Well so far I seem to be doing okay today, even though by the time I finish writing this it will technically be tomorrow. Unless of course I type like Speedy Gonzales and get this done before midnight. Which is really, really unlikely considering I feel like his cousin, Slow Poke Rodriguez.

Today was a better day if only for the reason that it was so crammed full of stuff to do that I didn’t have time to think let alone have a minute to be sad about anything.

My day started at the crack of dawn, literally. Though I really shouldn’t complain, because with SAJ and Bug here I could have just as easily been woken up at 4:15am. For some reason my adorable little niece gets up earlier and earlier. We figured no nap and a later bedtime would help her sleep in, but no, of course not. Poor Brenda kept her quiet in the bedroom with Rapunzel asleep next to her so the rest of us could sleep. While it wasn’t necessary, it was appreciated.

While Rapunzel got ready for school, I laid on the couch listening and watching all that was going on around me. I even got to watch the sky change colors as the sun rose. If I had been a little more motivated I would have made the coffee, grabbed a blanket and my knitting, and headed outside to knit and watch the sunrise. But me and motivated are not words you are going to see in the same sentence. Well, not unless they have the word “not” between them.

I guess there is one advantage of being up before the sun, the sunrise. I miss the sunrise. I miss the feeling of wonderment that comes with the dawning of each new day. It’s been so long since I’ve really seen a sunrise. I’m pretty sure the last one was when we lived in Illinois. It was so long ago that I can’t even remember what it was like.

Watching the sunrise, well, what I could see of it through the dining room window anyways, left me feeling a little melancholy. It was great to watch the colors change and watch the day grow brighter and brighter, but the feeling of wonderment just wasn’t there. I still thought it was beautiful, but the feeling of a new day with so much that could be done just wasn’t there. It really sucked.

I am literally having to force myself to get up and moving by 8am. And I mean force as in if I sit down somewhere even remotely comfortable, like on the floor, I am asleep in about two minutes. And since I only have the chairs at my kitchen table, one which resides at my computer when Shawn isn’t home, two bean bag chairs, two hedgehogs, and no couch, you can guess where I spend most of my time, on the floor.

Wanna watch a movie, have a seat over…..well, anyplace really. Just don’t expect me to stay awake. Poor SuperChic fends for herself most mornings. Rapunzel is self-sufficient and doesn’t need help most of the time, but sometimes when she leaves SuperChic is awake, and they don’t wake me up. I get out of bed to check on her and she’s dressed and had breakfast. When I ask her why she didn’t wake me up, she tells me I needed the sleep. She doesn’t get that whether I need the sleep or not, I’m the Mom and I’m supposed to take care of her, not the other way around.

Hopefully, in the next two weeks I’ll start to feel like I’m taking care of my kids and not that they’re taking care of me.

Anyways, this entire post was basically supposed to say that I’m on the meds, um, I meant mend. I’m trying to get used to the meds and I’m praying that they’ll work and that when they do maybe everything will be a little brighter.

I really don’t want to walk around all day looking dopey and saying that everything’s great all the time. I just want to be able to say I’m okay and really mean it.

For those of you wondering where “Step One” is it’s right here.
So, yesterday was the second step. Yesterday I spent approximately 2 1/2 hours at the doctors office.

This is what I learned.

1. People stare at you, then look away, when you knit and are not over the age of sixty.

2. People stare at you more, then look away, when you spend the two hours in the waiting room browsing eBay with your husband and knitting at the same time.

3. People really stare at you, and don’t look away, when you start discussing different calibers of ammunition in the waiting room. When you hit six, they look at you with an, “OMG how many gun’s do these people own???” look on their face.

4. I weigh more now than I ever have including when I was pregnant.

5. 164 pounds if you must know.

6. Watching the Super Bowl commercials is a good way to distract yourself once you’re in the examination room waiting for the doctor.

7. Watching the Super Bowl commercials and knitting at the same time not advised unless you like to tink. (Knit backwards.)

8. When you tell your doctor that the only time your cycle has been what others consider “regular” was when you were 12/13 or on birth control pills.

