After some traumatic events last week, my OB gave me the OK to travel 4 hours to see my sister!
I am beyond thrilled...words cannot express how happy I am to be able to see her. I want to hug her and never let her go!
So, I probably won't be blogging much. I'll have my computer with me, but I want to be able to spend as much time with my sister as possible. I'm leaving tomorrow morning (Tues.) and coming back Friday night.
Ahhhh! I CAN'T wait! I need to go start packing!
Much love to all <3
Monday, March 21, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
I'll be back!
I haven't blogged in almost a week!
I'm off to bed right now to watch a movie with the hubs, but I promise I'll update tomorrow. It's been a busy week with good news and bad news and ups and downs. But I have hope things will be okay.
Now to go watch The Hangover, for the 1200th time :-P
Have a good weekend, all!
I'm off to bed right now to watch a movie with the hubs, but I promise I'll update tomorrow. It's been a busy week with good news and bad news and ups and downs. But I have hope things will be okay.
Now to go watch The Hangover, for the 1200th time :-P
Have a good weekend, all!
Monday, March 14, 2011
Ode to the wonderful SleepingBeauty
Hey, SB, you best be reading this post girl. It's a devotion to you, your loveliness, sexiness, and humor. I'm jealous your husband has you all to himself, because RAWR, girl, I'd be all over that. ;o)
Here's SB..
She wears that pink gown EVERY day. What an awesome mother she is, toting around a one year old and wearing a hawt gown like that. And that hair? It's all real. She's basically Repunzel's cousin, with better boobs.
I love this girl. She's so damn hilarious she's had me tinkle myself more than once. (Take that as a compliment, SB).
Oh! And the best part! We're labor buddies!!!! Her little Ruby Tuesday is due on 6/1 and Lola is due on 6/30. I never had a labor buddy before, so I hope I don't fail her. I know it involves letting everyone know your status during labor and if there is any trouble, changes, etc....but do I need to buy a sweat band embroidered with "TEAM SB" on it? Just for the really trying times? I'll buy you a matching one with "Team MCMoo" SB, don't worry. :P
So basically, she's all that, a bag of chips, AND a snickers bar. If you want some of her goodness, let her know. She can be reached at http://landofsnark.forumotion.com/.
LOVE YOU, SB!
Here's SB..
She wears that pink gown EVERY day. What an awesome mother she is, toting around a one year old and wearing a hawt gown like that. And that hair? It's all real. She's basically Repunzel's cousin, with better boobs.
I love this girl. She's so damn hilarious she's had me tinkle myself more than once. (Take that as a compliment, SB).
Oh! And the best part! We're labor buddies!!!! Her little Ruby Tuesday is due on 6/1 and Lola is due on 6/30. I never had a labor buddy before, so I hope I don't fail her. I know it involves letting everyone know your status during labor and if there is any trouble, changes, etc....but do I need to buy a sweat band embroidered with "TEAM SB" on it? Just for the really trying times? I'll buy you a matching one with "Team MCMoo" SB, don't worry. :P
So basically, she's all that, a bag of chips, AND a snickers bar. If you want some of her goodness, let her know. She can be reached at http://landofsnark.forumotion.com/.
LOVE YOU, SB!
Sunday, March 13, 2011
I feel like I've lost my best friend
Sorry, SB, I promise I'll post about you and your loveliness tomorrow. Today I'm just feeling too down to post about someone as wonderful as you.
I feel like I've lost my best friend. I might have, actually.
My sister Amy and I are only 18 months apart. We have always been the best of friends. When we were little my mom dressed us alike and people often asked if we were twins. I think my mom took that more as a compliment since I lost my brother, my twin, in utero. A lot of the time I think my mom wished me and and Amy were twins. We finished each others sentences, had many of the same friends, and when one of us had a nightmare we'd freely jump into the other's bed and feel better. When our younger sister Ashley came around, we'd already formed such a strong sisterly bond that we referred to her as "our baby".
