What a day, What a day.

I awoke to my phone singing “When I’m 64“. The Son was still asleep on his Daddy’s pillow next to me. We ignored it. Then the home phone started to sing at me, “Let me call you sweetheart“. It was obvious that he was not going to let us sleep in. I answered and feigned alertness. “Sure! I have been up for hours! Hang on.” I spit out my mouth guard I clench at night.  The Son woke up, “Hi! Mama!” The Husband was not in the mood for adorable toddler chatter. “My car is dead.” Insert your four letter word of choice here.

It has been a good little car. One of the two of us has used it to commute 45 minutes each way for the past six years. Since February The Husband has nearly 20,000 miles on it with his new job. Our plan has been to drive it into the ground from which it came. Hopefully that is not today.  We are kinda broke. The Husband’s tuition is due this month and we were having issues getting it together already. It turns out that last year (When I worked full time!) we made too much money to qualify for financial aid, and they do not care that The Husband is now the sole monetary provider for our household. You may again insert your four letter word of choice.

The Son and I skipped our usual Monday morning routine of the library and play group to wait around on The Husband to let us know how we should transport the poor, dead car home. So we waited…and waited….And waited. Finally just at the time The Son goes down for a nap, The Husband pulled up in my mom’s borrowed car announcing…let’s go! We drove to the busiest highway in the busiest part of our bustling capital city, parked on the shoulder while praying we would not be hit. The Husband could not figure out how get the little dead car onto the trailer. So we draped a quilt over the front end of TheHuckablazer and I gently drove directly into the rear of the little dead car. It worked! I was able to push little dead car up onto the trailer and then watched The Husband strap it to the trailer with gum and hair ties. Still no nap. Maybe you should choose a new four lettered word this time.

We were supposed be at a photographers at five to have The Son’s two year old pictures taken, since my photographer moved to Las Vegas. So to clarify, we were covered in car ick, The Son was extremely tired and cranky, and we were two and a half hours away from the photographers at 3:30. Anybody see where this is going? Crap is just not strong enough.

We came home and The Son was bathed, in PJs and asleep by 7:04. The Husband shoveled some food in his mouth and turned right around and went back to capital city for class. I am watching yet another SATC and catching up on my favorite blogs.

Hupdates

I am down to the teeniest tinest dosage of Lexapro possible and the ughs are back.  Dizzy? Check.  Nauseous? Check.  Tired? Check.   The computer screen is whirling around, so I went to post a really cute post I wrote ages ago about my bridesmaids….and it is gone.  Poof, the computer gnomes ate it. So I was going to post pictures of our trip to the zoo….and I could not look at the screen long enough to re-size them for the blog.

In an effort to get some fresh air and try to clear out the cobwebs in my brain, I suggested we give the  Olympics (The Son call them the Dum Dum Dums because of the music) a break and head outside.  I know, a family project!  How about we clear out the weeds over in our side yard.  The Husband will chop ‘em down, and The Son and I will tote them to the curb.  I knew it was bad when I heard him curse.  My husband NEVER curses.  Not even Damn.  Or Hell.  Or Bitch.  (Obviously I have no problem with the aforementioned vernacular).  As The Husband was cutting bushes around our air conditioner, he accidentally cut a wire instead of a branch.  Damn! Hell! Bitch!  We may be having a cool summer, but it is so not noneedforAC cool.  He has been scurrying like a little mouse (a sweaty, pissed off mouse) from the attic to the garage to the yard to Lowes and back again.  And….I just heard the AC kick back on.   YAY!  My Husband rocks!

So, that is why you are getting a cobbled together, barely coherent post today.  Now, I am off to bed to seethe about the silver on the uneven bars. SO.FREAKING.UNFAIR.  I need sleep, tomorrow The Son and I have to get up early to drive Grandpa to Capital City to get the bandages off from his corneal transplant he got today.  Your prayers are most welcome.