9. When you tell her your “regular” is 14-17 days. Her eyes kinda bulge.

10. When you tell her it’s been that way since junior high she, “hmmms.”

11. When she asks how you keep from getting pregnant when you cycle so often and you answer, “I had my tubes tied when my youngest was one, I was 23 almost 24;” she stops writing and turns around to look at you.

12. After that she isn’t phased when you say two kids, six pregnancies, and I was high risk and on bed-rest for the last two pregnancies.

13. At this point I get the standard, let’s run some tests, see what we can see. Blood work, urinalysis, and ultrasounds. Lucky me, I get to have two different kinds of ultrasounds to take pictures form the inside and outside.

14. The questions you’re asked to determine if you require medication are kinda odd and mundane. (I am also offered a prescription for 800 Mg. Ibuprofen, or something stronger, but I don’t remember what for the pain that accompanies my cycle. I decline. Four OTC ibuprofen is fine.)

15. You can’t downplay how things have been at home when your husband is sitting next to you. Which is why he is there.

16. Hearing, “how do you feel about anti-depressants?” and wanting to say no-way-no-how means you weren’t prepared for the doctor to put you on meds, even though you knew it was likely.

17. Walking out with appointments to see the vampires, an ultrasound tech, directions to be back in her office in two weeks, and eight weeks worth of Lexapro samples still blows your mind over 24 hours later.

I love my girls, really I do. If you asked them they’d say yes they know that I love them, and then they’d roll their eyes at you. As much as I love my girls I don’t always love being a mom.

Now don’t get me wrong, I do love being a mom. It’s something I always wanted to be. When I was little I would tell my Mom that I was going to have kids, but I wasn’t going to have a husband to boss me around. Obviously Shawn changed the last part for the better.

So just for you, and in all honesty me too, here is a list of what I hate about being a mom.

Not having any privacy. With my girls being almost 11 and almost 6 1/2 you’d think they’d realize that I don’t need help getting dressed, going to the bathroom, or taking a shower.

An hour before dinner time hearing, “I’m starving and I can’t wait.” Translated that means, feed me in the next five minutes or you’re going to wish you had blinders and noise canceling headphones. At this point I grab a bs chicken breast throw it on the foreman and whip up chicken quesadillas, no sauce. That last part is important. When served with about 1/4 cup of sour cream it makes a semi-healthy meal. The problem with this is that SuperChic picks out the meat and leaves the rest behind while Rapunzel cleans her plate, sour cream included.

Laundry. I know, I know, I have to do laundry whether I have kids or not. My problem is that I can’t keep up. A few weeks ago I washed and folded (getting it all folded at the same time is huge) ALL the laundry. Shawn and the girls even put it all away for me. Fast forward to five days later and SuperChic has no clean clothes. You know those shows where the kid goes through their clothes item by item looking for “just the right thing” and everything that isn’t “right” gets chucked? Well that’s what SuperChic does. EVERY DAY. I can’t keep up.

Cold feet and hands. I hate it when the girls climb in bed with me and put their cold hands and feet on me, because they don’t just put their hands on my arm. Oh no, they lift my shirt and put their hands on my belly or back or in my armpit. Talk about waking up quickly and unhappily.

Homework. I hate fighting with the girls over doing their homework. Even if I stay calm, they end up in tears. Let’s just say I get lied to on a regular basis about the amount of homework. What’s worse is when I’m asked for help. I don’t mind helping, that’s part of being a mom, but I am not going to do your homework for you. Oh, and if you ask for my help and I tell you what you need to do, don’t tell me I’m wrong.

Finding food, everywhere. I’m not a huge fan of letting my girls starve so I don’t get why I find half eaten pieces of fruit/sandwiches/crackers/etc. all over the house. I hate cleaning their rooms because I’m always afraid of what nasty thing I will find. Oh, and the hidden stashes of candy wrappers. Those are almost as bad, because I never know where I will find them. DVD cases, between pages of a book, inside rarely used bowls high up in the cabinets, inside pillow cases, inside backpacks/folders, and thrown inside the covered cat box. At least they’re not sticky.