Amy was 7 and I was almost 6 when Ashley was born. There is a picture of us holding "our baby" in my mom's hospital room. We did look like twins, except Amy's hair was probably two inches longer than mine. We had matching "Big Sister" shirts. Pink for me and green for Amy, since they were our favorite colors. Even though Ashley was quite the girly girl, she came home in a blue flowery outfit. She was stuck with that color the rest of her life. ;o)
Like I said in a previous post my mom's depression worsened after Ashley was born. She was in the hospital for the first time when Ashley was only 2 months old. I remember that day well (this was when she tried to kill herself with my fathers gun.) I also remember what I did the next day, while Amy and I were watching PBS after we went to school. I took a new box of 64 crayons, the kind with the sharpener in the back, and I broke all of them. I remember trying to read each color before I broke it. Cerulean, tangerine, brick red. Each time I broke a crayon it released just a tiny more bit of anger I had towards my mother. I was so angry at her for leaving us. Leaving me and Amy to fend for ourselves (with my nit-wit of a Grandmother) and a new baby sister. That night Amy braided my hair and I slept in her bed. We made sure to tell my Grandma that Ashley needed to sleep in her blue sleeper, the one with Pooh Bear on it.
My friendship with my sister became stronger every time my mother was hospitalized. By the time Ashley was old enough to figure out what was going on, my mother was coming out of her depressive state, and eventually stopped being hospitalized. I refer to Ashley as my "La la" sister. She wasn't really affected by my mother being gone and right now she's up in college living in her own "La la" land. Her and I rarely talk (by her choice) and she is truly the most independent sole I have ever known in my entire life. She traveled around Europe with a group of students when she was thirteen. Something I would have never been able to do. I admire her "La la-ness" and wish I could be that removed from our family situation.
I always tell my mother when I cut myself. I usually call her, but for some reason during this last relapse I decided to text her the next morning. We've been having a rocky relationship for the past few months because she thinks I'm crazy for having a baby so soon after having Lucy, but I thought I could confide in her and she'd tell me the things I needed to hear. The same things she needed to hear from someone 20 years ago. Instead she sent me a text back saying "are you proud of yourself?" I decided not to say anything back and instead called Amy. She was my right hand girl, she gave me the best advice and was always there for me when I needed her the most.
Her husband picked up the phone when I called. "Hey Mark, it's Mandy, can I talk to Amy?" He seemed almost perturbed that I was calling (given it was 8:30 a.m., but my sister has 2 kids, she's up that early anyways). When he handed Amy the phone instead of saying "Hey sis," or "What's up?" she answered with a "What?" I was caught off guard and let down that she wasn't her usual happy up lifting self. I told her I needed to have a heart to heart talk with her and she told me she'd have to call me back because she was dealing with a sick child and an uncooperative one. I told her that was fine, and I'd be happy to talk to her later. She hung up without saying good bye.
Fast forward to today, a week later. After calling her 5 times this past week and leaving messages, she finally called me back. This is my sister who usually barely lasts a day without calling me twice, even three times. I wasn't only saddened at our lack of communication, I was down right worried. She finally called me at 5 p.m.
I asked her how she was, she said fine. I asked her why we hadn't been in contact for the past week and she said quite irritated that she'd been busy and thought I'd understand her not calling me back. She then said to me "What was that heart to heart talk that you wanted to have?" I told her flat out, that I had cut myself last Saturday. I told her I was struggling and that I met with my psychiatrist and he changed my antidepressant and recommended I entered a partial hospitalization program after I was let off of strict bed rest. I told her that I needed her support right now and that I just wanted to let her know what was going on in my life, just like I'd hope she'd let me know what was going on in hers.
She answered by saying this..."Mandy, we all cannot stop our lives because you've reverted back to your high school depressive self. I have children, you have children. You need to stop being selfish and realize that your children and your unborn child are more important than lashing out and expressing yourself by slashing your wrists. You need to grow up and I can't hold your hand while you do so."
I sat there with my hand quivering and my body shaking. I then said to her "Okay Amy, I need to go now." and hung up.
Maybe I'm over reacting. Maybe my hormones and emotions are running wild and my sister is right, but God damn it, I need my sister now. I need her right now more than I need anyone. I need her to tell me I'm going to be okay and that what I'm doing right now is the best for me and my family. I need her. I need SOMEONE that understands, whether it's my mom, my sister, or my husband. I need someone. And right now, I feel more alone than ever.
Right now I'm sitting in bed with the covers bundled up over me like I'm in an Eskimo in Alaska. I want to sink away in them. I want to disappear. I want to magically float away and come back to the life I thought I had a hold of.
I hear Libby laughing with Lucy downstairs and I pray that they'll have the same relationship I had with my sister. I also pray that Lola has the same relationship with Libby and Lucy. I don't want her to be in "La la land." I want her to be able to count on her sisters for support. I want her to be able to call either one of them just to talk or to confess her inner most feelings and not be turned away.
I want for them what I thought I had with my sister. I want them to be best friends.
I feel like I've lost my best friend. I might have, actually.
