willed toddlers.

The best part of vacation was probably the afternoon my Mother-In-Law made me lunch and I got to sit at the table and eat it.

Glamorous, yes?

I ate it. Slowly. Without sitting on a conference call, typing emails between bites, or standing over the sink while the kids wailed for me in the next room. I got to eat it without any guilt that I should be doing work, chores, or playing with my kids.  I didn't need to glance at my watch and think about how I needed to rush back to the office ASAP.

No obligations. No stress. No guilt. No grabby toddler hands.

Suddenly, I could breathe.

It was like one of those meditation CDs come to life. Only with food. Which is soooo much better.

How to Look Sexy at the Beach

I finally bought a swim suit. I pathologically put off the purchase until the last minute and had to have it shipped to our destination- Home of the In-Laws. It was that last minute.  Cause I'm the Queen of Procrastination, yo.

I picked out this cutie patootie number from J.Crew.

 My J.Crew suits circa 1997 & 2003 are still in good shape so I was all- durability! underwire! sizing clues!  What could go wrong?

I'll tell you what could go wrong.

The suit was made for an amazon giant.

The top was long like a hoochie dress/ mumu swimsuit that screams haggery.

Fortunately, my mother-in-law was available with her needle and thread and pulled a little intervention with me, as I was ready to staple that sucker back to normal proportions. Crisis averted.

Except there was still the issue of the bottoms. I ordered 2 sizes because I wasn't sure about the appropriate size. Turns out they were BOTH too big.  So, I wore the smaller of the two.  No problem, right?

As it so happens, there are 2 issues with having bottoms that are too big. Behold big britches issues:

One- Your vag might fall out. Things shift around a lot and you constantly feel like you're auditioning for a beach-staged porno.

After walking out of the ocean, your husband will probably lean over to you and say, "Hey Babe? It looks like you shit yourself."

I told you I am bringing the sexeh revolution.

Where The Universe Tries to Sh*t on My Vacation

I'm not good at vacationing. Maybe that's why I haven't done a real vacation since... wait...let me think...

2004? 2008?

More evidence that I'm crap at scheduled relaxation:  How about the fact I took on a client the Saturday after we returned? Yeah, I also smoke crack in my free time.

But vacations are hard.  Not only do they go against my workaholic tendencies, but it always feels like they get shat on by the Universe.

Vacation 2008- Luggage lost.
Vacation 2009- Luggage lost.

This year- 6 hours before our flight left, it looked like Finn *may* have swallowed a watch battery from our empty suitcase. Brendan swore he saw one in there.  What followed were calls to our pediatrician friend, a frantic trip to the Children's Hospital ER, and calls to the airline about possibly changing flights.  Results from the x-ray-  Finn is a big fat FAKER.  There wasn't even a rubber boot or anything in there to provide some entertainment.

Vacation was a Thundercats Goooo!

And it was pretty relaxing and all that vacationy stuff until somebody stole my credit card information. Sigh.

How to McFat Yourself Into Vacation

I overdid it on vacation.  My diet was mainly donuts, coffee, full-sugar cokes, pizza, and beer.

What is it about being on vacation that makes you feel like you can treat your body like garbage? I'd like to know...

So, children, here's what you DON'T want to do:

This is your body. This is your body on vacation.

The good news is I ran 2 miles 3 times while living the relaxed life of a binge-eater/drinker.  So, that probably burned about... one donut's worth of calories all told. (ps- went for a run yesterday back in Colorado and that altitude is a motherclucker)

So, I'm back on the proverbial wagon.

And we're going to try something new today.  Blair at the Heir to Blair used to host a weekly support group on Mondays (ahem- McFatty Monday). She just retired and I realized I feel a little support-less.  So, I'm offering up a link-up for anyone who wants to overshare their diet/weight/self-esteem issues with the world. Cause y'all know I have no boundaries. And I know I'm not the only one.

So, post a link to your weight-loss/diet/self-image post. It doesn't have to be new. You don't have to follow me or any of that nonsense. I'm not really into rules. So link up if you want. Or don't.  (I'm going to act like I don't care but I hope I don't end up aaaall alooooooone).