Whining. Oh how I hate whining. SuperChic has it down to an art. She even knows when she’s doing it, because if you tell her to stop using her “Whiny Voice” she does.

Tattling. This has been what precedes most of SuperChic’s conversations lately, “I’m not trying to get Rapunzel in trouble, but….” Ugh, it’s annoying.

Lying. When I ask them who did something and they both say “not me.” When I ask them, I know it wasn’t me, and Shawn isn’t home to have done it, that really narrows down the list. Once I asked if Tito did it and they both said yes. And they wonder why I don’t always trust them.

Puke. I can handle dirty diapers without complaint. Puke on the other hand, I hate. I clean it up after everyone. Me, Shawn, the girls, the cats, the dogs. The only pet we had that didn’t puke was fish. When the girls are sick I cover their pillow with towels and give them an empty trash can. It’s easier to rinse out the can than scrub four feet of carpet.

Repeat. If I could remove that function from Rapunzel’s cd player I would. I hate listening to this over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. I get that you miss KK, but listening to “your song” over and over will not magically bring her back to California.

Lack of personal space. Just because you’re standing next to me doesn’t mean you have to be touching me all the time. You don’t like it when I do it to you, don’t do it to me.

Fighting. With two firstborns I deal with this a lot, and I don’t always deal with it well. Especially when in public. I get that you both want to sit by me, but I am going to pick whichever kid that will cause the crying to stop the fastest. Which usually means SuperChic sits by me, even when Shawn is home. Lame, I know.

Arguing. Everything I say merits argument. EV-VER-RY-THING. It’s time to eat dinner = what are we having? = chicken = I’m not eating that = Yes you are. Go to bed = it’s not my bedtime yet. No you can’t have/do _______ = but you (insert Whiny Voice) promised.

And Finally, the zinger. Realizing that my girls are just like me.

So what do you hate about being a mom?

I don’t even know where to start with this post. There is so much going on in such a small space and it’s all yelling at the top of its lungs, “Pick Me! Pick Me! NO, not him! I said PICK MEEE!!!!”

So if you’re looking for a happy cheery post about how wonderful Bug’s birthday was, check here or here. (Though they probably won’t post until tomorrow or possibly Monday, because we’re all pretty tired.)

The last week has been really hard on me and I don’t even know why. Shawn came home on Monday instead of Sunday for the second week in a row, but he didn’t have to leave until Wednesday, so it’s not like I was shorted in my allotted time to spend with him. We even got one of the things I wanted to do done. SuperChic’s cat Snap had four kittens last Saturday while we were at a friend’s house. So I now have four cute little furballs and their proud mommy living under my dresser. You’d think all that would cheer me up, but it hasn’t.

This week I’ve found myself breaking into tears for no reason. And I really mean no reason, not they’re-so-stupid-I-just-can’t-tell-you reasons. The latest incident was today. Imagine a house full of happy, smiling, laughing people, and all of a sudden you break into tears. Luckily I realized it was coming and left the room just in time, as in I turned the corner and the tears started flowing. If I’d stayed in the chair even two seconds longer I would have started blubbering in front of everyone. The last thing I needed was a room full of people staring at me asking, “Okay then. What’s up with her?”

Because then Bren would have had to follow me from the room to find out what was wrong and would’ve spend the rest of the day worrying in the back of her mind. That is not what I want. Though writing this post is definitely going to cause the same reaction.

This is not the first time I’ve had this happen. The last time was the Summer of 2005 and we had to move back to California because of it. Imagine getting a phone call at work from someone crying so hard they can barely talk and then all they can say is, “I can’t do this anymore.”

What does that even mean? I didn’t want to die, though I often wondered if Shawn, the girls, and everyone would be better off if I just disappeared. I didn’t know where I would go or what I would do, but I felt as if I were useless.

I’m starting to feel that way again.

I guess.

Sort of.

I think.

I don’t even know how to describe what and how I’m feeling. I don’t know what’s causing it and I don’t know how to stop it.