My sister Amy and I are only 18 months apart. We have always been the best of friends. When we were little my mom dressed us alike and people often asked if we were twins. I think my mom took that more as a compliment since I lost my brother, my twin, in utero. A lot of the time I think my mom wished me and and Amy were twins. We finished each others sentences, had many of the same friends, and when one of us had a nightmare we'd freely jump into the other's bed and feel better. When our younger sister Ashley came around, we'd already formed such a strong sisterly bond that we referred to her as "our baby".
Amy was 7 and I was almost 6 when Ashley was born. There is a picture of us holding "our baby" in my mom's hospital room. We did look like twins, except Amy's hair was probably two inches longer than mine. We had matching "Big Sister" shirts. Pink for me and green for Amy, since they were our favorite colors. Even though Ashley was quite the girly girl, she came home in a blue flowery outfit. She was stuck with that color the rest of her life. ;o)
Like I said in a previous post my mom's depression worsened after Ashley was born. She was in the hospital for the first time when Ashley was only 2 months old. I remember that day well (this was when she tried to kill herself with my fathers gun.) I also remember what I did the next day, while Amy and I were watching PBS after we went to school. I took a new box of 64 crayons, the kind with the sharpener in the back, and I broke all of them. I remember trying to read each color before I broke it. Cerulean, tangerine, brick red. Each time I broke a crayon it released just a tiny more bit of anger I had towards my mother. I was so angry at her for leaving us. Leaving me and Amy to fend for ourselves (with my nit-wit of a Grandmother) and a new baby sister. That night Amy braided my hair and I slept in her bed. We made sure to tell my Grandma that Ashley needed to sleep in her blue sleeper, the one with Pooh Bear on it.
My friendship with my sister became stronger every time my mother was hospitalized. By the time Ashley was old enough to figure out what was going on, my mother was coming out of her depressive state, and eventually stopped being hospitalized. I refer to Ashley as my "La la" sister. She wasn't really affected by my mother being gone and right now she's up in college living in her own "La la" land. Her and I rarely talk (by her choice) and she is truly the most independent sole I have ever known in my entire life. She traveled around Europe with a group of students when she was thirteen. Something I would have never been able to do. I admire her "La la-ness" and wish I could be that removed from our family situation.
I always tell my mother when I cut myself. I usually call her, but for some reason during this last relapse I decided to text her the next morning. We've been having a rocky relationship for the past few months because she thinks I'm crazy for having a baby so soon after having Lucy, but I thought I could confide in her and she'd tell me the things I needed to hear. The same things she needed to hear from someone 20 years ago. Instead she sent me a text back saying "are you proud of yourself?" I decided not to say anything back and instead called Amy. She was my right hand girl, she gave me the best advice and was always there for me when I needed her the most.
Her husband picked up the phone when I called. "Hey Mark, it's Mandy, can I talk to Amy?" He seemed almost perturbed that I was calling (given it was 8:30 a.m., but my sister has 2 kids, she's up that early anyways). When he handed Amy the phone instead of saying "Hey sis," or "What's up?" she answered with a "What?" I was caught off guard and let down that she wasn't her usual happy up lifting self. I told her I needed to have a heart to heart talk with her and she told me she'd have to call me back because she was dealing with a sick child and an uncooperative one. I told her that was fine, and I'd be happy to talk to her later. She hung up without saying good bye.
Fast forward to today, a week later. After calling her 5 times this past week and leaving messages, she finally called me back. This is my sister who usually barely lasts a day without calling me twice, even three times. I wasn't only saddened at our lack of communication, I was down right worried. She finally called me at 5 p.m.
I asked her how she was, she said fine. I asked her why we hadn't been in contact for the past week and she said quite irritated that she'd been busy and thought I'd understand her not calling me back. She then said to me "What was that heart to heart talk that you wanted to have?" I told her flat out, that I had cut myself last Saturday. I told her I was struggling and that I met with my psychiatrist and he changed my antidepressant and recommended I entered a partial hospitalization program after I was let off of strict bed rest. I told her that I needed her support right now and that I just wanted to let her know what was going on in my life, just like I'd hope she'd let me know what was going on in hers.
She answered by saying this..."Mandy, we all cannot stop our lives because you've reverted back to your high school depressive self. I have children, you have children. You need to stop being selfish and realize that your children and your unborn child are more important than lashing out and expressing yourself by slashing your wrists. You need to grow up and I can't hold your hand while you do so."
I sat there with my hand quivering and my body shaking. I then said to her "Okay Amy, I need to go now." and hung up.