Beachy Peaky

Here are a couple quick pictures from our first day at the beach. Narrative to follow when I'm back to the grind...

 

Guest Post: Sh*t I Don't Know

When I started blogging 2 years ago I don't think I understood that they weren't kidding about the Social part of Social Media. Case in Point:  Lisa in Oz, who is like one of the coolest people I've never met.  Australia dweller, killer photography skillz, twin mommy, zombies, and s'mores- what's not to love?  So, when I knew I was going on vacation, I held my breath and sent her an email asking her to write a guest blog.  Granted, I bribed her with cocktails if she ever comes to Colorado.  So, enjoy! And visit her blog if you get a chance. You won't regret it.



Sh!t I Don't Know: From Lisa in Oz

Before I became one, I assumed that parents knew...well, if not everything, then at least most things about their kids. But now that I have my own, it seems like I know less and less about my twins every day.

I don’t know why the only good toy in the house is the one their brother is playing with.

I don’t know why they can sleep through our neighbor using every mechanical tool known to man but wake up screaming if someone tiptoes through their room.

I don't know why what I'm eating is automatically better than what they're eating, even if it's the exact same thing.

I don’t know why they think that licking the dog’s tongue is the BEST THING EVER.

I don't know why they think it's better to take a big mouthful of water and spit it over everything within 15 feet than it is just to swallow it.

I don’t know why the best way to properly judge a new toy’s weight and balance and level of fun is smacking your brother in the head with it.

I don’t know why they'll spend half an hour cracking their heads together like coconuts and laughing hysterically, but five minutes later will start sobbing wildly if their brother so much as pokes them.

I don’t know why they’d rather eat something unidentifiable scraped off the bottom of their shoe than the tasty, nutritious lunch I prepare for them.

I don't know why they think my underwear make the best hats.

I don't know why when they're running around with big plastic rings on each arm, noisy musical toys in each hand, a dinosaur puppet on their heads and 15 blocks tucked into their hoodie, and I offer them a stuffed giraffe to complete the ensemble, they give me an "Are you crazy, lady? This is my plastic-ring-noisy-toy-dino-puppet-hoodie-blocks outfit! That giraffe would totally clash. Duh!" look and run away.

Am I alone in my ignorance? What don't you know about your kids?

Guest Post: Idiots In Oz

This post comes to your courtesy of my kick ass friend, Joel. He might just be one of the funniest people I know. Ask him about the time a squirrel attacked him or the bad joke he heard and chances are, you'll be falling out of your chair (seriously- no exaggeration). So- haha- He's my friend. Nana boo boo!

So.  I’ve always loved “The Wizard of Oz”.  I was just reminded of this when I stopped by my neighbor’s house, and witnessed the two youngest kids watching said movie.  They laughed at the right times, “oohed” and “aahed” at the appropriate places, shrieked in fear at the Flying Monkeys, and did not seem at all put off by the 70-year-old special effects. 

After Dorothy heroically killed the Wicked Witch, clicked her heals together, and kissed her dear ol’ Auntie Em, the two kids clapped their hands and turned off the TV.  The younger of the two--a wee lass of five years--wandered over to me and asked this question:

“Joel, how can I get to be as smart and wonderful as Dorothy?”

Before I could advise her to begin taking weight-loss pills and muscle relaxers as soon as she was able, a startling thought occurred to me:  “This girl thinks that Dorothy is smart.”  The thought moreover startled me because I had always admired Dorothy also.  I mean, what’s not to like?  She’s such a cute, little thing with grounded, Midwestern values.  It’s not every girl who can rock pigtails and gingham.  And she pioneered the practice of carrying a little dog around with her.  (Paris Hilton thinks we’ve forgotten, but I wag my finger at her.  (Toto just wags his tail.  (Or he would, if he were still alive.  (Would Toto bark at Paris Hilton?))))  Ahem.

