Our Baby Started School

As the title so aptly indicates, our baby started school this week. I need a half happy, half sad faced emoticon to enter here. 

"He's only two! How can he be in school?" you ask. 

Technically, it's a Mother's Day Out program that is only two half-days per week, but it is a structured learning environment and it is held at a private Christian school. And my baby leaves me twice a week to go learn something and develop his social skills - and that qualifies as school in my book. We got our first book fair catalog today and we have days that we have to bring healthy snacks for the entire class - more indicators that this is, in fact, school. And on the snacks note - in these modern times they eat healthy snacks, no cupcakes and candy like we had when I was a kid. If I were Rocco I would be bummed about that. Sweets are saved for special events like birthday parties. Blah. Bring on the cake!

Days 1 and 2 went pretty much as expected - Mom pretended to not have anxiety all the way there and the boy had a meltdown as soon as he figured out that Mom and Nana would not be staying to learn and play with him. I usually give him 2-5 minutes of adjustment time, tell him I love him, smile and tell him how much fun he's going to have, then slink out the door like a troll while my baby screams my name. I do not stop at the end of the hallway to see if he will stop crying. I do not want to hear my baby wailing for me from down the hall. I just go to the car and then find something to do to keep myself busy for the next three hours. The school is about 35 minutes from our house, so it doesn't really make sense to drive back home and then come back to get him. Today, I detailed my car, which my dude said was dumb because as soon as I drive home tonight it will be dirty again. Maybe so, but I can pretend to be fancy with a shiny, clean, freshly Armor All-ed princess carriage for a few short hours. Excuse me as I straighten my tiara and show off my yoga pants. 

The boy and I are both adjusting to this new lifestyle. I know that this is an important step for him and it's good for him. The teachers said his meltdowns have lasted about 30 minutes, but then he's fine. He was actually sitting still and paying attention to story time when we picked him up. Yay!! I know someone whose child (like Rocco) has never gone to daycare, and now he's in Pre-K and is struggling because he doesn't have any social skills. I don't want that to be our boy. I'd rather overcome this hurdle now, when he's two, than to wait until he's four or five and the problem be bigger and harder to overcome. So, we're both toughing it out. However, he was quite peeved with me when I picked him up the first day. No kisses. No hugs. No holding my hand. An emphatic, "NO!" as he pulled away and gave me the stink eye was all I got. Hello, attitude. 

One bummer about school is that it interrupts our mornings with PBS. Tragically, I missed Dinosaur Train, Signing Time, Peg + Cat, and Thomas & Friends. However, I am still randomly singing all of the theme songs. Sometimes in my head. Sometimes out loud. #PBSrocks

My holiday confession

I have a holiday confession to make. 

Any guesses as to what it might be? Or what it might be about?

Food. It's about food. What else would it be about? I love food. My gut and rear, not so much. But, here it is:

I DON'T LIKE TURKEY! 

That's right, I don't like turkey, not even a little bit. I don't like the smell of it, either. I also don't like turkey gravy, aka brown gravy, and if you try to put it on my potatoes or anything else, I will jab you with my fork (just kidding). I don't like cranberry sauce or cranberry relish. I don't like pumpkin pie and I don't like pecan pie. I don't like caramel and I'm not a fan of chocolate sauce. I don't like sweet potatoe casserole or anything with marshmallows in it, either. And don't even get me started on all of the holiday "salads" like macaroni or potato. 

Do you hate me? Do I sound like a picky, spoiled five year old brat? Does all of that sound un-American? Don't worry your pretty little head, I still bleed red, white, and blue. I promise. 

The last Thanksgiving that my dad was alive he wanted to have shrimp. So, we did. I remember that holiday specifically because of the shrimp. We had all of the other traditional foods that year, but we also had shrimp, peel and eat, if I remember correctly. I don't like shrimp, either, by the way. It was at my Great Grandma's house in Blackwell, as always, and I can still see her and my Grandma Betty and Great Aunt Cora standing in the kitchen, lined up and cooking away. I loved that kitchen. There was a little banquette at one end with a booth instead of chairs, which I thought was awesome because it was like eating at a restaurant and since we didn't have anything like that at home, I was always enamored with it. I liked to slide in one side and then scoot around to the middle of the seat - not the end, I didn't want to sit on the end. Now, I would feel claustrophobic and die a slow and painful death if I had to sit on the inside of the booth. 

