It Takes a Village

Apparently, it takes a village to raise me.  I am grateful for the outpouring of support from friends near and far.  I cannot begin to express how much it means to me and lifted me through some long days.

I am ok.  Or I will, at least, be ok.  I needed to say out loud that I felt off kilter and realize that the world does not explode if you acknowledge that you hurt where people cannot see.

Thank you to everyone for helping me see the yellow brick road again.

Thanks for reading.
LL

It Is What It Is

This has been sitting in my drafts folder for quite some time now.  Probably a good five weeks of it waiting to be edited and published for my gazillion...ok, five followers.  There has been a lot going on over the past eight days and that has changed my perspective. But I will save that story for another post.

To say I have been in a funk (and not the good kind of Funk), since Big B left, is an understatement.  I have been in the weeds quite a bit lately trying to get control over my house, single parenting, purchasing and repairs done on an investment house on the other side of the country and finding a place to live in our new duty station, three colds and one hurt back.  Yes, I know.  Some of those reek of first world problems.  I finally had to pull the rip cord and admit it.  Hi, my name is Laura and I am depressed.  Then you say, as in true 80's Sunday night TV movie where the mom alcoholic finally goes to rehab and admits she has a problem, "we love you Laura."  --I know you are probably only 25 and do not have any clue what a Sunday night TV movie is.  But there was an awesome one with an alcoholic mom/daughter, I don't remember.  Her name was Pat and she finally went to AA.  She said "I'm Pat and I'm an alcoholic."  Everyone in group responded with "we love you Pat."  That was a joke between my mom and sister and me for years.  I love you Pat.  It would make us roll with laughter. But I digress...-- 

I had the epiphany that my depression was far gone with a couple of different things happening to me : 1) A week or so ago, someone asked me how I was doing and if I had anyone to help.  I told her that I did not have family nearby.  She said, no I mean anyone?  I was not sure what to say. Should someone be helping me?  I am just a big old loser with no help, or is it that I did not ask for any?  I am not good at asking for help anyway, and I do not see that changing anytime soon.  The conversation was relatively benign.  But the expression on her face really stuck with me and the fact that I cried for at least one hour afterwards was my first indicator that I should probably be on meds of some sort.  2) The second thing that happened was someone asking me how I was doing.  I said, fine, but my faking it voice was not fully tuned up for the day.  However I said it must have sounded bad because the person touched my arm and said "ohhhh".  Like the I feel very sorry for you and I think you are actually going to fall over type of "ohhhh."  Truth:  I did feel like I was going to fall over and I almost started to cry again.  Seriously, enough of the waterworks.    

I think crying at a drop of hat and feeling mentally beat down are decent signs that I need to take a step back and get my act together.  This pit is not new for me.  It has happened several times before and happened after I had the three-footer and toothless wonder.  It is difficult to admit you are feeling emotionally unbalanced.  Let's face it, people really can be Judgy McJudgersons often.  There was a time over a month ago that I was having problems getting dinner to the girls on time.  They were not starving, I assure you.  Our sit down dinner was just always late.  I mentioned it a handful of people.  Whether they realized it or not, their first reaction was always a look of ugh, with a mouth twist, and/or eyebrow raise.  Really?  Really?  That shut down the L feelings share factory.

Things have been rough with Big B gone.  I am not asking for a medal or anything.  I am doing what I get paid for.  I am not asking for a constant string of high fives.  I am not asking for a constant string of help.  In life, everyone has their own sack of shit to carry.  I know that and I do not expect anyone to carry mine.  I only need people to know that sometimes I cry while carrying the aforementioned sack of shit.  I guess all I wanted was to stand up in my virtual group therapy session, say it and then hear everyone say "we love you depressed one."  Now let's go get the free coffee and donuts.

Wait until you read the next posting.  The girls and re-enact the movie Contagion.  It is riveting.

Thanks for reading.

LL

Love Letter to the Three Footer

The three footer turned three last week.  I tried writing down what I was feeling then, but it was so overwhelming and has taken me this long to collect my thoughts.  When your baby turns one, you think, oh my baby is getting so big.  When your baby turns two, you think, oh my baby is now a toddler and getting so big, so fast.  When your baby turns three, you realize, you have a little person who, by all technical standards, is no longer a baby.  My baby is big and is only going to get bigger.  She will always be my baby, but she is such a little lady now.  She can verbalize exactly what she wants and is working on explaining why.  She has likes/dislikes and preferences.  It made me so sad to see my baby is now a big girl. 

I cried a lot on her birthday, after she went to bed.  I let her stay up late playing with new toys and  burning off sugar from the birthday cupcake.  Our little tradition is that stays up at least one hour past bedtime having fun.  By the time she went to bed, she was pooped.  We walked to her room and I scooped her into bed like I used to before she could get in by herself.  As I laid her down, I whispered Happy Birthday one last time in her ear and sang her favorite song.  She had a huge smile on her face and said I love you mommy.  I lost it.  My baby.  My little girl.  This little person, who is almost too long to be comfortable in her toddler bed, was a newborn only three short years before.  I ended up having to do damage control because my weepiness scared her a bit.  She put my face in her little hands and said it will be ok mommy.  I know baby; I know it will.