But watching some of the movie, I realized that Dorothy isn’t...well...smart.  Glenda certainly doesn’t seem to think much of her.  “Are you a good witch...or a bad witch?” Glenda asks.  Dorothy insists that she’s not a witch, but Glenda proceeds to tell Dorothy that good witches are beautiful, and that wicked witches are old, ugly hags.  Yup.  So that initial question--no so much a compliment.  Kinda like asking Barbara Bush if she’s a good witch or a bad witch.  (Cuz we all know that a handsome woman isn’t a pretty woman.)  But Dorothy isn’t offended.  Granted, she’s a little distracted by the singing, dancing Munchkins.  But at least the Munchkins are wise enough to offer Dorothy some status--those shoes!  But Dorothy doesn’t stop while she’s ahead.  She accepts the “Good Witch”’s quest to kill the most powerful, evil creature in the land.  Armed only with her terrier’s teeth and her corn-fed cankles.

Dorothy proceeds to make the three greatest friends of her life, all of whom seem to share Dorothy’s knack for intellectual success.  The Scarecrow is wise enough to admit that he doesn’t have a brain.  The Lion attempts to emulate Dorothy’s ability to wear hair ribbons; the effect does not endorse the Lion as any sort of genius.  And the Tin Man.  Let me just ask you this:  If you had a body that froze up in the rain (rather like John Boehner in a budget battle), would you carry an oil can--or an umbrella?  Maybe a raincoat?

As I was pondering these things, my five-year-old heroine ran off, singing a Miley Cyrus song.  It is possible that I devoted entirely too much thought to her question.  At any rate, I still highly enjoy “The Wizard of Oz”.

--this blog entry submitted not by Erica (who is coincidentally from Kansas), but by the Wonderful, Wonderful Joel of Colorad-Oz.

Guest Post: The Diagnostic Trap

This guest post is coming to you from an old friend (the best kind, in my book). This woman held my hand  through my first year of college when I was a tragic, lost 18 year-old Yankee transplant in the South. I asked her to write something and said, "Whatever you want to write about!" When she sent me this post, it blew my hair back. It's amazing to me what I learn from other women and their experiences. Enjoy. 

When Erica asked me to guest blog, I was going to write something funny. Erica is funny. I’ve known that since I was her RA her freshman year of college.  But, since I took my own blog private a few years back thanks to some sketchy people, I haven’t really talked about the challenges we’ve faced in the last year with my son, and I thought this might be a good chance to do so.- CB

I don’t get out much. There are reasons for that. I’m not completely anti-social, though I do really, really appreciate a glass of wine and a little alone time. I live in a small town. I work from home. The most exciting thing I do is knit. Not to say that I don’t have incredible friends, but they don’t live here, and I’m okay with that. (That’s why god made Vegas.)

When I want to explain to people that I have hardly any social life, I pull out the list.  It starts out easy enough.  Married to a wonderful man who is writing a book and working full time. I work full time, telecommuting from home as a college administrator. I am a full-time Doctor of Education student, about 9 months from finishing my course work and starting my dissertation. Mother to a three and a half year old. 

But sometimes I am more truthful. I tuck an extra little descriptive phrase that sometimes hurts to say, but better captures the exhaustion I feel at the end of the day when I finally get to sit down and have a glass  of  wine and watch something trashy like The Real Housewives. (It’s like the Real World for the over-30 judgmental set.) But when I’m honest, I have to admit that I am the mother of a "special needs" three and half year old. The more I say it out loud, the less it breaks my heart. There is nothing wrong with my son.  Nothing you can see by looking at him. But he is a little different. Kids have always been different. Not everyone needs to be the most popular kid in school. But now we have labels for different. And we walk the fine line between a label being helpful and a gateway to services and one that is limiting and holds people back.

My son wasn’t in any sort of child care until he was almost two. Mind you, he knew all of his letters and most of his shapes, but he wasn’t talking as much as other kids his age.  He’s an only child, and was always friendly and loving, but he would just zone out on us.  We didn’t think much of it--his father zones too.  