Our Brothers’ Keepers

My brother is exactly three years and one month younger than me. If I squeeze my eyes tight and try to remember my very earliest memory, it is of my dad holding me up to peer through a cloudy pane of Plexiglas at a smiling nurse holding my downy-headed brother. My second memory?  Waking up from an afternoon nap in tears because I had a dream (napmare?) about my little brother being “really sick”; of my mom holding my hand as we tiptoed through the blue and red nursery to peek at him peacefully dozing in his crib.

My entire cognizant life I have been an older sister. I would be lying to say that we never fought, that I never did anything cruel, that I never wished I was an only child. However, every single happy memory I have of my perfectly nuclear family of origin includes him. I suppose I thought he would be present for all of my happy adult memories too, but that is naive. He is an adult. He has his own life, a life of which we are just a teeny part, a life I cannot force him to share. The big sister in me wants to tell him what to do, to tell him to get his brilliant, snarky ass back in college, to not partake in nicotine, to call his mother. Do I want to be my brother’s keeper? It would appear so.

I met my brother-in-law almost seven years ago, of course he was not my BIL then, he was just J.

He was just emerging from a dark time in his adolescent years, and had come to live with his four year older brother, my adorable new boyfriend, to “get his life together”. The first night I was introduced to J the three of us talked for hours in their tiny, oh so gross, apartment. My big sister gene immediately kicked in. As The Husband and I got married and settled into our new matrimonial bliss, J would come over almost every day and camp out on our couch. By this time he was every bit as much my brother as JHJ. We moved towns; so did he. We still saw him several times a week while he was in school, he would be there anytime his brother wanted to have “guy” time, anytime he was sick of dorm food, anytime he missed us. I slowly, but surely, started to spend more time with my BIL than I did my brother…and I noticed. Did my brother? Is that when I stopped being a confidant?

Now that BIL and JHJ are both bona fide adults, they do not seem to need us as much. Or, they do not let us help as much; no more subsidizing emotionally, physically, financially as we once did. The Husband feels this loss as keenly as I do, he has the same “keeper” urges as I do, he loves them both every bit as much as I do. The worst part is that one of our brothers lives less than a mile away, but the span is the same. Miles or despondency, the results are equal. Both of these grown men do things that make The Husband and I want to bang our heads against the wall with irritation and consternation, do they feel that way about us? Is it a singularly elder sibling affliction?

When do you let them go? Have we waited too long? Do we wash our hands and act as though we are merely acquaintances with a shared past history? Do we spend Thanksgiving reminiscing and cordially asking to pass the potatoes? Is it too much to yearn for the relationships we once had, that of dare I say, friend? Is this part of those growing pains that should have happened to us in our teens? Did we both come from such close families that it makes the gulf smart all that much more? Is this an argument for a sibling for The Son, or against?

A matter of faith.

Last night at VBS, the lesson was about Peter and Jesus walking on water, and the bible point was “Jesus gives us the power to be brave.” Do you know how hard it is to tell an eight-year old to just trust and have no fear? On Sunday the sermon was about the lilies of the field. God is clearly trying to tell me something.

I have written a little bit about depression and the reason I am on Lexapro. After seeing several different doctors and therapists, the crippling anxiety and hypochondria I was suffering was diagnosed as depression. I did not feel depressed. In fact, I never have. I did not cry for no reason, or not want to get out of bed. There were, however, days when I would spend hours upon hours googling symptom after symptom. There were nights, when I would clench my teeth so hard in my sleep , when I woke my face would be swollen. I would ask The Husband to take me to the E.R., ask my friends if I looked like I was having a stroke.

Before The Son was born, and when I had my last serious bout with what we now know was depression, I was CONVINCED I had a brain tumor. People may laugh, in fact I had a very dear friend make fun of me for some of the things I came up with. You just cannot understand what that kind of anxiety feels like until you have had it. To me it was real and serious and I was going to die before I got a chance to do anything with my life. It was my worst fear. Why was it my worst fear? I have grown up a Christian. I believe in eternal life, I know I am going to heaven. Yet the idea of dying young scared me so bad I would have panic attacks and think I was having a heart attack. I slowly worked through it, dealt with all of the grief and major changes which happened to me in such a short amount of time, and had several years where I never once thought I belonged on an episode of Medical Mysteries.

