32 Things To Do Before 42

August 19, 2010 at 9:55 am | Posted in I's for reals, Me myself I and me again | 2 Comments
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(Inspired by moosh in indy‘s forty by forty post.)

(She’s lovely and candid and I have a half-dozen listings that she has because don’t we all?)

 1… get a passport.

2… settle on a business name and run with it.

3… teach Evan to read.

4… sell my work.  Print it, frame it, exchange it.

5… plant a vegetable garden (and ya know, not kill it).  Actually cook/eat veggies as opposed to letting them rot on the dining room table.

6… renovate something (successfully!) in my home.

7… go on a huge anniversary trip with my husband.  Preferably, somewhere where you have to fly over an ocean to get to it.

8… go somewhere spectacular just to shoot with photographer friends (and I mean another country spectacular). 

9… take Evan to Disneyworld.

10… make NICU bags for parents of new preemies.  (Kinda like these)

11… write a children’s book.

12… get a present from Tiffany’s in a Tiffany’s box. 

13… pay off all my debts.  (And not acquire them again)

14… make a couple more attempts at talking my husband into another child without driving him into the mad house. 

15… create Evan’s family tree.  (An comprehensive one and a beautiful, handmade one)

16… start a new family tradition.

17… photograph the Aegean Sea and Islands and surrounding countries.  (Maybe combining with #7 or #8?)

18… read a series of books of historical accounts and the origins of the major and minor religions.

19… create a legal will.

20… loose 30ish pounds.

21… change someone’s mind to the better.

22… stop drinking pop altogether (or Coke if you’re from Georgia) / (or soda or soft drinks if you’re from other places).

23… host Thanksgiving dinner and cook everything from scratch.

24… have a surprise party (but someone else would have to throw it because I would know and…nevermind).

25… take Evan camping.

26… adorn my walls with photographs everywhere.

27… raise $5,000 for the March of Dimes ($945 down, $4,055 to go!)

28… host a kick-ass party.  One where you watch the sun rise before you head to bed.

29… stay at a super swanky hotel.  Eat at one of their super swanky restaurants.  Order lots of room service.

30… photograph the stars with an open shutter.

31… participate with Evan in a charity event every year.  Each year something different.

32… have my portrait done.  Like it.

What’s on your list?  Not only what you HAVE to do but what you WANT to do as well.


June 30, 2010 at 3:09 pm | Posted in I shouldn't have even posted this, I's for reals, Me myself I and me again, Pain | 2 Comments
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So.  This post has been sitting in my draft file for-evah.  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to post it for 3 reasons.

  • There is a lot of cursing involved.
  • There is a lot of talking about lady bits and their malfunctions.
  • No one likes a complainer. 

Here are the reasons I posted it anyway.

  • The cursing is APPROPRIATE for me in this post.  Besides, I have a feeling no one really fucking cares about it anyway.  Damnit.
  • My lady readers are not weirded out by lady bits.  If they are they need to make friends with their lady bits.  My male readers are way too hardcore to be weirded out by a little bit of lady bit talk.  (If I’m wrong?  YOU’VE BEEN WARNED)
  • My knee-jerk?  I’m not complaining.  But, alas, there is some bitching going on here.  However, awareness is good as in “Hi!  I’m Endometriosis!  I want to get stabby!  Let’s be friends!” and “Yes, I say I’m fine but I am in a lot of pain but you really don’t want to hear about it because you’ve heard it before or you’re more comfortable with talk of flesh wounds.”  Also? I just HAD to get this off of my chest and out of my draft file.  Close or read on:


Endometriosis (from endo, “inside”, and metra, “womb”)

You know what’s supposed to be inside my WOMB, Endometriosis? A baby. My womb is supposed to be a warm hospitable enviroment in which to grow a child.

And the misnomer, by the way, is a dick move. YOU aren’t even INSIDE my WOMB. You’re all outside of it… on my intestines and ovaries… hidden in corners like a little bitch.

You disguised yourself for years. Deceiving doctors and making me loopy with pain then making me question it. If no one can find anything, am I really in pain? Am I THAT much of a pain wuss?

You didn’t show yourself until they opened me up and looked you in the eye. Burnt you. You hid and grew some more.

Then, just to trick fuck you, we conceived our baby boy. You hadn’t invaded my tubes yet and you didn’t make me infertile like you do 40% of us.  (You are such an asshole)

Suddenly: Bliss. No pain.
He arrived and I was feeling fine until now. Now you’re stabbing me and whispering in my ear:

“I’m rotting your insides”

 “The pain’s not going to stop”

“Are you sure you should take another pill?”