Maybe I'm over reacting. Maybe my hormones and emotions are running wild and my sister is right, but God damn it, I need my sister now. I need her right now more than I need anyone. I need her to tell me I'm going to be okay and that what I'm doing right now is the best for me and my family. I need her. I need SOMEONE that understands, whether it's my mom, my sister, or my husband. I need someone. And right now, I feel more alone than ever.
Right now I'm sitting in bed with the covers bundled up over me like I'm in an Eskimo in Alaska. I want to sink away in them. I want to disappear. I want to magically float away and come back to the life I thought I had a hold of.
I hear Libby laughing with Lucy downstairs and I pray that they'll have the same relationship I had with my sister. I also pray that Lola has the same relationship with Libby and Lucy. I don't want her to be in "La la land." I want her to be able to count on her sisters for support. I want her to be able to call either one of them just to talk or to confess her inner most feelings and not be turned away.
I want for them what I thought I had with my sister. I want them to be best friends.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
I woke up this morning feelin' fine...
You expect me to complete the rest of the song, don't you? Alas...I cannot. Because by 11 a.m. I was throwing up and feeling like absolute crap. I called my OB on her cell (I feel like a VIP, but really she gave me her cell number in case I ever actually went into PTL). She told me to keep hydrated and watch for any braxton hicks, but that I probably just had a stomach bug that needed to run its course. So I moved my tush to the comfort (or not so comfortable) stone floor of my bathroom and set up a pillow next to the toilet. Hot damn, I needed that pillow more for my knees than I did my head because I was literally hugging that toilet for dear life.
Hey, SB...this is the part of the post that's dedicated to you! Remember when I thought I was having BH's and they were just poo cramps??? Gosh, I'm so funny. I promise I'll dedicate an entire post to your loveliness tomorrow, when I'm hopefully feeling better.
Anyways, now that I am all consumed of thinking of the beautiful SB and her insane sexiness, let me compose myself.
*phew*
Okay, I'm better. ;o)
David felt horrible for me and brought me a pedialyte popsicle that the girls eat after I had been throwing up on and off for an hour. I was pleasantly surprised by the grape taste. I expected it to taste more cough-syrup like, but it really tasted like a popsicle. Mom friends, if you haven't tried one, you should. I crossed that endeavor off my bucket list.
He then informed me that I looked like death (aww, thanks sweetie...*cough*jackass) and that he'd be taking the girls to his mom's so they didn't catch any of my disgusting retching germs. He carried me over the threshold of our bathroom door and placed me ever so delicately (more like a plop) in our bed. He covered me up, gave me two extra pillows to make a total of eight and handed me the remote and a puke bucket. I thought I was all set, but he came back into the room with a jumbo sized tub of lysol wipes, and enough apple juice and water to choke a horse.
My man loves me, he really does. :oP
I was instructed to wipe down all of the hard surfaces around me whenever I threw up. I accepted my task and laid back onto my fluffy pillow nest and fell asleep...for 5 hours.
Yep, I took a wonderful 5 hour nap in the middle of the fricken day, people! It was heavenly. There were no little feet running, no incessant "MOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!", no crying...nothing, just quiet. When I woke up I thought it was the next day and that I had slept for a crazy amount of time, but was surprised when I looked at the clock and it was 5 p.m. I picked up the phone and called David. He informed me that the girls were going to stay at "Gamma Deebee's" (really, she's Grandma Debbie) tonight because they were having a lot of fun with Grandma and Grandpa. I spoke to Libby and she told me matter of fact like that "Me and Lulu will not come home. You are sick, momma, and we need to stay here so we don't frow up." I had to laugh. She hates "frowing up".
David told me he'd be home by 8, so I'm currently catching up with the forums and watching Wipe Out (is that not the stupidest show ever?? Who'd sign up for such a thing...)
I think I might ask for another pedialyte popsicle when David gets home, you know..since the kids won't notice. ;o)
Hey, SB...this is the part of the post that's dedicated to you! Remember when I thought I was having BH's and they were just poo cramps??? Gosh, I'm so funny. I promise I'll dedicate an entire post to your loveliness tomorrow, when I'm hopefully feeling better.
Anyways, now that I am all consumed of thinking of the beautiful SB and her insane sexiness, let me compose myself.
*phew*
Okay, I'm better. ;o)
David felt horrible for me and brought me a pedialyte popsicle that the girls eat after I had been throwing up on and off for an hour. I was pleasantly surprised by the grape taste. I expected it to taste more cough-syrup like, but it really tasted like a popsicle. Mom friends, if you haven't tried one, you should. I crossed that endeavor off my bucket list.