I watched the three footer sleep for awhile that night and I watched toothless wonder.  I decided to write a note so she would know why her mommy was such a weepy mess.

I want you to grow and learn but it can be so overwhelming sometimes that my heart aches.  I am full of hopes.  I hope your day of being serenaded at music class, a picnic, playing at the playground and opening presents "with" daddy on the computer were fun.  I hope you guard your sensitive heart.  I wish I could fold you up and put you in my pocket to protect you from any hurt.  You care for people so much and that is wonderful.  But I know it will lead to heartbreak as well.  I have a feeling that your sister will probably beat up said heart breakers because she is a bit rough and tumble and loves her big sister.  I hope you know that even on the days where it appeared that I failed, I always tried my best.  I hope you understand that daddy will come back home eventually and he misses you more than he can ever explain.  I hope being three gives you the best memories and you learn more about the world around you.  I have so much more to tell you, but I will give it to you in pieces so you have something to look forward to.  Love you always, my three footer.

I cry again.  I cry every time I think about this, I cry.  Seriously, I need to get a grip.

Thanks for reading.

LL

Paging Dr. Nestle

If you are trying to take someone's mental temperature, I think a better question than how are you, would be how many times have you blatantly eaten chocolate chips from the bag in the past week? I swear it is not just me that has called upon a Rx from Dr. Nestle. There is something slightly cathartic that comes from nibbling on chocolate chips. Over the previous four days, I have eaten probably two decent size handfuls. Naturally, not as an actual handful. That would be barbaric. I have eaten them one chip, maybe two chips at a time. Eaten them while I watch TV. Eaten them while I zone out on Pinterest. It is always end of the day, or during the kids naptime. Essentially, it is always when I am not going to get caught by the three-footer. However, my habit was sort of busted up the other day. Three footer asked me for chocolate at 8 a.m. No, of course you can't have chocolate. Why would you even ask? Because it's right there. Right where? Right there! Sure enough, three-footer's finger was pointing straight at an open bag on the table. How much am I a glutton that I can't even muster the energy to close and put the bag away? Kids might as well be wandering through empty wine bottles on the floor. Same, same.

I am trying to channel my blues into something more productive or anything really that will keep my grubby hands away from that bag. Although today is grocery shopping day. I fear a jar of Nutella is calling my name...

Thanks for reading.

LL

Forced Perspective

Have you ever seen those pictures with Forced Perspective? The pictures are essentially just an optical illusion, but nevertheless, the concept still works. They look like this:

I am giving myself a lesson in forced perspective.  I have felt like I have been in the weeds for the past couple of days and I am having a hard time pulling myself out.  I can't change what is around me, but I need to see things differently. 

Yesterday, the three-footer lost something that I never should have let her take with her anyway.  It wasn't a big deal, but she would not help me look for it.  The conversation went something like this...

Me:  Three-footer, where did you put it? 

Three-footer: No

Me:  Then you know you aren't going to get it back, right?  It's lost, do you understand?

Three-footer:  I miss my card...I want my card...I.want.my.card.

Put that conversation, if you can call it that, on repeat and that was our evening.  It was not even a real toy.  It was a fake credit card on a Navy lanyard.  She forgot about it eventually, but it really bothered me.  You lost something that daddy gave you.  Daddy who is not here and is not going to be here for a a long time.  Granted, it was only a lanyard and is something that can be replaced.  In my head, it was a huge deal.  It's a lanyard for fuck's sake.  Seriously, what is the big deal?  Mommy fail.

Enter the Toothless Wonder.  She thinks it is perfectly acceptable to have a rave from 12:45 - 3:30 a.m.  A rave where you scream unconsolably at the top of your lungs.  She has always been a bad sleeper and has zero self-soothe skills.  I did not handle the incessant screaming very well, and I was heavily channeling one of my favorite books.

Somewhere around 2:30 a.m., I hit my wall.  I put TW downstairs in a playpen so she would, hopefully, not wake up the neighbor or her sister.  I went upstairs and watched part of an episode of Sex and the City that I have seen one million times.  I watched it and I sobbed.  And I sobbed.  And I sobbed.  How dare I get upset at a toddler for losing something that isn't even worth anything? How dare I get upset that a baby will not stop screaming?  I was angry at myself for how I reacted to everything.  Mommy fail.

So, it is what it is.  I lost touch with what was important and I had a phenomenal mommy fail day.  Here's to hoping I can change my perspective.  This is also known in Navy spouse land as "suck it the fuck up."  Perhaps that will be my new mantra.

Thanks for reading.

LL 

Finally getting started

I set this blog up months and months ago.  The purpose was supposed to be a way for me to write down my journey of losing weight.  HI-larious.  That never got started, so then nothing was ever added to the blog.  I have decided to start again.  Someone told me, rather disappointed, that they were hoping the blog would actually be about my crazy little family.  In reality, it will be about my family.  It is, after all, their fault that I'm fat.

Thanks for reading.

LL