LGDD and my Jen Lancaster crush

Has it really been over a month since my last blog? Wow, that's just sad. I really do need to blog more. There are plenty of witty, fabulous wordy bits floating through my head on a daily basis. The problem is I just don't sit down and write them out. I may be pregnant and the proud owner of a very energetic two-year old, but I make sure I get lots of free time. I just prefer to piss away the opportunity by knitting, sleeping, or Facebooking (the ultimate time suck). That and I do suffer from LGDD. LGDD, or Lilah Gets Distracted Disorder, is similar to adult ADD. You may have noticed my language based symptoms if you've ever tried to have a conversation with me. I often ramble and frequently start a story that I don't finish. Pair this with extreme extroversion and a filter-less mouth, and you get a lot of verbal diarrhea.

I start something without finishing ALL THE TIME. So much so that I would really like to change this about myself. Venture in my house and you will see that I am the anti-organized mom. Lots of piles and lots of clutter mixed in amongst the chattiness I welcome you in with. This is how my mind works, lots of ideas, all of them fabulous, tumbling and bumbling for their chance to come to fruition. The end result is lots of half-completed craft projects, organizational attempts that just end up with different piles shifted to another location, and blogs that just never get written. (insert sad face here).

This must change. I must blog more because a) I love to write and feel so accomplished when I do, b) people love the blog and nothing makes me happier than entertaining my friends and fam with my wit, and c) I nearly shit my pants a few weeks ago when I recieved and email informing me that JEN LANCASTER was following me on Twitter. *FYI, I don't tweet, just stalk celebrities from my privacy of my iphone*

For the record, it is not my intention to harrass Jen Lancaster until she throws me a publishing life-line. On the contrary, I do believe that we would actually be friends. Scratch that, I'm pretty convinced she and I were separated at birth. Truthfully, my ultimate goal IS to someday see my name splayed acrossed a published work o'fabulousness at the local B&N. However I wish to be "discovered" at the "right time" rather than shamelessly plug myself with half-assed work to talented authors who probably see it everyday. (At least this is how it plays out in my mind when I imagine the E!True Hollywood Story of my amazing writing career).

I think Jen Lancaster is AMAZING and I am currently gobbling up "My Fair Lazy" with shameless enjoyment and LOL while reading all the time. One could imagine my instant excitement to open my email to find a title reading "Jen Lancaster is now following you on Twitter." Not to overload my blog with tween verbage, but OMG I just about died from the adrenaline rush. Thinking to myself, "Has she seen my blog? Did it make her laugh? Does she totally want to be my friend?!?!" Unfortunately this celebration was short lived when I found out via Twitter that she follows EVERYONE that follows her. To the tune of about 11,000 or more people. Junk. That does not work for our blossoming friendship. *In hindsight it really makes sense because a) I don't Twitter or Tweet, whatever you call it, and b) I don't link my blog info to my Twitter account.*

Needless to say, if Ms. Lancaster and I are to become friends or even frenemies (let's face it, we both have very loud overwhelming personalities and it's hard to have a balanced friendship when both members are the life-of-the-party types), I need to beef up my blog and tell an accurate if witty account of my day-to-day life. I've got the ideas, sometimes the words, and need to make the time. Plus if I want to be discovered by the publishing world, this gal needs to practice all she can. LGDD or not, if you are friends with me, please start harassing when it's been too long between blog posts.

dark and light...no, pitch and bright.