He then informed me that I looked like death (aww, thanks sweetie...*cough*jackass) and that he'd be taking the girls to his mom's so they didn't catch any of my disgusting retching germs. He carried me over the threshold of our bathroom door and placed me ever so delicately (more like a plop) in our bed. He covered me up, gave me two extra pillows to make a total of eight and handed me the remote and a puke bucket. I thought I was all set, but he came back into the room with a jumbo sized tub of lysol wipes, and enough apple juice and water to choke a horse.
My man loves me, he really does. :oP
I was instructed to wipe down all of the hard surfaces around me whenever I threw up. I accepted my task and laid back onto my fluffy pillow nest and fell asleep...for 5 hours.
Yep, I took a wonderful 5 hour nap in the middle of the fricken day, people! It was heavenly. There were no little feet running, no incessant "MOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!", no crying...nothing, just quiet. When I woke up I thought it was the next day and that I had slept for a crazy amount of time, but was surprised when I looked at the clock and it was 5 p.m. I picked up the phone and called David. He informed me that the girls were going to stay at "Gamma Deebee's" (really, she's Grandma Debbie) tonight because they were having a lot of fun with Grandma and Grandpa. I spoke to Libby and she told me matter of fact like that "Me and Lulu will not come home. You are sick, momma, and we need to stay here so we don't frow up." I had to laugh. She hates "frowing up".
David told me he'd be home by 8, so I'm currently catching up with the forums and watching Wipe Out (is that not the stupidest show ever?? Who'd sign up for such a thing...)
I think I might ask for another pedialyte popsicle when David gets home, you know..since the kids won't notice. ;o)
Friday, March 11, 2011
I shouldn't let others get to me.
Especially when other's are on the other end of a computer, with as many or more problems than I have.
Right now, I feel vulnerable. And words hurt like daggers. And even though I think I can "fake it til I make it," I am timid, shy, and have a hard time stumbling for words to try to eat at someone, like they're eating at me. I can only say fuck you so many times until it looses it's meaning. I can only call someone a bitch so many times until I think to myself, "really, Mandy, you're calling someone a female dog." I am the first to admit I cannot put up a good fight and in the end the other person almost always wins and I'm in tears.
I know many of the people on Land of Snark keep telling me not to worry, not to think about it, and not to get all bent out of shape because it will bring my BP up and can cause other problems. But I can't help but think about it. I guess I'm an overly empathetic. I think about things like internet buddies and people that live hundreds if not thousands of miles away from me and cry. I think about me trying to bring out the "mean girl" in me and am embarrassed of that behavior because that is SO not who I am. I think of others who have been mean, judgmental, or unfriended me in some way, and feel bad that I did something to offend them. Even if I didn't I get in my head that their reactions are because of my actions. Kind of like Newton's third law, ya know?
Anyways, to those I have offended, I feel the need to apologize. Mainly to Yankee. I'm not the type of person to punch you in the face. Hell, I've never punched anyone or anything other than my pillow. I was wrong to threaten violence on you over such a ridiculous reason. I'm going to copy this and paste it so you'll see it on LoS, but I wanted to put it out there (or here, rather) that I really am NOT that type of person. I'm not a bully, and I sure as hell wouldn't want to set that example for my child.
I realize you might think my problems are petty and that's okay because I don't expect you to be a psychic or read my blog, or even care for that matter. But I'm trying not to use my problems as an excuse to be a bitch, that is wrong of me and isn't even a viable excuse. Yes, I am having issues. Yes, I am worried for the health of my unborn child. But, no that doesn't give me an excuse to lash out on you for voicing your opinion. I sincerely apologize and I hope we can go back to our loving bickering ways. If not, that's okay, but I just needed to get this apology off my chest.
And for all your other slores that want a post dedicated to you....let me know. I'll have a puppy and rainbow fest full of glitter farts and unicorns.
Peace, Love, and Moo my friends.
Right now, I feel vulnerable. And words hurt like daggers. And even though I think I can "fake it til I make it," I am timid, shy, and have a hard time stumbling for words to try to eat at someone, like they're eating at me. I can only say fuck you so many times until it looses it's meaning. I can only call someone a bitch so many times until I think to myself, "really, Mandy, you're calling someone a female dog." I am the first to admit I cannot put up a good fight and in the end the other person almost always wins and I'm in tears.