I usually never say anything about the holiday traditionals that I don't care for. I just eat them and tell myself I'm eating a  hamburger and onion rings. Everyone else loves all of the food that I think is gross, and since I'm the minority, I just eat what's put in front of me - especially if someone else cooked it. I am not so rude that I would dare criticize what someone else worked hard to prepare. And I will continue to do that. And to clarify the whole turkey issue, I do like shaved turkey breast sandwiches. I don't like thick pieces of turkey (or ham, which is a whole other issue) and I don't like dark meat at all - not even on chicken, except for the leg, which I grew up eating as the "kid's piece" and I don't consider it dark meat because the leg is an island unto itself and calling it dark meat would mess up my OCD brain. Just roll with it, humor me, and repeat after me, "The leg is not dark meat."  Thank you.

Here's what my dream holiday meal would consist of:

Steak, preferably sirloin or filet, medium well

Potatoes, cooked pretty much any way you want except in a potato salad

Green beans, sautéed or in a casserole

Broccoli rice casserole

Carrots, with brown sugar and salt

Rolls or bread of any kind, hot and with butter, or better yet, with honey butter

Asparagus, with hollandaise sauce

Stuffing

Little smokies or smoked sausage with BBQ sauce (it's an Okie fave)

Dip trays!!! A smorgasbord of dips, veggies, crackers, and cheese! Screw the turkey! I could make my entire meal out of these! Except hummus, which tastes like dirt. 

Cheesecake

Cherry pie

Pistachio pudding, the one thing I will eat marshmallows in

Chocolate chip cookies, my Mama's recipe, please

Creme brûlée

The problem is that most of what's on that list are routinely eaten in our house and during the holidays, everyone wants something special. I'm not like that. I love to have variety in my diet and try new foods, but I think it's people that make the holiday (and every day, for that matter) special. Yes, the food is special, but the focus should be on people and not so much on the food. I'd rather have burgers and fries (or BBQ!) and have everyone together and laughing and playing games than to have a few people spending two days in the kitchen preparing for the "big meal" while a few people are in front of the TV and a few others are napping and the kids are left to their own devices. I love having the whole family around and everyone making a big batch of chocolate chip cookies or doing a huge puzzle together or playing board games or just sitting at the table to chat. That's much more my speed as opposed to the stress of getting the one big meal "right".

So, when you see me eating turkey (or ham) and looking like my mind is somewhere else, it is - I am dreaming about beef.

P.S. I always miss my Aunt Virgie during the holidays. She always made the season special and made each of us feel loved, even when she gave me bras and panties for Christmas in front of all the males in the family. 

Wicked!

Do you love Broadway shows? If you say no, we can no long be buds. Sorry, it's just the rules of life, man. Just kidding. 

We saw Wicked! at the Tulsa PAC tonight, not the first time I've seen it, but it was just as spectacular as the first time! I swear, if reincarnation existed, then I was a Broadway star in New York City in another life. I love, love, love Broadway shows! I almost cried when the house lights dimmed and the music started and several times throughout the production I got teary and I had to catch my breath.

And, do you know how hard it is to stay in your seat and not jump up and join the production and sing at the top of your lungs when you know all of the words? Well, let me tell you, it's extremely difficult. I kept my seat and tried to do nothing more than tap my toes and lip sync, but I confess, a couple of audibles came out. Which lead to the little girl in front of us turning around in her seat and spending a great deal of time watching me lip sync. I'm not sure if I'm flattered or creeped out. 

And just so you know, I wore my sparkly shoes. They weren't as sparkly as the ruby slippers, but they were the prettiest shoes of all the ones I saw. I did see a flowery pair that I liked, though. And I was all dudied up and my hair and makeup were good, it was like an in park grand slam for me - that means it doesn't happen very often, by the way. 

If you aren't familiar with Wicked! it's the story of what happened in Oz before Dorothy blew into town. Have no fear, though, I'm not going to tell you what happens. You should read the book or see the show. And, oh how I hope they make a movie of it someday! I can see it in my minds eye already!

As I was watching the actress who portrayed Elphaba (the Wicked Witch) sing one of her solos, something strange happened to me. There was a time in my life when I would have felt a twinge of jealousy mixed with admiration for her. But, tonight the only thing I could think as she belted out awesomeness was that her mother must be so proud of her. It's official. Mom thinking consumes me. What a talent! What a voice! What a gift! What an amazing experience to be involved in this show! To be the headliner! Wow. I was just amazed and I wanted to cry for her and her parents because I just felt so happy for them. How many long hours has she spent in her life perfecting her voice and acting talents? How many times was she rejected, but didn't let it deter her from her dream? How many times did she doubt what she was doing? How many times has she had to dig deep to find the courage to go on?