A few blogs ago I vowed to complain less. Well, then I didn't blog for a while because sadly I didn't have anything good to say. I've always been very forthcoming about my personal journey with mental health issues. It's the one soapbox I'm always more than happy to get on. Depression is as near and dear to my heart as one would ever WANT depression to be. I've struggled with depression and anxiety most of my adult life (and probably earlier). Thankfully I've never been ashamed or scared to get help. Nor have I ever shied away from being open and talking about my symptoms, my relapses, my losses, my victories, my doctors and therapists, meds that I've loved, meds that I've hated, and how all of it affected me.
Just in the last month, a cold Grace brought home and kindly shared turned into pneumonia for me. I felt exhausted, drained, and still so nauseous. Every morning was a struggle to get out of bed and the day was only an uphill battle from there. It was only then I realized that I felt overwhelmed, lethargic, catatonic, hopeless, and beat down. When I announced to Rob that I was going to see a doctor for the hole I was sunk in addition to the respiratory issues, his response was, "Finally." Often times I don't recognize just how far I've fallen until I'm there.
Fast forward 3-4 weeks. A therapeutic dose of antibiotics and Zoloft later, suddenly I'm a new woman. I will stubbornly admit that I'd had the prescription for the Zoloft since my first OB appointment last fall. You just don't leave a gal who loves and thrives on Cymbalta hanging with nothing for nine months; that's just asking to take a nose dive off the edge of emotional wellness. My doc was very proactive about this and made sure I left with my prescription in hand. It was my omnipotent self that ventured into a hyper-emetic pregnancy SSRI-less with nothing more than some saltines, ginger ale, and Flintstones vitamins to try and see me through until delivery. Not only am I slightly crazy, I'm also fucking stupid.
I know better. I SO know better! In my defense, I had used Zoloft in my early twenties without noticeable improvement and moved on to try something else (under the supervision of someone qualified, of course). If during pregnancy it wasn't safe to take the drug that I knew worked best for me (Cymbalta), then why the hell was I going to bother with "something safe" that I was pretty convinced would not be working for me. If my go-to wasn't proven safe, then nothing was safe in my opinion. So stubborn and so stupid, WHY?! I'll tell you why, because I'm pregnant. Any mother would do anything and everything she could to protect her child. I want my children to be happy and healthy, but more than anything depression-free. My biggest worry is that the meds I would take now would mess with the development of their neurotransmitters and make them that much more likely to develop mental health issues. I braved Grace's pregnancy with nothing (not unscathed either) and was determined to battle through even the darkest days for this little guy on my maternal drives alone. Yeah right, tell that to my depression.
The dark takes over the light. For me the spectrum is so broad that I would even describe my best and my worst as a bright, amazing, fabulously fulfilling life versus a pitch black darkness able to void everything I love about this life. Please don't worry that I have thoughts about hurting myself or others, especially Grace. Depression leaves me voided. It is the absence of light that is so prevalent and unmovable that I feel. Cymbalta changes all of that. 60 mg a day helps me be me. It's that simple. There is no amazing superhuman emotional strength from that bottle. I have good days and bad, just like everyone else. The stark difference is that I CAN where before everything is a something I simply can not handle.
The darkest dark of this pregnancy occurred in December when I was so sick I needed to be hospitalized for IV rehydration. Secretly I longed for the baby to just go away. Life had become such a physical and mental struggle that I just wanted to be myself again. The recent memory of how fabulous life was lingered heavily on my mind, and I wanted to get back there at any cost. Now that I'm rolling through my 3rd trimester and so enamored with the son I'm going to have, I feel so sad for the me that was then. I needed help and some mental relief, it's just too bad I didn't get it until now.
In a rare moment of clarity recently, Grace and I were sitting in her room singing, cuddling, and laughing before nap time. I realized that I was happy and enjoying the moment and that I hadn't been enjoying these moments with her for a long time. It pains me that depression turns my acts of mothering into a chore. I knew I was getting myself back in that moment; my clouds opened up and there was light. Like a long overdue smile from a dear friend, there was my happiness. Pregnancy may have to ability to bring me so low, but (with a little pharmaceutical help) it is being a mother that also brings me so much joy.

Oh BOY

It's a boy. At the big 20week ultrasound we saw it, a penis. It was exciting and shocking all at the same time. It was there, unmistakable, as if to say, "Look at me world, these are man-parts." I don't know who was more excited, me or Rob. I was thrilled to be right (I had thought it was a boy) and he was grinning ear to ear at acknowledging the reality of a son. As I lay there all goopy from ultrasound gel, I thought about mother-son dancing at his wedding, toddler size polo shirts, and little boy hair cuts. I also thought about the penis. The little boy parts he would possess began to freak me out.