“You’re going to have to get all your insides ripped out.”

(That last was said all sing-song like, the prick!)

But you know what I’m really tired of?  The way you’re making me feel.  The way I’m letting you make me feel.  The sadness about a choice: hysterectomy or not – it could help (COULD being the operative word here) (Operative being the intentional pun there).  I don’t always get a choice when it comes to depression but right now I’m putting myself there.  I’m opening the dark closet and pointing the way. 

Fuck. That.

You know, Endo, you’re just pain right now.  Good, old-fashioned pain.  WHOOP-TEE-DO!  You couldn’t even kill me if you wanted to.  I’ve known LAUGHTER with a higher mortality rate. 

So you know what I’m going to do?  I’m going to do what I always do with irritating bitches such as yourself.  I’m going to ignore you.  I’m going to roll my eyes at you when you’re at your loudest and quietly be proud of that accomplishment.  I’m going to label the bottle of  pills my “STFU ENDO” pills. 

That’s right Endo, SHUT. THE FUCK. UP.

I’m getting down on the floor and playing with my son.  I’m going to get out of bed and spend time with my family.  I’m going to run.  I’m going to gracefully live with your pain.  And the next time I see you in the operating room?  I’m totally going to kick your ass.

I was in pain here. See how my son's knee is jammed against my ovary? Ouch. WORTH IT.

Birthday, Doctor, Roseola and LAS VEGAS!

April 14, 2010 at 12:28 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I shouldn't have even posted this, It's OK to be confused... I am, Love and all that other mushy stuff, Me myself I and me again, The Others | Leave a comment
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Here is your last few week’s summaries of stuff that has been going on because for once things have been going on and I haven’t been here to tell you and I’ll try not to ramble on and on and on.  (Damnit.  I fail.)


1st – The first of the month is a hectic time at work for me.  It’s delicious.  I have a big fat list of things to punch out and I love playing the work horse.  Also the first was Evan’s daycare Easter party and I had a dozen little eggs ready to go.  I should have known the night before that we were in trouble.  Evan was fussy and started getting feverish and Wayne called at about 8 or 9pm to tell me he got a flat tire on the way home from fishing.  So while my husband was on the side of the highway changing his tire in the dark, I was struggling with bedtime and an ill toddler.  The next morning, Evan’s fever was at about 103 so I had to call in ‘Kid Sick’ to work.  I miss the 1st of the month and Evan misses his party.  I did get a lot done around the house.  Eventually however, Evan was getting ultra-cuddley.  Like, I would be standing on a step stool and he would climb up just to wrap his arms around my leg… or I would be washing the baseboard and he would lay his head in my lap.  Finally I took him to cuddle on the couch and he fell asleep.  I went back to cleaning and when he woke he was ON FIRE!  Well, not literally kinda, but his temp was over 105!  Panic Mommy in me wanted to run him to the ER or something but Level-headed Mommy saw that he was not acting sick… just a little uncomfortable.  All night we were dosing him and making him sip water and trying to cool him off. 

2nd – He woke up fever-less.  I took him to daycare and went into work.  Mid-day, I got a call that he was getting the fever back.  Bummer.  Wayne’s sister got in town that day from West Virginia and we were really excited to see her.  I picked Evan up and we went to Wayne’s Grandmother’s house.  He still had a fever and he was cranky, but OK.  Right before we went to leave, he started looking really unwell.  I picked him up and as we were saying our good-byes, Evan became a fountain of vomit.  3 times.  Right after a bottle.  All over himself, me and Grandma’s kitchen.  Wayne changed Evan, I changed me and Grandma & Sister cleaned up the kitchen.  I felt awful for everyone. 

3rd – My birthday.  I turned [inaudible] on this day.  Evan’s fever was down and Sister was still in town, so we went shopping and out to lunch.  I spent the day fearing that Evan would become a fountain again.  He did not. 

4th – Easter Sunday.  Evan’s fever was gone and when he woke up we sent him downstairs to inspect his Easter basket. 

He had a little rash on his neck.  I figured it was from the fever or something along those uneducated lines.  By the time we got to Grandma’s house the rash was really kicking in.  It covered his belly and back.  He didn’t seem bothered by it.  He was still cranky.  A cute little sourpuss.



5th – Back to daycare, back to work.  Evan still had the rash but Ms Di was OK with him hanging out.  Mid-day she calls and thinks it may be Roseola.  I call the nurse and she says to come in for an appointment.  Sure enough: Roseola.  Too bad it’s one of those ass backwards viruses that are all contagious but completely UNcontagious once any sort of symptom appears. 