There's a lesson there for all of us.

Keep the faith. 

Keep pressing on. 

Lean in. 

Don't give up. 

P.S. Don't drink the green elixir!

I miss.....

I miss the fit person I used to be. 

I'm not going to lie. I miss her. 

A lot. 

A LOT.

I miss her flat stomach and less-dimpled derrière. I miss her toned calves and wonderfully shaped shoulders from doing planks. I miss her strength. I miss her heart and lung capacity. I miss her doing HIIT intervals at 8-10 mph on the treadmill. I miss her not having back fat. I miss her flexibility and amazing yoga poses. I miss her endurance. I miss her powering through hills and 30 mph head winds while cycling with friends. I miss her creativity as she drew up class plans for 3-4 fitness classes each week. I miss her time spent with other women, all seeking to improve their health. I miss buying size medium clothes. I miss feeling good about how I looked in a tank top and shorts. 

Go ahead, judge me for missing that healthy, fit, thin-but-curvy girl I used to be. Call it superficial to miss physical attributes if you want. Call it egomaniacal. Call it selfish. Call it ridiculous. I don't care what people think, I miss her! I mourn the loss of her! I wish I could go back and tell her that she's not fat and gross like she thinks she is. She is strong! She is healthy! And I wish I hadn't been beating her up for all of those years. I wish I hadn't been so hard and unrelenting with her. I wish she had known how incredibly fit and strong she was and not taken it for granted. 

But, it's not just the physical "stuff" that I miss. 

I miss the simplicity and ease of life that she had. I miss the youthful energy and small amount of responsibilities that she had. I miss her go-get-'em, no-holds-barred attitude and her life lived without fear. I miss the smallness of her frugal life. I miss her laugh. I miss her friends. I miss her constant path of new discoveries. I miss her freedom. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about the life I have today. I love my husband and my son and I wouldn't trade them for anything - not even for the girl I used to be. Even with everything I miss about her, she didn't have the wisdom or experience that I have now. She was foolish and selfish and immature and was still coming out of that dark place where childhood abuse had sent her. Today, I am happy, busy, stable, crazy, exhausted, and slightly overweight. I guess, maybe that makes me normal?

I have often said that if you're consciously making the decision to become a parent, don't be a resentful parent who thinks, "If I didn't have kids I could _____." Wait until you're ready to give up everything that you claim as your own - from your TV time to workouts to the thoughts that fill your head - before you become a parent. Trust me, you will find that you think less and less about yourself and more and more about your child. And I was ready to give all of that up, but I still mourn the loss of that carefree girl I used to know. I wish that I could find a way to bring some of her best qualities into the life I have today and be the perfect woman. Okay, so maybe perfect is a little over the top. Maybe, I'll aim for near perfect? It's a joke, peeps. Loosen up. 

When I gain a few more minutes in my day or learn how to manage my time to function on even less sleep, I will try to resurrect some of that girl. I will return to working out 3-4 times each week. I will regain my strength and improve my VO2 max. My thighs, butt, and waist will shrink. My arms will be defined. But, right now, I just want to hold my baby, snuggle and smell him, enjoy a big taco salad, and let my honey love on my muffin top. 

I have a booboo

You know how everyone has one of those "I was playing catch with my kids and somehow wound up with a stick in my a**" stories? Well, I have one. Not a stick in my a**! A story. I have a story. 

The short version is that I broke off a piece of metal under my thumbnail. AAAAAND I didn't even say a bad word when it happened! I'm really making some positive strides. The long version goes like this:

The small metal wire that goes through the spine of my wallet was coming out. 

Just ignore the receipts hanging out.

My wallet was laying on the counter and this little wire was staring at me and mocking me all day, and ruining my idea of a perfect world. So, I decided to push it back in and make it shut up. I grabbed a pen cap, because I'm smart enough to not use my bare hand to push the wire. Duh. And after about my third good "oomph", the cap slipped and the wire went under my thumbnail. 

Ouch. 

Ouch. 

Ouch. 