I know many of the people on Land of Snark keep telling me not to worry, not to think about it, and not to get all bent out of shape because it will bring my BP up and can cause other problems. But I can't help but think about it. I guess I'm an overly empathetic. I think about things like internet buddies and people that live hundreds if not thousands of miles away from me and cry. I think about me trying to bring out the "mean girl" in me and am embarrassed of that behavior because that is SO not who I am. I think of others who have been mean, judgmental, or unfriended me in some way, and feel bad that I did something to offend them. Even if I didn't I get in my head that their reactions are because of my actions. Kind of like Newton's third law, ya know?
Anyways, to those I have offended, I feel the need to apologize. Mainly to Yankee. I'm not the type of person to punch you in the face. Hell, I've never punched anyone or anything other than my pillow. I was wrong to threaten violence on you over such a ridiculous reason. I'm going to copy this and paste it so you'll see it on LoS, but I wanted to put it out there (or here, rather) that I really am NOT that type of person. I'm not a bully, and I sure as hell wouldn't want to set that example for my child.
I realize you might think my problems are petty and that's okay because I don't expect you to be a psychic or read my blog, or even care for that matter. But I'm trying not to use my problems as an excuse to be a bitch, that is wrong of me and isn't even a viable excuse. Yes, I am having issues. Yes, I am worried for the health of my unborn child. But, no that doesn't give me an excuse to lash out on you for voicing your opinion. I sincerely apologize and I hope we can go back to our loving bickering ways. If not, that's okay, but I just needed to get this apology off my chest.
And for all your other slores that want a post dedicated to you....let me know. I'll have a puppy and rainbow fest full of glitter farts and unicorns.
Peace, Love, and Moo my friends.
A bubble bath and random musings of my mother and her bipolar life.
I woke up this morning before anyone else. I looked at the digital clock on my side table and it said 5:45. I laid there for a few minutes more contemplating on getting an extra two hours of sleep, or indulging in something for myself.
I did the latter.
Let me preface this by saying we have a huge soaking tub. It's so big that I'm able to fit myself, my husband, and Libby and Lucy in it at the same time. Usually that's what happens, two, three or four of us get in the tub and quickly soap up together to get the day going. But today was different. Today I started out being selfish and running a bubble bath for myself.
I lit candles (Midnight Path from Bath and Bodyworks-my favorite scent ever), put on some Train, and brought out my thick terrycloth robe with the duck appliques. I filled the bath with bath salts and of course bubbles...all in my favorite scent. I set out my favorite body butter for after the bath, much like the icing on the cake. I slipped in, let my head fall back on the bath pillow and closed my eyes. By the time I opened them it was 7:10 and the water was tepid, at best. When I got out I scooped a big scoop of body butter out of the tub and stood in the mirror rubbing it all over myself. I don't know why I stood in the mirror. I guess the egotistical part of me likes to see me naked. The real part of me likes to see my naked baby bump, which I paid much attention too during this rare ritual. After I was lotioned up, I combed my hair and put it up in a messy bun since I knew I wouldn't be moving much from the bed today. I wrapped myself in my fluffy duck robe and sat back on the bed. At this point David turned to me and said "Hey stranger, I thought you might have left me for another man." Without missing a beat I said, "I did...Pat Monahan. He had my heart at Meet Virginia." :)
There's something about slathering myself with lotion and wrapping myself in a soft robe that brings me back to my childhood. My mother often bathed my sisters and me all at the same time and once we got out she slathered us in Curel and wrapped us in big fluffy terrycloth robes. Pink for me, Blue for Ashley, and Green for Amy (all of our favorite colors). I have no idea why she used Curel, but it was the only lotion ever allowed in our house. Whenever I use it now, the familiar almost non-existent scent brings back fond memories of bath time and my mother's hands.
She had somewhat rough hands, with always trimmed bare nails. When my sisters and I were younger she stayed home with us so there was a lot of dish doing and child bathing. As soon as my younger sister entered the first grade she went back to teaching (which used to be her profession until becoming pregnant with my older sister in 1984.) She was the happiest she'd been in a long time.
In actuality, her stay-at-home-mom days were few and far between. She had bipolar and once my younger sister was born she was in and of hospitals until I was in the 6th grade. She tried to commit suicide 8 times, often running away in her car before hand to (in her words) "lessen the pain for her girls". I was a selfish little kid and was mad at my mother for being what I thought was "crazy". I was mad she couldn't come video tape me during parent's day at dance class. I was mad that she almost missed my 10th birthday, but she got out of the hospital that night. I was mad that me and my sisters were different, our mom wasn't there all the time and since our dad worked, we had to ban together.