6th – The rash is still hanging out.  I’m stressed because we are leaving in 2 days for Vegas.  As in LAS VEGAS but with child.  My bestest fabulous friend Stephanie is getting married on the 9th and we are all flying out to join her.  Packing, or more-to-the-point OVERpacking.

7th – Evan is being a complete asshole  butthead  boogerhead.  A cute asshole  butthead  boogerhead that I adore and love and is my pweashus! wittle! baybee!… but a temper tantrum throwing, inconsolable baybee as well.  Ms Di says the word EAR and I place the word EAR with AIRPLANE THE NEXT DAY and call the nurse AGAIN.  Nurse says EAR and APPOINTMENT and we head to the Doc’s office AGAIN.  Evan’s mood is improving by then and by the time the doctor walks in the room Evan is ready to great him with a full on smile.  “So, what’s up?” Doc says.  (As I’m editing… HAHAHAHHAHAHAAH!!!!1!! ROTFLMAO!!  What’s Up Doc.  I SLAY me)  “I’m here because my kid is super grumpy” I deadpan.  Evan giggles.  My god.  Sure enough his ears might-just-be-looking-a-little-pink so let’s-get-him-on-antibiotics-right-away because of the airplane situation, you know, TOMORROW.  I spend the evening packing up the last of our stuff as my husband is out buying stuff he needs last-minute, which is good because if he didn’t I would wonder what the aliens did with my REAL husband.  Wayne’s last-minute like that. 

8th – I work until noon and head home to load the car and button up the house.  Then I go to daycare to pick up and pajama-clad Evan.  He gets strapped in and we drive the hour and a half to Wayne’s work.  We pick him up and quickly dash to the airport.  And it’s a damn good thing we did because I would hate not to arrive 3 hours before the flight takes off.  SIGH.  Evan runs UP the terminal and BACK to DADA over and over and over. 

The flight goes OK and I have to switch this over to the

9th – because we are landing in Vegas and it’s now the 9th.  Just to sum that up for you.  We get checked in and get up to the hotel room.  And Mandalay Bay has no milk located in the miles and miles of its sin city acreage and I would say that they shouldn’t… they should have vodka and NOT milk because it’s VEGAS and not DISNEYWORLD but you would be SHOCKED at the amount of children I saw there.  Even that late.  Half of them weren’t even drunk.  Wayne ended up walking across the strip to an AM/PM for a gallon of milk and a cooler.  It worked.  We sleep.  We wake. 

We get together with THE BRIDE.  We pool.  Evan hates the pool.  I get ready.  I taxi to THE BRIDE’s hotel.  She get’s ready.

I capture gorgeous bride.

Stranger takes picture of us.

We wait for non-english-speaking limo driver that is lost.  We hop in the limo and head to the LAS VEGAS sign.  Wayne is there with a passed out Evan who is awesomely so cute in a little white shirt and tie.  We push through the masses and I listen and watch as THE BRIDE becomes THE WIFE.  It was beautiful and I know she’s so happy.  Then we are all back in the limo and smushing and drinking champagne (well, except for me cause its icky and Evan because he was asleep.  I’m kidding, he was awake but I didn’t have his sippy cup.  I kidding, I had a sippy cup with me but I was too lazy to take it out, so no champagne for him.  I’m kidding for fuck’s sake.  I’m not lazy.)  We arrive at dinner and are greeted with MEAT on a SWORD.  I casually grab a diaper and some wipes to go change Evan and find no changing table.  Restaurant is attached to hotel/mall – walking everywhere to find restroom with changing table – back in my seat lots of minutes later.  After the noms on a stick, Wayne and I and Evan head out to catch a cab.  Did you know that you can’t catch a cab on the strip unless it’s at a hotel?  We did and yet we started walking anyway.  OMG.  Ouchy-foooty-ouchy.  Hubby crying about shins in his splints or something.  Evan chillin’ in the stroller accepting hooker cards being handed out by non-english-speaking over aggressors.  We walk from the Planet Hollywood hotel to Mandalay Bay.  OMG. 

10th – By today we make it back to our room.  We pass the hell out.  We eat.  We pool.  Evan still does not like the pool.  We meet up with THE WIFE and THE HUSBAND and THE BEST MAN.  We go eat.  (Did I mention that Wayne has a couple in him?)  Wayne is kinda drunk.  We go to a restaurant that has a GINORMOUS BURGER that they will give you for free if you can eat it in 5 minutes and 20 seconds.  Wayne is down for it.  I am mortified.  Evan’s getting cranky.  I leave early to get Evan situated and eating.  Wayne comes back all WHOA BIG BURGER and falls asleep.  I meet THE WIFE for FROYO and wish her a pleasant flight home.  I go to bed at a decent hour.