At first, I though maybe the dark spot was just a blood blister from the impact, but as the day grew long, I could tell that it was hurting more and I could feel the metal putting pressure on my nail. It was the size of a boulder! At least it felt like it. I tried to see if I could dig it out, but I'm apparently not that tough. Remember the guy who cut his arm off to save his life when he was pinned by rocks? Yeah, that's not me. I would have died, pinned under the rocks, and probably would have never been found. I can tolerate a lot of pain, but the thought of extracting a bullet out of my leg or cutting off my own arm or digging a piece of metal out from under my nail just don't sound like situations that I would be particularly successful at. So, off to the walk-in clinic I went. 

Ignore my nasty cuticles and pasty, dry whiteness. It's winter, in Oklahoma, and I have red hair. Dry and white is what I am. 

The black dot is the culprit. I swear it had a twelve inch circumference. 

And this is my nail after.  The doctor used a scalpel to slice my nail in two, then she used tweezers and forceps to pull it apart and to get a chunk of it detached so she could then use razor sharp tweezers to scrape the metal out. When she told me what she was going to do I asked her if I would at least get the pleasure of her numbing and deadening my thumb first. 

Um..........no. 

Say what?

She said the numbing process would be more painful than just doing the procedure without it. 

Say what, again?

So, no numbing stuff. Boo on that. I had my left knee bent and my foot underneath my right leg, so I stuck my fingers behind my knee to keep my hand steady, locked my thumb in place as best I could, and let the butchering begin. In all actuality, her slicing my nail in two didn't really hurt. When she put pressure on top of the piece of metal, that hurt. When she stuck the tweezers up under my nail, that hurt (and it bled a little). When she scraped that thing out ..... OMG!!! Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. That's what I kept telling myself. And then I let out a big, "Whoohoo!" when she was finished.

I got some ointment and a bandaid for my booboo and they sent me home. I'm so glad I don't have fake nails. That would have sucked!

And the doctor thanked me for coming in because it gave her something to do besides treat sinus infections. Hahaha!!

The mad tweaker episode

I'm about to reveal more of my body to you than I normally would, but for good reason. Consider this an educational experience. And please look past my fat and kangaroo pouch. I tried real hard to suck it in and stretch my skin out.

I have hives. And they are a real bitch. I haven't had them like this in 25 years. I had them so bad when I was little that I couldn't wear clothes or go outside because it was summer and the heat made them worse. I had welts that were ten inches long and six inches wide, like large swaths that covered my enter body from head to toe. In the years since, I've occasionally had one or two hives pop up here and there, usually in the spring when my allergies were real bad, but they weren't severe. Once, when I was about 16, I woke up with a huge one on my upper lip, making my lip three or four times it's normal size and the skin was stretched and shiny. I called my friend, Mignon, having a minor freak out, and begged my Mom to let me stay home from school. She was mean and told me no. Then, I spent two days being asked by everyone how I had come to have a fat lip. It was huge. Angelina Jolie had nothing on me. 

On MLK Day I had a horrible migraine that was so bad I couldn't sleep, so I stayed home from work. I managed to sleep from about 8am until noon. When I woke up my eyes looked like this:

Ick. 

Over the course of the next two weeks I had ten to fifteen dime to quarter sized hives pop up every day in different places all over my body. They would vary in location and severity each day and were more of a nuisance than anything. 

They itched to no end and I couldn't find an anti-itch cream that worked. I started to get them in between my fingers and toes, which made it hard to wear socks, shoes, or jewelry. I also had them on my palms and behind my ears.

Then on Tuesday there was an explosion of hives that took over my body. That morning I only had a couple on my arms and legs, but none on my stomach. By that afternoon, I looked like this:

I was laying down, hence the skinny look of my mid-section.

Over the course of the evening and night, it got worse. 

I wasn't laying down; notice how I look a little more paunchy?

I got in to see the doctor on Wednesday afternoon and he gave me two medications to try. I cannot take Benadryl or Zyrtec, the two most commonly prescribed medications for hives, because I have adverse reactions to them. I'm essentially a drunk when I take them, so I always steer clear of them. I won't even use the Benadryl cream because I'm afraid of having a bad reaction. One of the medications he prescribed is primarily used to treat depression and anxiety, but has a secondary use for treating skin conditions.

And that's where things took a turn for the bizarre. 