We left the doctor's office with our VHS tape in hand, evidence of our little boy. (It is entirely outdated technology, but my doctor is on the verge of retirement and thinks it's the greatest thing when he informs you to bring a VHS tape along to record the ultrasound findings. I had grudgingly purchased a 5-pack (because they no longer sell single tapes) to insure we would have these memories for years to come. That is, once we convert the media to a source we can actually view.) The drive home was cliche-ridden and oh-so-super-sweet. Rob teared up and gushed about how perfect it was to have one of each. I confessed that I hadn't known until that moment that this was exactly what I had wanted. As amazing as that moment was, in the back of my mind a little seed of anxiety began to sprout.

The days began to pass and news spread among our family, friends, and strangers at the supermarket (talking is one of those things I have a hard time not doing). I became bombarded with the same two questions. "Have you picked out any names?" and "Are you going to circumcise?" One of these inquiries left me a little unsettled. Unsettled by the fact that everyone wanted to know, and uneasy about the quandary regarding this newly discovered penis. Regardless if we circumcise or not, I'm starting to think it's none of MY business, let alone anyone else's.

Needless to say, I'm a little anxious about becoming a mom this second time around with the addition of male reproductive parts. It never bothered me with Grace, "cleaning out all the nooks," as people say. "Oh, boys are SO much easier," they inform me. Really? Keeping Grace's diapered bits in working order doesn't strike me as something of difficulty. There is a comfort, or ease to having a daughter. You have the same parts, she has the same parts, and it's all pretty straightforward. Now a penis on the other hand, what the hell am I supposed to do with that?? The only penis experience on my resume is of the adult consensual kind. Not the appropriate kind of behavior to bolster mother-son bonding. I know I'm over thinking this, but watching friends change their baby boys lately has got me thinking (and also feeling a smidge like a pedophile).

I will look back once this is all said and done and probably laugh at myself. While it will make for some great stories, I'm sure my adventures with the boy will be pretty standard. Mothers have been having baby boys for centuries, I can probably handle it. Just not too much handling, I don't want to get reported.

complain less, blog more...I really should

If you've ever read this blog you have more than likely noticed A LOT of complaining in the last few posts. And if you've run into me in the past couple months there is no doubt in my mind I have informed you that a) I don't feel well, and b) this pregnancy SUCKS.

Time to change my tune. I need to have more empathy or sympathy, or maybe a little of both. As fabulous as I may be, it is not a Lilah-centered universe. So I have been doing a lot of thinking, and some crying (it's the hormones). Feel free to keep reading and indulge in some of my conclusions.

Here is a bit of background, I had one miscarriage. One. It happened in November 2006. Rob and I had barely been married a year and lived in Jacksonville, FL. It was the first time I had ever lived so far from home. We had our first appointment at 9 weeks and were able to see and hear the heartbeat. The excitement of that first time pregnant is like nothing else. You are fearless and throw your heart into a future you believe is guaranteed. I was there. Two days after that first appointment Rob went out to sea and I miscarried alone in the middle of the night.

I wallowed in my grief. As my pregnancy would have progressed I would see pregnant women and imagine what my growing bump would have looked like. I tortured myself as the months passed, calculating when we would have had a newborn, and then a one or a two month old. My arms felt empty and I longed for my child.

Then came Grace. As sick as that pregnancy made me, I wanted her so badly. I imagine I complained a lot less because as difficult as it was physically, I wanted that baby more than anything else in the world. In the end it was everything and more. I had an AMAZING labor and the sweetest angel baby God could have ever sent my way. After having Grace I was able to accept my first pregnancy was not meant to be, because she was. There were no more feelings about what might have been the first time. If there was ever a baby that was meant to be, it was my Grace.