11th – Our last day in LAS VEGAS.  We eat and do touristy things. 

We head to the airport.  4 hours early this time to shake things up.  Evan falls asleep and

12th – we are mid-flight home.  Wayne is headed right into work so I am on hold EVER HEAVIER baby during flight and don’t let him kick neighbor and baby is only comfy if you are not.  I turn into ZOMBIE.  We land in Metro Detroit and I drive Wayne to work.  I drive Evan to daycare.  I drive my ass home and sleep.  Sleeeeeep.  Opps.  I mean, Bwaaaaaains.  Eh, I’m so confused.

Things are all sorts of normal now.  Getting prepared for the March for Babies walk.  Then 4 days later flying to Arizona and then 4 days after I get home from that flying to Florida.  On Mother’s Day.  Without mah baybee.  Again.  Something to whine about on another day.

Hey there, thanks for reading the whole way through, you one person you!  I have a unicorn for you.

This Is My Brain On Metaphors

November 10, 2009 at 12:29 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I have unleashed the crazy, I shouldn't have even posted this, I's for reals, Love and all that other mushy stuff, Me myself I and me again, Rewind, The Others | 2 Comments

Years and years and years ago my mind was a mess.  As you remember I’m Bipolar.  I was always depressed and never consistent with my medication (if I was even taking it).  Like a lot of people with similar issues, I had what some call “suicidal ideation”.  I had an out.  I had a plan.  It was like my morbid little teddy bear… if things got hairy I could snuggle up to that.  Things weren’t so bad if I always had thatThat was also my little secret.  Not many knew of my plan and those that did never knew about my back-up plans.  I could tearfully confess that my teddy bear was there, destroy said teddy bear with the confessee and proclaim absolution, smile and grab other teddy bear out of hiding.  Safe. 

You might not understand how safe it feels to have a plan.  On the outside looking in, things may not seem that safe at all.  Life is precarious on a hair trigger (That would have been HILARIOUS a few years ago).  You spend days terrified that something will set off your loved one and the plan gets carried out.  It’s terrifying to think about.  But to me… it was safe.

Why the hell am I talking about suicide?  Well, because things have changed for me.  And things have not changed for a lot of other people.  Things may not have changed for you.  But it can.

This was my mind during the time of the teddy bear:


Confusing and loaded.  There was nothing in there that told me, “Ya know Amber, that’s kinda fucked up.”  And anyone that would say that (and many people did)… it just wouldn’t get processed.

Then Wayne came along.  My husband is NOT a bullshitter and he certainly isn’t going to tell you what you want to hear.  ESPECIALLY when it comes to this.  He told me that if I committed suicide he would not go to my funeral but he may drop by later to piss on my grave. 

The hell?

At first I was kinda pissed.  I’m fragile, damnit!  Kid gloves, sir!  His view was that he loved me.  He wanted me around as did a couple other people (heh), he said it would be selfish to do such a thing.  And then I thought about people being pissed off at me after I was safe and felt like shit. 

At long last my teddy bears were gone.  Not forgotten, but not there.  Wanted, but not an option.  At first I felt trapped.  Then I felt safe… with him.  He became my Permanent Marker.  He covered up some of the confusion and disaster in my mind.  It was still there, but I really couldn’t get to it:


A few more years crept by and my biological clock was ticking JUST! LIKE! THIS!  Then this guy came into play:


I knew that of course there would be no more thoughts.  No more plans.  I “knew” it like I “knew” getting cut in half for him wasn’t going to hurt.  I convinced myself of it.  I was a big fat FAIL if not.

Evan came along and suddenly things changed again.  He was my Eraser:


Poof!  It was gone.  ALMOST not even there.  But there’s some residue left behind and I’m glad for that.  I need to remember what it was like to feel that way.  I need to try to recognize those souls that are cuddling with that teddy bear when I’m not looking.  And, I guess, I had to tell you.

(There’s HOPE and HELP.  This is a good resource: http://www.preventsuicide.us/hopeline-new/)

(Will you find a Permanent Marker or better yet, an Eraser?  I don’t know.  I hope so.  That’s what you should do too: HOPE.)

Pneumonia, Fails and Puppy Dog Tails.