Don't get me wrong. My mother was amazing. My sisters and I always had amazing birthday parties with mounds of presents. We had great Christmases with wonderful food and fresh baked cookies. We were, in fact, what looked like a normal suburban family. We were very good at keeping our problems behind closed doors.
I was 5 when I first remember my mom trying to commit suicide. She took my dads gun and locked herself in her bathroom. I didn't know it at the time, but I sat on her bed waiting for her to come out to put my hair in curlers. I had no idea she was sitting in the bathroom with a gun, ready to end her life. When my dad, my grandma (who lived 30 minutes away) and our local priest came into the room I knew something was up. So I went into the room that I shared with my older sister and put myself to sleep. I remember putting one sole curler in my bangs. When I took it out that next morning it didn't curl my hair, it just left a big crease in the middle. I decided a big blue bow would look good so I pinned my bangs back and waited for my mom to take me and my older sister to school. That's when my dad told us what happened. His words still ring in the back of my head to this day. "Amy, Amanda, your mother tried to kill herself with my gun last night. She's in the hospital, and we don't know when she'll be back."
I'm sorry, but what kind of parent tells their five and seven year olds that their mother, the person they relied on the most, tried to kill herself? I'm still angry at my dad for using those words and seeming so nonchalant about the entire situation. And I was even more pissed that my Grandma (my dad's mom, my mom's mom lived in Arizona at the time) came over that morning and coddled me and my sister and said "It's okay, grandma's here, I'll be your mother when your mom is gone." Shut the fuck up, lady. You're not my mother. You're old, wrinkly, and smell like someone poured and entire bottle of Estee Lauder Beautiful all over you. You may make some mean pierogi's but you sure as hell aren't my mother and I'd take her hamburger helper over your pierogi's and kolacky's any day.
Like I said above, the last time my mom went in the hospital was when I was in the 6th grade. Every time she tried to kill herself was different. Twice she slit her wrists (where I believe I got my behavior from). Once she was in a manic state and tried to rob and bank when it was closed then ran into the middle of a busy highway trying to get hit by a car. Once she tried to run her car off the road, only to realize that the guard rail was too strong for her chevy cavalier. The other four times she either tried to overdose on pills or tried to suffocate herself. Each time she went in the hospital, it was the same schpiel from my father "Your mother tried to kill herself (this morning, yesterday night, this afternoon, etc...) She's in the hospital and we don't know when she'll be back." Que Grandma coming over and weeks of uncertainty and bitter children picking fights just for fun.
As soon as my mom was released from the hospital the last time I knew she wouldn't be going back. There was this glow to her that was almost angelic (later I found out it was because she had just received electro-shock treatment) but I tried to believe she had a revelation of some sort and God was bringing her back to us, to mother us and love us. To cuddle with us and read us bed time stories. To bathe us and slather us in Curel and wrap us in fluffy terrycloth robes.
My mother ended up receiving electro-shock treatments for the next year. Once every six weeks. I truly believe those saved her life. She still takes anti depressants, but has never tried to kill herself again. She's never been hospitalized and she's able to lead a normal, very productive life in her community.
I make it a point to slather myself in Curel whenever I go visit her. She still has a pink fluffy robe for me, too.
I did the latter.
Let me preface this by saying we have a huge soaking tub. It's so big that I'm able to fit myself, my husband, and Libby and Lucy in it at the same time. Usually that's what happens, two, three or four of us get in the tub and quickly soap up together to get the day going. But today was different. Today I started out being selfish and running a bubble bath for myself.
I lit candles (Midnight Path from Bath and Bodyworks-my favorite scent ever), put on some Train, and brought out my thick terrycloth robe with the duck appliques. I filled the bath with bath salts and of course bubbles...all in my favorite scent. I set out my favorite body butter for after the bath, much like the icing on the cake. I slipped in, let my head fall back on the bath pillow and closed my eyes. By the time I opened them it was 7:10 and the water was tepid, at best. When I got out I scooped a big scoop of body butter out of the tub and stood in the mirror rubbing it all over myself. I don't know why I stood in the mirror. I guess the egotistical part of me likes to see me naked. The real part of me likes to see my naked baby bump, which I paid much attention too during this rare ritual. After I was lotioned up, I combed my hair and put it up in a messy bun since I knew I wouldn't be moving much from the bed today. I wrapped myself in my fluffy duck robe and sat back on the bed. At this point David turned to me and said "Hey stranger, I thought you might have left me for another man." Without missing a beat I said, "I did...Pat Monahan. He had my heart at Meet Virginia." :)
There's something about slathering myself with lotion and wrapping myself in a soft robe that brings me back to my childhood. My mother often bathed my sisters and me all at the same time and once we got out she slathered us in Curel and wrapped us in big fluffy terrycloth robes. Pink for me, Blue for Ashley, and Green for Amy (all of our favorite colors). I have no idea why she used Curel, but it was the only lotion ever allowed in our house. Whenever I use it now, the familiar almost non-existent scent brings back fond memories of bath time and my mother's hands.