Even though I don't know the pain of multiple losses or the struggle of fertility treatments, I have friends who do. These things don't happen to "other people." They happen to those near and dear to my heart. So, as nauseous as I may feel, I am going to complain less. If this is the struggle I have to endure to have my baby then I should be grateful that I don't have it worse. I need to remember the time before Grace and realize that some of my friends or family are still at that place longing for a child.

This pregnancy does not suck. What sucks is having miscarriage after miscarriage or painful fertility treatments that take a toll physically, emotionally, and financially. What sucks is what is happening to those poor people in Haiti. Although my stomach is constantly upset I do have a roof over my head, I don't worry where my next meal is coming from, and if I need medical attention I can get it. I have the most amazing little girl that ever was and a husband who's goodness is only surpassed by the size of his heart. Everyday I am surrounded by wonderful people, friends and family. I may feel sick but that will end and I will have a precious little child because of it. I need to stop complaining when I have much to be thankful for. I need to remember that my glass isn't even half-full, it's overflowing.

belly full of ugh, uterus full of baby

I am 19ish weeks worth of pregnant. Almost halfway there. Sweet Lord, I am almost halfway there!! It has been too long since my last posting, but I will try to fill in the blanks. Things have improved, tremendously. My days are no longer spent living in the bathroom interfacing with the toilet. Vomiting doesn't happen every day, but on occasion my meals are launched into the the white porcelain bowl of disposal. This is great improvement, but does still leave room for advancement in my opinion.
My digestive system may no longer be on life support, but it still feels very much like it resides in the ICU. The slightest altercation or incident can lead to evacuation at a moment's notice. The tummy is always slightly nauseated, an ever present sour taste, and there is an overall feeling of "ick". I'm not one to complain, yeah right! I am one to complain, so my opinion of pregnancy remains the same. It is a giant load of suck.
With these improvements, I have been giving Zofran tablets another try. While they do not cure all, they can allow me to keep dinner and just scrape by with an upset stomach for the evening. However, Zofran is like the off-switch of my lower intestines. Halts the process, full stop. This leaves me having to "facilitate" what mother nature usually handles quite well. I feel like a hostage negotiator with my bowels. This often leaves me wondering if it was worth the pea size tablet I dissolved on my tongue a mere few nights before. The jury is still out with this one.
Most importantly, my outlook has changed. I still do my fair share of complaining (and then some) but I am starting to believe I may just survive this. I am also no longer paranoid that these efforts surviving pregnancy will be in vain. Whenever I hear the heartbeat roaring back at me like it belongs to a line-backer instead of my fetus, I realize that I am the one on survival mode and this child is kicking my ass from the inside out. It is oddly reassuring and leaves me with a smile on my queasy little face.

Thanksgiving beast

Fall through Christmas is my favorite time of year. Starting with September, the month to celebrate the birth of Lilah and the change to autumn, my favorite season. Cool weather, beautiful colors; the crispness of the weather and leaves add a sort of edge to life that makes things like knitting a steamy mug of something fabulous all the more cozy.
This year I'm missing out. Nothing is enjoyable when everyday is operated on survival mode and I am constantly trying to endure or distract myself from how miserable I feel. It is starting to feel like the holidays that weren't. We've canceled trips to see family, omitted treasured food preparations, and most regrettably, decided not to send Christmas cards this year. Shit, might as well cancel Christmas for Lilah.
To recap briefly, I feel ill constantly. There is an always present level of nausea/sour stomach/ taste of vomit in my mouth. It is intermixed with bouts of vomiting (3-5 times a day). This condition frequently escalates into stomach/ torso pain severe enough to wake me from sleep and prevent me from returning to slumber. This pregnancy is hell, and I am miserable.
I'm left feeling weak and isolated from the rest of the world. Lately I've been finding myself angry. Angry that growing a life feels like a long slow death. Bitter that so few other preggos feel ill to this extent and thus no one seems to understand. I am angry when Rob announces he is going running. Angry because I am jealous and have grown disgustingly codependent on my husband.
So this fall is going unfulfilled. No cool weather jogs. I'm knitting less and less these days. There is no steaming cup of anything that makes me feel fabulous. The only things steaming are the severely pissed off hemorrhoids that rival the size of a small country.
I'm usually thankful for fall. Thankful for a lot of things actually. And while I am still grateful for the many blessings I have in this life, I am mourning what I am missing and will be even more grateful to enjoy once again next year.
Feeling so ill does not bode well for me. I'm turning into a bit of an asshole. I don't even like me anymore. This is not to be confused with low self-esteem or a poor self-image. I am short-tempered, smile infrequently, bitch often, and sigh miserably non-stop. I like "me". I am not me lately and I miss me more and more.
So this Thanksgiving, instead of enjoying the feast, I am tolerating the beast. I'm thankful for my amazing husband and daughter. I'm also thankful for the ME they still love and know is in here somewhere.