October 7, 2009 at 11:34 am | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I's for reals, It's OK to be confused... I am, Me myself I and me again, The Others | Leave a comment

Happy Reunion Day!

It’s been so long I feel like a need to throw one.  I’m going to get some punch and balloons.  I’ll be the fat girl in the corner wearing the ill-fitting dress.

So September is over.  Life isn’t shiney… nor is it ever, but I’m not feeling particularly stabby either so that’s good.  Here’s your run down.

The flu wore off and by the weekend I was wanting to get out of the house.  Thinking that some walking would do me good, I took Evan up to the mall.  Half way through I was wheezing.  “Fuck.  I’m REALLY out of shape.” I was thinking.  Monday morning I could scarcely breathe and I left work for bed.  By the time I had to pick Evan up from daycare I was in really bad shape.  I almost called Carrie to ask her if I could drop Evan off with her so I could visit the ER.  However, I didn’t know if I could even do that so I toughed it out.  Later Evan was having a hard time getting to sleep because the mommy-machine wasn’t singing to him.  He’d lay his head down on my chest and then pop it up and give me the WTF face, “Sing Rocking Lady!”  Oh well.  Pneumonia goes away and I hope it never comes back.

This past weekend I took Evan to the Renaissance Festival.  He was too adorable.  His Grandma bought him a Jester’s costume and he got his face painted.  He also discovered that HE LOVES PICKLES.  (Must find more ginormous pickles)

Picture 2744

Picture 2747

Picture 2756

Picture 2762

Picture 2764

Evan’s grandma later springs for a Psychic reading.  I’m afraid I didn’t hear all that she said.  Something about writing a book.  Being more confident (Read here and here about how cold readings are done). 

Then she flipped over a card and looked at Evan.  “Is he your only?”


“You’re going to have one or two more”

“Ah. No.  My husband doesn’t want another and I got sick with him.”

“Oh.  OK.”

Then she flips over another card.  “Are you sure?”


Then she flips over another and another.  “BE VERY VERY CAREFUL!  If you are not planning for another, be careful of an opps baby.  The last 4 cards have been fertility cards.”

I ooze my need for fertility, people.

In related news, the Psychic’s son was named Evan and she got sick with him too.  And Evan’s going to be a doctor.  Obviously, he oozes smart.  I could have told you that.

And the McNamara household would not be the same without some sickness going on.  My 11 year old dog, Angel is sick.  She has a condition called Addison’s Disease and is currently in a Addisonian crisis.  It used to be Cushing’s Syndrome, but the vet overmedicated her for that and she got the opposite, Addison’s.  Every 23 days we have to take her into the vet for a steroid shot and every night she gets a steroid pill.  Last year when I had Evan her shot went by the way side (she was due about the time I had Evan and that info was written on my calendar at work).  She got really sick after about a month without her shot.  She had to stay at the vets overnight for fluids.  This time she was about 2 weeks late (Flu, pneumonia, and a husband working nights).  She also hasn’t been to the groomers and is WAY overdue.  Well, she got sick fast.  She should have some leeway and she got none.  She’s at the vet getting fluids now and she’s still not doing well. 

 [if ((DOG = SICK) and (ME <> FULL PAYCHECK)) then “Extremely Screwed” else “Can pay bills only”]

Our other dog Homee is extremely pissed at the situation and showing it by pissING all up in the house.  This combined with money and poor little sick dog never seeing fair hubby is very stressful.  Throw in the fact that I had to block my Visa because some dumbass stole my number and used it online?  Let’s just say I am well within the right to double the Ativan.  AND I HAVE.

September (part hopefully-the-only-one)

September 18, 2009 at 12:39 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I shouldn't have even posted this, It's OK to be confused... I am, Me myself I and me again, The Others | 1 Comment

I would like to start today’s blog post with a big EFF YOU to September.  You’ve really lived up to expectations, September.  I’m not close to death like last year but YOU STILL HAVE A FEW WEEKS.  Try not to be a douche, September and chill out. 

Anywho.  It’s been a while, I know.  They say with depression you don’t want to do the things that you normally like to do.  So that means I love you Blog!  Except today apparently.

Yes, the depression has rolled in with September as it normally does and I do believe I’m handling it pretty well.  Although it’s hard to tell what with family drama and my son’s first birthday and the flu and Evan being sick and my Grandmother’s cancer diagnosis, it could be justifiable white flag waving – closet hiding – exhausting sadness.  Humm.  Let’s just say it’s probably a combination of both. 