After The Son arrived in all of his blobby wonderfulness, I did go through a period of slight baby blues, but it was really not that serious. Then one day I was reading an article about Andrea Yates, the woman who killed five of her children. Bam! I was petrified of snapping. Snapping and hurting my baby. This is confusing, even for me, but I never wanted to hurt The Son. I never felt like I was going to hurt him, but I was afraid something would go haywire in my brain and cause me to harm my son. It was my new worst fear. It would cause me to not only lose him, my sweet darling baby who I loved beyond comprehension, but all of the other people whom I love at the same time (I cannot tell you how much our families love The Son, there is not a doubt in my mind he is the single most precious thing in about a dozen people’s life.) There would be no forgiveness or support for me if my nightmare came to fruition. There was something scarier than death now.

Instead of googling symptoms, I was reading in depth psychiatric papers on women who kill their children, trying to figure out what was different between them and me. I would try to keep myself out of situations these women were in (mostly lonely, isolated, over worked, poor). At the height of this fear, I was scared to be alone with my own baby. What if? What if I somehow went crazy too? For those of you wondering, women who are AFRAID of hurting babies NEVER actually harm their kids because they understand it is horrific. That is a BIG difference. Women like Andrea Yates do not understand they are doing something wrong. It may sound sick to you….and it may be what keeps me from hitting publish on this post, but I feel a lot of compassion for those women. They needed help and did not have the support system I have.

I was able to put words behind my fears and get help, both psychiatric and medical. I was suffering from a pretty common (COMMON! Why do we not know about this! Why is it not in What to Expect When You are Expecting? On the cover of Parents magazine? ((this is why I probably will hit publish))) form of PostPartum Depression. I took meds. I talked it out. I stopped trying to be a square peg in a round hole career wise. I got better. Now I am down to a microscopic dose of the drugs, and damn it all to hell, the anxiety is creeping back up on me. This time I am worried about being a good enough parent, or what would happen to The Son if something happened to me. I am handling it much better, it helps to know what your real problem is and makes it easier (but not easy) to rationalize your anxiety.

Why do I feel afraid at all? I am living the American Dream people! I am madly in love with my husband, and he is madly in love with me. We have a healthy, darling, happy child. We have a nice roof over our heads, plenty to eat, two cars that run (and one that doesn’t), and we get to spend time with each other, our family, and friends. We not only have a wonderful biological family, but a church family just as special. I know God has blessed my family and I with all of this, so why can’t I just trust He will continue to bless us, and stop the fear already? Am I such an immature Christian? Am I going to be forced to live my life on drugs because I cannot just let go? Will I pass this horrible gene/habit on to my fearless, faithful little boy? I am praying this is just a side effect of withdrawal, and once it all leaves my system, I will be brave. I understand Jesus gives us the power to be brave, I am just not sure I know it yet.

Hupdates: the excuses post.

Thanks for hanging with me through my light posting this past week, ready for a secret? I am slowly weaning myself off of Lexapro. I have been on it for 15 months now, and most of the things that were causing my anxiety have passed. I hate taking drugs, and they do have some side effects that I could live without, so I am going to come of off Lexapro over a two month period. I hope to be fully drug free by The Son’s 2nd birthday.

Since I have now had two separate episodes of serious depression/anxiety ( the other was when I was in Grad school when we lost three relatives in a four month period), according to my doctors I will probably have another one at some point. If I do, then they will recommend that I am on some kind of SSRI for the rest of my life. I will just cross that bridge when I come to it. If I come to it.

You want to know what some of the super cool side effects of coming off of this drug is? Sure you do. No? Well I am telling you anyway.