She had somewhat rough hands, with always trimmed bare nails. When my sisters and I were younger she stayed home with us so there was a lot of dish doing and child bathing. As soon as my younger sister entered the first grade she went back to teaching (which used to be her profession until becoming pregnant with my older sister in 1984.) She was the happiest she'd been in a long time.
In actuality, her stay-at-home-mom days were few and far between. She had bipolar and once my younger sister was born she was in and of hospitals until I was in the 6th grade. She tried to commit suicide 8 times, often running away in her car before hand to (in her words) "lessen the pain for her girls". I was a selfish little kid and was mad at my mother for being what I thought was "crazy". I was mad she couldn't come video tape me during parent's day at dance class. I was mad that she almost missed my 10th birthday, but she got out of the hospital that night. I was mad that me and my sisters were different, our mom wasn't there all the time and since our dad worked, we had to ban together.
Don't get me wrong. My mother was amazing. My sisters and I always had amazing birthday parties with mounds of presents. We had great Christmases with wonderful food and fresh baked cookies. We were, in fact, what looked like a normal suburban family. We were very good at keeping our problems behind closed doors.
I was 5 when I first remember my mom trying to commit suicide. She took my dads gun and locked herself in her bathroom. I didn't know it at the time, but I sat on her bed waiting for her to come out to put my hair in curlers. I had no idea she was sitting in the bathroom with a gun, ready to end her life. When my dad, my grandma (who lived 30 minutes away) and our local priest came into the room I knew something was up. So I went into the room that I shared with my older sister and put myself to sleep. I remember putting one sole curler in my bangs. When I took it out that next morning it didn't curl my hair, it just left a big crease in the middle. I decided a big blue bow would look good so I pinned my bangs back and waited for my mom to take me and my older sister to school. That's when my dad told us what happened. His words still ring in the back of my head to this day. "Amy, Amanda, your mother tried to kill herself with my gun last night. She's in the hospital, and we don't know when she'll be back."
I'm sorry, but what kind of parent tells their five and seven year olds that their mother, the person they relied on the most, tried to kill herself? I'm still angry at my dad for using those words and seeming so nonchalant about the entire situation. And I was even more pissed that my Grandma (my dad's mom, my mom's mom lived in Arizona at the time) came over that morning and coddled me and my sister and said "It's okay, grandma's here, I'll be your mother when your mom is gone." Shut the fuck up, lady. You're not my mother. You're old, wrinkly, and smell like someone poured and entire bottle of Estee Lauder Beautiful all over you. You may make some mean pierogi's but you sure as hell aren't my mother and I'd take her hamburger helper over your pierogi's and kolacky's any day.
Like I said above, the last time my mom went in the hospital was when I was in the 6th grade. Every time she tried to kill herself was different. Twice she slit her wrists (where I believe I got my behavior from). Once she was in a manic state and tried to rob and bank when it was closed then ran into the middle of a busy highway trying to get hit by a car. Once she tried to run her car off the road, only to realize that the guard rail was too strong for her chevy cavalier. The other four times she either tried to overdose on pills or tried to suffocate herself. Each time she went in the hospital, it was the same schpiel from my father "Your mother tried to kill herself (this morning, yesterday night, this afternoon, etc...) She's in the hospital and we don't know when she'll be back." Que Grandma coming over and weeks of uncertainty and bitter children picking fights just for fun.
As soon as my mom was released from the hospital the last time I knew she wouldn't be going back. There was this glow to her that was almost angelic (later I found out it was because she had just received electro-shock treatment) but I tried to believe she had a revelation of some sort and God was bringing her back to us, to mother us and love us. To cuddle with us and read us bed time stories. To bathe us and slather us in Curel and wrap us in fluffy terrycloth robes.
My mother ended up receiving electro-shock treatments for the next year. Once every six weeks. I truly believe those saved her life. She still takes anti depressants, but has never tried to kill herself again. She's never been hospitalized and she's able to lead a normal, very productive life in her community.
I make it a point to slather myself in Curel whenever I go visit her. She still has a pink fluffy robe for me, too.
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