I’m not standing in a gray room longingly staring out a window as my dog expectantly holds a leash in his mouth looking all disappointed with his puppy dog eyes.  Depression’s hard to make pretty for a commercial, y’all.   It’s just things inside.  It’s stress and fatigue.  It’s hopelessness in the face of hope.  It’s jumping half heartedly to reach your optimism before you say, “Fuck it” and sit.  It’s disorginization while you’re trying to think of positive steps and you forget your footing. It’s this paragraph: Depression just doesn’t make sense.

September started with planning a first birthday party for Evan.  Joyful, right?  Noooo, stressful!  Who is invited?  Who’s not speaking to whom?  Who the hell did I invite?  Who did I send an invitation to?  Who was a throwing a birthday party for?  Oh yeah, right.  This little light of mine:





Seeing Evan is like taking a Xanax.  You’re all: WTF was I all worried about?  Everything’s OOooooo Kkaaaaaaaaaeeeeee.  (You should only take Xanax with a prescription which I have.  Or if you really trust your drug dealer.)  Just knowing I’m about to see him lights up the dark.  I’d sell bits of Evan to all the sad people out there but he’s mine and I wuv him and I hear there could be a legal issue if you dismember children and do business without a tax id. 

So then I got a call from my Grandma.  When she was in the hospital she said they thought they saw something in one of her kidneys.  She said they were going to do a scan.  They scanned, they did a biopsy.  She said it was cancer.  She forgets the name.  (This is one of the major suckages about living on the other side of the country).  Then one day I say something about kidney cancer.  She says that her sister had that.  I say, well maybe it’s hereditary.  She says, it’s not in my kidneys.  I’m all, WHA?  Nooooo, it’s in her lungs because of course it’s in her lungs and she told me it was in her lungs and she’s a smoker with COPD and no, she’s still smoking and yes, she can’t breathe and noooo, she’s not going to do this or that because that’s stupid and I need to clean my house and stress out my granddaughter.  I know people die.  I’m OK with that.  She says she’s ready.  What kills me is my need for her to pass with dignity and without any pain.  I hear it doesn’t always work that way.  But that’s my problem and my job is to be strong for her so SHUT UP ME!

Aaaaand then I got the flu.  Swine or Influenza… I don’t know.  He shoved q-tips so far up my nose he could have collected brain and said, “Feel betta, bye now!”  So I went and spent the week watching my one year old while fighting off the flu.  Then of course HE got sick.  Took him to the doctor so he could tell me it WASN’T the flu.  And staying home from work for ANOTHER day to soothe my fevered, sleepy child with Motrin and some good old fashioned naps in the rocking chair.  He had lots and lots of naps.  The good ones where you drool.  Those are the best.

There you have it.  September still has some time to kick my ass a bit more and I’m sure she will.  But October brings fall and apples and pumpkins and leaves and cider.  And hopefully some good times.


September 3, 2009 at 2:55 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I's for reals, Love and all that other mushy stuff, Me myself I and me again, Putting on Baby Weight (Pregnancy), Rewind | Leave a comment

Our home was built in the 1970s.  Due to this fact, we have a “mirror corner”.  It covers the corner of our living room from floor to ceiling.  You can kinda see it in this photo in the upper left corner:


 You can watch yourself in this mirror as you go down the stairs from the bedrooms.

I remember walking (ok, waddling) down those stairs about a year ago with my big pregnant belly.  I’d catch myself in the mirror and unconsciously place a hand on my tummy. 

Then a short time later, Evan was born.  Wayne and I would so very carefully tip toe down the stairs.  We would clutch the hand rail in one hand and hold not-even 5 pound Evan in the other.  We would place ourselves in the exact middle of the staircase… careful not to accidentally bump his head into a wall on the way down.  We’d search the area for our little dogs, not wanting to trip on them and hurt the baby.  I remember pausing on the steps.  I remember seeing a small fold of blankets in my arms as a gingerly inched down the stairs after my c-section.  He was so tiny.  You could scarcely see his face poking out of the swaddling blanket.


Soon after I was walking confidently down those stairs as I watched how natural it looked for me to be cradling an infant in my arms.  I didn’t need a handrail.  Even the dogs knew to run down the stairs if I shouted, “GO!” 

Months would pass I would see myself walking down those steps as I had Evan on my hip, tickling his side while we bounced down the stairs.

And again as I clutched a heavy sleepy Evan against my chest with his arms around my neck.

I pause on the steps and look into that mirror and realize that in a year Evan will be crawling up and down those steps on his own.  I can see myself waiting and watching at the top of the steps as he slowly makes his way down. 