I woke up on Thursday morning in what I can only describe as something similar to a mad tweaker episode. I was highly agitated, mad, frustrated, short tempered, anxious, and my brain was fuzzy. I wanted to throw things and rip stuff off the wall. I wanted to get in my car and ram it into a tree repeatedly, just to tear something up. I felt like I was losing my mind and I sent D a text that the medicine had jacked me up. I was at least lucid enough to realize that I was not myself and that the things going through my mind were on the edge of just being downright crazy. I called the pharmacist and I was almost in tears and he confirmed that these were side effects of the medicine, however he'd never heard anyone describe it quite the way I did. I spent the next few hours talking myself down, reminding myself that this pill would wear off soon, and I just needed to keep it together a little bit longer. I don't know how people with mental ailments survive daily life. It was a day in hell like no other. I think I would rather endure physical pain than to experience the mental instability I had that day. I read up on the medicine today and, sure enough, all of my symptoms were listed as adverse side effects. 

Ugh.

The doctor changed my medicine to something milder and, while I did still have some reactions to it, it was nothing like Thursday. I still have the hives, though not as severe. But, I still itch like a flea-ridden, mangey dog!

The crier

I am a crier. Well, I'm not an all-the-time-crier, because I love to laugh more than crying, but I'm definitely getting soft in my old age. I used to be "tough", whatever that means, refusing to cry and I would just get mad and lash out. I didn't acknowledge pain or fear, I just turned them into anger. And now, as a more self-aware 30-something, I cry. I cry for my family or my friends and I cry for strangers, too. And if you cry in front of me, I will cry with you, whether it's through happiness or sadness. When my friends hurt, I hurt, too. When my friends are happy, I am happy, too. And if I get choked up while telling a story, just ignore me. Or give me hug, but beware, that will probably make me cry even more. 

I sometimes cry when I'm thanking someone because I am truly so thankful that it comes seeping out of my eyes. I don't always feel like "Thank you" and a hug or a pat on the back are enough, which begs the question, how do you adequately convey your gratitude?

I cry at commercials. There used to be a commercial for one of the hospitals in Oklahoma City and they would show different cancer survivors and the last person they showed was a skinny, old cowboy with a rugged, leathered face and a slight hunch to his back, holding his cowboy hat and wearing a plaid shirt and his Wranglers. The first time I saw it I thought, "That's what my brother is going to look like some day," and I immediately burst into tears. You know how that sneaks up on you? You're fine and then all of a sudden you either gasp or you can't hold your breath and some kind of violent puff comes out of your mouth? Yeah, it was like that. It was ugly. I'm glad I was alone. 

I cry when we buy our Angel Tree gifts at Christmas. The angels on our local tree only have practical things like socks, underwear, shirts, or jeans written on the angels. I'm not sure if there's a rule that the children have to ask for things that they need, like clothes, and are not allowed to ask for fun stuff, like toys and games, or not. As D and I were walking through Walmart, I had to walk ahead of him because I didn't want him to see the tears that were about to come out of my eyes. I knew he felt the same way I did, but I just felt a little silly for crying about it. I was looking at these little paper angels and thinking about the little girl and boy who only asked for socks and underwear and it just hurt me that they didn't have anything fun written down. Children should have some fun things. So, I don't know if it broke the rules or not, but we bought them age appropriate toys on top of the clothing items they had asked for. And I'm not sorry if it broke the rules. I'm just not. Sorry for not being sorry. 

Sometimes I cry when I look at old photographs. There are people that I've lost and I miss them terribly. Sometimes I laugh at the memory of something funny, other times I cry from the pain of missing them. The pain of not hearing their voice. Or their laugh. Or the touch of their hand. Or the smell of their cologne or perfume. Or just watching their habitual movements, like the way they walked or held a coffee cup.

I cry when I see people go to the front of the church to pray during the altar call. I don't know what they're struggling with, but I can see that something is bothering them and they're looking to God for help. And while I may not ask what's wrong, because I think if it were my business they would have told me, I am still standing (or kneeling) with them in prayer.

I don't cry because I'm weak, I cry because I need an emotional release and crying is part of a healing process. It allows me to let go of the stress and pain and move forward, rather than to hold it all in and bottle it all up and then explode on some poor unsuspecting person in a fit of rage. I cry because I am a woman who was created from flesh, which makes me more emotional than a man who was created from dirt. So, if you see me wiping away a tear, don't be alarmed, it's just normal. Or I've just watched a cutie patootie baby or animal video with horses. Or dogs. Or kittens. Or bears. Or rabbits. Or lions.