• General malaise
• Chronic lethargy
• Crying spells
• Dizziness accompanied with “electric brain zaps”. (By far, the most persistent symptom for me)
• Irritability and unreasonable aggression
• stomach upset

It is pretty hard to look at the computer when the room is spinning. I hope that my body will adjust quickly, but it may be a rough couple of months. If you are a praying kind of person, then feel free to add me somewhere towards…oh, let’s say the middle of your list.

Also, The Son and I have crammed in as many hours with my Ma (maternal Grandma) and cousin Gabby as possible while they were visiting this week from KY (the state, not the jelly). Gabs, The Husband and I took The Son to a water park on Wednesday, and had so much fun. I brought my camera and never even took it out of my bag. I tried my hardest not to think about all of the germs running around rampant, or that we were walking barefoot in a puddle of candida infested sludge in the locker area. In the land of a thousand tears (aka the Toddler Zone) I turned a blind eye to the sagging swim diapers of thirty rude children. The Son loved it, and was having a grand ole time til his daddy scooped him up and stomped off after having watched our baby get shoved for about the twelfth time. He cried, but a float in the Lazy Cesspool cured him. Half way around he decided he needed to Nur-Nur. I tried to assuage him, but he would not be pacified. So I popped out a breast and nursed floating by dozens of teenagers. The Husband was mortified. I was….kinda proud of myself, and kinda wishing he was weaned. I do not think any one noticed, but they could have.

On the fourth we went to my parents house (all the way down the street) and were joined by my grandparents, Ma and Gabs, and MMiL and FFiL! We feasted on baby back ribs, fresh corn, baked beans, seven layer salad, fresh bread, home-made ice cream, blackberry cobbler, fresh peach shortcake and gallons of sweet tea. We then all rolled ourselves up the hill to the country club to watch fireworks, and see the people behind us sit in a sprinkler zone! All in all, a lovely day. All that was missing were our baby brothers. The Husband and I agree that sometimes it sucks to be the oldest.

I have switched the ads so that they have to be approved by me before they are published on the site, hopefully that will get rid of the mail order wife ads.  I am sorry if you were hoping to find an Asian subservient bride here, you will just have to try somewhere else.

One last update. It is in regards to my son’s toilet habits, so if that kind of thing does not interest you, then move along. He has used the potty 100 times! He received a special truck (instead of a car) sticker, and then got a Hot Wheels truck thingy (the name painted on the side of the truck? Big Dump. Make your own joke). The three of us shouted and clapped and danced around the five square foot bathroom. Being a parent rocks. Who needs Lexapro.

Huckablubber Update: week four of six

Eh. Why is this so hard? Why do I have no self control when it comes to eating healthy and exercise? I am not an idiot. I know that if you eat crap you will be fat and sick. I understand that if you never get up off of your ass you will be tired and stiff. I still choose ice cream over veggies. I still pick a nap instead of a walk. I want to win a Zune! But I won’t. Because I make unhealthy choices.

I thought, “Hey, Hey You, if you publish your intentions on the internet, then you will have a ton of people holding you accountable.” It does not work if your support system brings you ice cream, or makes you banana pudding, or wants to take a nap with you, or comes to visit and brings a ginormas bowl of cookies. Why does my social circle always revolve around food? Why do we invite each other over for dinner instead of something else? Is it everyone? Or are there people out there that do not focus around food the way we do?

I guess this is the week of our contest that finds me feeling dejected. Dejected and lazy. Dejected and lazy and fat. Does anyone have a pep talk for me? Is everyone feeling this way? Maybe I should just go finish off the Phish Food.

Two weeks to go.

To Whom it May Concern: Getting it off my chest.

This is one of those “therapy” posts. It may just sit in my drafts box indefinitely. Maybe not. Feel free to skip it and move along.

To Whom it May Concern:

You have hurt me. Even worse? You have hurt US. We all embraced you with open arms, we loved you, we gave to you all that we had. You took and took and took and We kept on giving.

When I found out about you, I was thrilled. I was on your side. I pushed others into accepting and loving you. I thought we could be more. I thought you could fill a hole I thought we had. I gave in every way, and defended you….to others and to myself. When I caught on to your game of take, take, take, and I stopped giving so freely, you cut me out. You tried to make me the bad guy. You tried to separate US. Luckily we are stronger than you.