I know in the future I will see Evan running up those steps to his room to go play.  I can see him running up those steps to slam himself into his room because he’s mad at me.  I can see him rubbing his eyes as he stumbles down the steps in the morning for breakfast.  I can see him missing a step one day and me kissing his boo-boo as he cries.

It’s not easy to swallow the fact that this baby is going to be a kid one day.  A kid that can walk and run and talk back to me.  It’s hard to imagine that one day I won’t have to carry him down those steps.  One day he won’t want me to carry him down those steps.

One day I won’t be able to carry him down those steps.

Birthday Watch 2009

August 24, 2009 at 2:41 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I shouldn't have even posted this, Me myself I and me again, Putting on Baby Weight (Pregnancy), Rewind, The Others | 2 Comments


There are just two of them left until my baby is a full grown man that goes to bars and college. 

OK.  Maybe not.  I have 2 weeks left that I didn’t have with him last year.  Two weeks until Evan starts to roll his eyes over stuff I show him because he’s BEEN THERE, DONE THAT before. 

“Looky at the pretty colors of autumn.  See how the leaves are changing color?” 

“Duh, Mom.  Saw it last year!”

And don’t say, “YAY!  Evan’s almost as year old.  w00T!”  Because if I was excited and happy about it I would be all LOLzies up in this bitch.  But I’m not.  No LOLs just some big, fat 😦 s.  😦s all around.  Because not only will Evan practically be living on his own in a couple weeks, but I won’t be a mother to a baby anymore.  The mother with the tinsy sleeping infant in Target will smuggly say her daughter is just 5 days old and she won’t even bother to ask me how old Evan is because HE’S OBVIOUSLY AN ADULT.  You loose smugginess after your baby turns one people and you all know how much I LOVE MY SMUGGIES!

So let’s turn back the clock shall we?  Let’s look back a year and she what I was arrogantly doing at the time when I thought I had a month and a half before the baby was born when I really had just 14 days.  LET US LOOK DENIAL IN THE FACE.

  • I sent an email to my coworkers with pictures of newborn Lilah who was born just days before.
  • I was on my weekly Tuesday/Friday doctor schedule and tearing up over my modest amount of vacation time remaining.
  • Wayne and I had our last birthing class.  We learned infant CPR.  The previous classes were deemed “the-other-word-for-homosexual” by my lovely husband who announced it in his “quiet voice” during pretend contractions.  THANK THE LORD GOODNESS that I didn’t have that labor stuff because Wayne was the only husband in class not to rub my back while we practiced relaxation techniques and then bitched about how much his knees hurt while in various labor positions… (are we getting the irony here?)
  • I was writing a mundane blog for MySpace telling the world that I was FREAKING THE FUCK OUT and worrying that:
    • I had less than 1,000 hours to go (in reality I only had 336 hours). 
    • the nursery was not done.  (SURPRISE FORMER SELF!  The nursery was JUST COMPLETED.  You’re welcome). 
    • the baby was going to go to daycare.  Wayne and I were seriously thinking about me staying home.  (Oh silly FOOLS!  SURPRISE FORMER SELF!  Wayne was laid off most of 2009!  Way to think about stopping your only income!)
    • I was having too many Braxton-Hicks contractions and my finger tips were getting all hurty from the blood-letting.
    • We were name-less.  Wayne was suggestion-less.  I was name-full.  Other family members were suggesting-other-names-and-not-liking-our-name-full.  Things were about to get bloody.  (SURPRISE YET AGAIN FORMER SELF!  You’re going to have to look at Wayne all confused while your insides are hanging out and the baby is taking his first breath when the doctor asks the baby’s name.  You’ll be like, OH YEAH! HE NEEDS A NAME!)

OK… enough of that.  I’ll continue to wig out on my own time and spare you yours.  Until my next freakout of course that I’ll have to share the with internets OF COURSE.  And when he turns that year number when he’s no longer a month number and you are unable to locate me, I will either be rocking in the corner of a closed, dark closet or replacing my birth control pills with sugar pills and practicing my surprise face.

And oppsies… almost forgot to give you a piece of the birthday baby. 



August 6, 2009 at 10:42 am | Posted in I have unleashed the crazy, I's for reals, Me myself I and me again | 2 Comments

 I always question my diagnosis of Bipolar.  I’ve been inked with the stamp of BIPOLAR II.  This is a fancy name for serious depression with cycling hypomanic episodes. 