I kept him home with me, alone until he was almost two. (And literally climbing the walls during work hours.) We had an awesome part time nanny who was the mother of three kids when he turned two, and she didn’t think anything of his quirks. But then she moved, and I wasn’t getting anything done with him here without help. (And I’ll spare you the tale of the young woman who only made it two hours before falling asleep on my sofa while my son dragged his high chair around the house on her first day…)

So we put him in daycare, half days, and that’s when his teacher asked if I’d ever had him assessed and suggested I contact early intervention. He wasn’t a joiner at school. He was overly sensitive to things. Wasn’t playing with the other kids. Wasn’t eating any food there.  He wasn’t talking unless asked a direct question, at which point he would answer with an ability above his age, or he was repeating whole sections of TV shows, commercials, or songs verbatim, with perfect inflection. He was different. I got in the car and cried on the way home that day, but dismissed them as crazy.

I called early intervention and set up appointments, and no one would actually talk to me about what they saw as issues. Just testing.  And scoring. And printouts with graphs that no one gave me copies of.  They had to write a report first, and even then, they couldn’t give a diagnosis. I cried… and drank a lot of wine.

I paid $450, out of pocket, for a psychologist to beat me up, chastise me, and then not listen to me, and give then my son an autism diagnosis that I disagreed with.  I cried the three hour drive home.

We transitioned to the school district, where I got more and more frustrated, was bullied into an IEP (Individual Education Plan) that I didn’t understand and that didn’t really address my son’s needs.  Every specialty saw their own work as the solution to my son’s differentness, and no one could agree.  Sensory Processing Disorder made the most sense to us when an occupational therapist explained it.

While he would receive a whopping 15 minutes of OT twice a week in the school district’s special needs preschool, along with more chances to socialize, that was it. They moved him to a low functioning, non-verbal autism class part time without telling me, which we promptly nipped in the bud once I found out about it.  I wasn’t a partner in helping my child.  No one told us what to do to help my child short of “help him learn to use scissors”.  Really?  Scissors? (Maybe they were mad that I laughed at the “name the picture” flashcards they sent home.  We were all bored about 30 seconds into that one…  No cognitive issues here…)

We were in the dark, in a small town, without alternative resources.  [My inner snob feels the need to say that we’re smart people with graduate degrees, who understand our rights, assert them, write nasty letters to corporations when we have bad customer service… but we sat there, powerless, walked all over, without a clue of what to do.]

Without guidance, I was dealing with the Mommy guilt. Should I quit my job? Spend oodles on private OT an hour away? Quit my doctoral program? Where were the hours I needed to fix my kid? Clearly, all of these people thought he needed fixing. I would watch documentaries like “Autistic Like” and cry. I read everything I could until I got too overwhelmed by it all.  I watched instructional videos on Floortime. Clearly I wasn’t doing enough.  I now know more than his case worker now about my IEP rights, his diagnosis and reasonable accommodations. He’ll be back in the special needs preschool in the fall, but we’ll also have him in a private preschool that doesn’t care what the label is, they just care about him. (Provided he’s potty trained, but we’re almost there…) We have come a long, long way in the last 12 months.

But, as we began to understand the things that set my child apart, we began to look at family histories and saw that this was just how some people in both of our families are. No one had put a label on it before.  They don’t like loud noises, they zone out, they have incredible memories, they prefer to be by themselves, they are late talkers or need speech therapy, they have major issues with baths and bathrooms that echo, they won’t wear clothes with buttons or snaps and are comforted by deep pressure and tight blankets, they hide under their desk in kindergarten, they are very bright and gifted and often are more advanced than their peers, making interaction harder…  They were a lot like my son.

I still don’t call it autism. I have ranted and raved and, yes, cried, to people explaining that if I thought it was autism, I would embrace the label. I would shout from the rooftops. Because at least it is recognized by insurance, by psychologists, by everyone as something real.  SPD has a long way to go.  But, I see a difference between austism and the sensory defensive kiddo who cannot engage the world because it is too loud, or too still or too interesting to look at... though a lot of autistic children also have sensory issues.

My son is different, but I wouldn’t have him any other way.  He just came into my office, full eye-contact and a little bit of a hug before he grabbed my hand and said, “C’mon Mommy, let’s go play trains in my room. It’s an adventure!”  Over the last year, I learned that I don’t have to fix him, I just have to come along on the adventure.