PREGNANT, the sequel

Pregnancy is not for the faint of heart, nor weak of stomach. Especially in my case. When I was pregnant with Grace I was diagnosed with hyperemesis gravidarum. In real terms this was nausea and vomiting. Lots of nausea and vomiting. All ten months. So much chunk spewing that after the failed trials with Reglan and oral forms of Zofran I ended up wearing a FANNY PACK with continuous INFUSION into a subcutaneous PORT (this kind of therapy is routinely used for chemotherapy patients to help manage the side effects of chemo). Pregnancy had turned me into a chemo patient. At least it felt like it. The downside to this (like it could get worse, fanny packs had been out for at least a decade) I didn't feel much better. It maybe cut the vomiting down by 30% and I was still nauseous all day, everyday. The worst part of the experience was the minor side effect of constipation. For the record, I literally stopped pooping (no joke). No Colace, Miralax, Docusate, Surfak, or any other related stool softening friends could get my poop to shoot. We should have bought stock in Fleet because for a number of months (the exact length of time I've blocked out) I would have to administer an enema every other day in order to poo. (The 48 hour rule was a "hard" lesson learned when I still didn't have the urge by day four and the enema only angered my bowels. After Rob had to be "Bobby" to my "Whitney" I promised to give a healthy saline squirt every two days. An FYI for this TMI, Labor was NOTHING compared to this event.)

One could imagine my initial reaction, only two days after my triathlon, to find this:
They say every pregnancy is different. I would like to find out who initially said this and punch them in the face. The first week or so I was a little fatigued and STARVING. I craved MEAT, big juicy steak type meat. Until one morning I woke up and all bets were off. I knew it was still early in the pregnancy, but it was ON. I could not have been more pregnant if my name were Kate or Octomom. It's still considered early, but this kid isn't going anywhere. I've got enough HCG coursing through me to rival that Twilight chick (sorry if you haven't read the last book). Lilah + pregnancy = no good for Rob, or anyone else in this household.

Here are the simple truths I have found in the past few weeks:

1. I feel nauseous, all the time. It is worse at night, when I'm hungry, and after I eat. Fucking awesome. A new symptom with this pregnancy is the intense pain that frequently accompanies the nausea and the vomiting.
2. I don't take Cymbalta recreationally, so Lilah - Cymbalta = no fun for anyone
3. I miss running, or even walking for that matter.
4. Grace is getting the shaft, BIG time. Not only do feel like shit 24/7, I am also overwhelmed/ angry/ sad/ frustrated/lack patience/ and wallow in mom-guilt.
5. My mouth tastes like vomit most of the time. When it doesn't taste like vomit, it tastes like a very sour version of whatever I last ate.
6. Nick Jr. is the 3rd parent in our house.
7. I can eat McDonald's. If it is greasy, nasty, and comes in a white paper sack I can usually keep it down. This makes my inner Bob Green cringe. Hopefully this McFetus won't need to be on "Biggest Loser" by the 3rd trimester.
8. My heart skips a beat victoriously every time I poop.
9. I miss me and my fabulous life.