I often wonder if I actually have manic moments or if I could just have depression.  Then I remember that time I spent all night brush-scrubbing my white painted walls with Clorox bleach and then WIPING all the walls with a cloth with Clorox cleaner and finally wiping the walls down with water because the smell of bleach was thick and then vomiting because FUMES!  By 3am the apartment was aired out and I was pacing and freaking out because the walls were cleaner than the floors.  So I put away the ladder and got down on my hands and knees and cleaned those with a brush.  Then I used a tiny toothbrush for the grout whose bristles wore down to half their original size by the time I was done and then I threw up again because BLEACH IS THE ONLY THING THAT CLEEEEEEANS!  I’ve taken out drawers and polished the backs of them because don’t they get dirty too?  OF COURSE THEY DO. 

My manic episodes usually consist of irritation (to put it oh-so-delicately), speed-talking, being an extrovert when normally my idea of a party is reading a book in bed by myself and needing everything to be JUST SO.  My manic times also refuse to believe in the magic of AMBIEN and 5 of those motherfuckers will not quiet my brain enough for sleep.  And you know those hospital dramas where someone is all crazy or spazzing out and a doctor yells out, “Ativan, STAT!”?  I take an Ativan every night and when I’m manic I keep taking them until I go down which can sometimes be about 48 hours.  Dozens of those little pills won’t make the mania go away. 

Not to say I’m some sort of monster.  I’m quite normal.  Thanks to my miracle doctor, Dr A and some good old fashion tough love from my husband and myself.  I’ve been on the same meds for years now and I take them religiously.  You might see me cry or I may clean your house but you won’t see the crazy. 

But I can feel it.

Especially now.  August marks a yearly decline in my own little private roller coaster.  By September, I’m normally think in the muck.  The funny thing is that I don’t usually recognise it.  Every year without fail, (except last year while I was pregnant because, let me tell you, an occupied uterus really made all the bad shit go away), I make a frantic call my Dr A’s office to schedule an appointment right now.  I’ll burst into his office worried sometimes crying and always saying the same thing, “It’s getting bad.  I can’t figure out why.  I’m not sleeping but I go straight to bed when I get home and I can’t get out of bed in the morning.  I’m always crying, I’m being a complete bitch to everyone.  I’m having panic attacks all the time.  I can’t concentrate or remember anything.  I’m hurting.  I’m sick.”  Dr. A will stare at me for a moment and deadpan, “It’s August.”  Oh.

This year I’m at the top of the hill bracing myself for the plunge down.  I’m forcing myself out of the house by scheduling my free time in advance.  I’m holding myself accountable for every move I make.  I’m staring at my son who depends on me.

Picture 2592

I’m so lucky that I have found the right combination of tricks that help me cope.  A good base of medication.  A few prescriptions for emergency only.  A husband that understands the disease but still doesn’t put up with my shit.  An awareness of my emotions and what actions they cause.  A knowledge of what’s happening to my body that I can refer to when I get unreasonable.  And most importantly, I hold myself accountable for my actions.  No matter what state of play my brain chemicals are in.  No matter how bad I’m hurting I do everything I can to minimize the effect it has on those around me. 

But don’t get it twisted, I’m hurting none-the-less.  Those little tricks I have?  They take the edge off and make the crazy invisible to the rest of the world.  I hope.  It took a looooong (all those ooo’s mean reallllly long) time to get those tricks mastered.  Yet every year I’m terrified the depression is going to go deeper than the tricks. 

It’s an uphill battle I always face while I’m going down.

Photo Phriday: Puweshus Momories, we haz it.

July 17, 2009 at 11:20 am | Posted in I shouldn't have even posted this, Me myself I and me again, Photo Phriday, Putting on Baby Weight (Pregnancy), Rewind, The Others | Leave a comment

A year ago this week, I was an over-pregnant, sweaty, waddley pregnant woman.  I was riddled with fingerprint needle marks and had bumps where there shouldn’t have been bumps.  Aren’t preggo bellies supposed to be round and full and not have a weird flat spot up front that makes you look like you have 2 bellies?  Yeah, I thought so.  Pregnant bellies are supposed to look like this here:


Carrie and I had a dual maternity photoshoot.  She shot me; I shot her.  Win/Win you see?  Except when in your mind you are a glorious, glow-y, ethereal life carrier and it turns out you look like this:

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I’ll leave you with the ACTUAL ethereal mommy-to-be (Carrie) so you can cleanse your WTF palate:



And just how are we going to take a group shot… hem-haw… WE ARE GENIUS!


OK. OK. One of me.  Combo of Carrie and Evan making me look good:


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