I’m the person that people talk to when they need to talk. I’m the one that you can call at two a.m., because your husband is leaving you. I’m the one who’ll drop everything and come help you move even if I really don’t have time, because I’m laying flooring and all my furniture is in the kitchen. That is who I am. I’m a shoulder to lean on, an ear to listen, and an advice-giver. I can talk you through anything. I listen well and see things that you don’t but others do and won’t tell you.

I am not the person who cries for no reason. I am not the person who needs someone to talk to at 2 a.m. I am not the one who needs a shoulder.

But suddenly I’m finding out that I am.

There have been so many things that have gone wrong in my life, but there are also so many that have gone right.

I was sexually molested by two different people at two different times in my life. Both between the ages of 7 and 10, both times by people I trusted. Neither of them were family.

The first time was by the son of my parents’ friends. He was 13 or 14 years old. I told, no one believed me, and it kept happening. He moved, it stopped, but I was now sleeping in the same bedroom where it happened. I was there for 8 years.

The second time was by a friend’s grandfather. I was in the fourth grade. I told, my dad beat the crap out of him, and he was never left alone with his granddaughter again. In the fifth grade we watched one of those stupid videos and I freaked out. The cops were called, but it had been over a year. I was more freaked out after talking to the police than I was before.

My dad was an abusive @ss. I don’t know when it started, but until I was in 11th grade I don’t remember a time when he wasn’t that way. I told others about it, but no one believed me. He only beat me and my mom. My sophomore year I ended up with a concussion and he went to jail. When he came home he made my life a living hell.

My junior year, I fell in love. We’d become friends the year before and started dating the first few weeks of my junior year. I lost my virginity to him a week or so after I turned 17. I was dumb and in love and desperately needed someone to want me, and he did. When I got pregnant the following spring he said it wasn’t his, but couldn’t tell me whose it could possibly be. After talking, yelling, and lots of pressure, I had an abortion in July 1996.

He left for Colorado the day before the procedure, which should have been a clue. I stayed with him through most of my senior year. I say “most” because my dad kicked me out of the house when I came home after staying out all night the week before Valentine’s Day 1997. (Though it actually was innocent. I was at school volunteering with the Rotary club, of which I was VP. My mom got sick and couldn’t come get me, and my boyfriend’s mom’s car was in the shop. I tried everyone I knew. No one could take me home and my dad refused to come get me.

We broke up at Easter.

I met Shawn at the end of April 1997. We got married May 22, 1997. Everyone thought we “had” to get married.

I got pregnant in August 1997. Rapunzel was born May 21, 1998—the day before our first anniversary.

Early Summer 2000 I miscarried.

October 2000 pregnant, December 2000 miscarriage, a week before Christmas.

February 2001 pregnant. April 2001 we move to Illinois. May 2001 I go to the ER with heavy bleeding. July 2001 we find out the baby is a girl, and she has Trisomy 13. She is not expected to live. August 2001 I go into labor. I give birth to an angel, Ashley Elizabeth. We bury her the following week.

February 2002 pregnant. I have a level-2 ultrasound and an amniocentesis. July 2002, I find out it’s a girl, and she’s healthy. August/September/October 2002, I’m on bedrest. November 22, 2002 SuperChic was born.

I had my tubes tied when she was a year old. She was number six, and another pregnancy would probably kill me. I’m ok with that though. When I look at a little baby, or a pregnant friend I get that all-too-familiar ache. But when I look at my family I don’t feel like there’s someone missing.

With everything that’s gone wrong in my life I should not be happily married to a man who not only loves me, but worships me. I should not have two beautiful daughters that love me unconditionally. I should not have in-laws that I don’t call “in-laws” but Mom, Dad, and Sister. I should not have a niece who loves me so much that she cries when I leave. I should not have friends that I can call and talk to and hang out with.

Based on my history, what I “should” have is a drug addiction, a husband who beats me, and kids who hate me for doing to them what was done to me. I should have in-laws that never want to see me and wish I weren’t around. I should have non-friends who ignore my calls because I’m a loser and they’re tired of me and my crap.

When I compare what I do have to what I “should” have, I am astounded. Statistics show that people like me don’t get the happy ending, yet I have it.

So why am I so sad?