Now you are alone, separate by your own choice. That would be fine, good even, if you were not trying to take one of US with you. I am terrified of the hole that will be left if you succeed. Physical distance we can handle, but cutting all ties would leave a gaping wound that no amount of replacing or substituting could heal.

You have gotten so much from US. You can make it on your own, and we have nothing left to give you, you rejected our love and respect, and it will not be re-offered. At least not any time soon. I guess time matures everyone, you….and I included. Will you stay long enough to find out if there is nothing in it for you?

I am responsible for the emotional well being of someone who all of US love. I will not let the acid, the bile, the miles, hurt him. Have you not noticed he was even missing from your life? I can assure you that is a loss, a monumental void.

I would tell you to get lost already, to leave US all alone, but I think that some of US are kinder than I am. And I care about hurting them. So I will keep my mouth shut, go through the motions, and hope pray for a change.

Sincerely,

Hey You E. Disappointed-Huckablog

Death on toast

We are sick. SICK! I started throwing up at about 11 last night, then the fever, then the aches.  Now the Husband has quickly followed.  I think that it is safe to say that we either have rotovirus, ecoli, food poisoning, or most probably cholera. We sent The Son to his grandparent’s so we could thoroughly spread the germs around.  Hopefully we will feel better tomorrow.  Anyway, posting will be light until we feel better.  Be nice in the comments section, because I am not monitoring them.

A change, a change would do you good. (or so says Ms. Crow)

Guess what my darling husband is doing right now?  Designing the new and improved TheHuckablog! We are in the middle of a complete redesign, one that will let me do a lot more, one that will be able to handle our new found traffic, and one that may be able to pay for its self.  We maaaaay have to take this site down for a couple of days to get the new one up, so be patient if you visit one day and are all “whaaa? Where did my daily dose of The Son go?”.

Now is the time to let me know if you have any suggestions for making this a better site.  So you tell me, what can we do for YOU?

ofFENCEive behavior

Remember how I told you all about the fence I got for Mother’s Day? It was also my/thehusband’s anniversary gift to each other. It is WOOD after all. It will also be TheHusband’s Fathers’s day present. Oh, and his birthday present (he is going to be twenty-ten). So as you can guess, we paid a lot for this fence, and while The Son is an awesome boss, the pay (and sometimes the hours!) suck. Basically this was a big deal for us and I wanted it done right. Right I tell you! Now I have been told that I am bossy (ooh great blog you should check it out), I know that I am demanding, but I really am not a heartless bitc–ehh–witch. (for you Mom–smooch). I understand that you have to take breaks when you are working outside. I get that a lunch break is a right of all workers. However, you know what is not okay? Being four hours late on a job that should have been done the day before, and then parking your truck in front of my driveway making me a prisoner in my house. You know what is REALLY, REALLY, REALLY not okay? Taking an hour long nap in my front yard as soon as you get there.

You can’t really see them all, but there are five fence guys SLEEPING in my front yard. And that truck? It has a trailer blocking my drive. This picture was taken through my front window if you can’t tell. After I took this picture, I called around to see what the best etiquette was for waking sleeping workers and telling them to get their damn (I mean darn) truck the hell (I mean heck) out of my way. The consensus was to let them take a little nap and then nicely ask them to move. Um, yeah. Not a one of them spoke English. That is fine with me, I mean my ancestors were new to this country at one point too, but I really needed to go! So through (NICE, you dirty mind you) hand gestures, I made my point, the truck was moved…a whole foot and a half. By driving on the lawn (not yours, TheNeighbor!) a little I was able to get out. They were gone when I got back. I called the main office and told them that they still were not done and about the nap and all, and bright and shiny the next morning, another crew (FOURTH one people!) finished it up.

It does look mighty nice if I do say so myself, but next time? I will, um, well to tell the truth I don’t know what I would do different, what do you think I should have done?