On my son’s first Halloween, he had his first real fever and I worked until 6pm. Dressing up and trick or treating was not on our list of priorities. Out of parental obligation, I forced his hot little sick body into a lame little cow costume so when he asked “what was I on my first Halloween?”, I had a picture to prove that I made an attempt. I was a new mom and hadn’t been bitten by the “oh my god, what a cute, clever costume” bug yet.

(I plead the fifth on the Halloween vest that I was wearing, I’m certain someone forced it on me. Certain.)

The next year, he became obsessed with all things ‘policeman’, and for the following two years he dressed as an officer of the law, and my husband and I took pride in making the most authentic policeman costume in toddler size that anyone has ever seen (complete with many parts of my husband’s actual uniform.)

While trick or treating, everyone would gush over how cute his costume was. We’d knock on a door and the woman answering it would say, “Oh, stay there, I gotta let Henry see this… HENRY, come see this little guy!” And Henry would begrudgingly roll out of his recliner to walk to the door to see what all the hub was about. Complete strangers would take pictures of him. My husband and I would proudly smile, blush, and say, “Oh thanks!”…And, thus, the Halloween fire had been lit.

At his preschool costume parade, moms were asking if they could get pictures of their kid with my “Austin Powers”. I must have been so high with pride that I forgot to take any pictures for myself (I have absolutely NONE.)

Then, when my daughter was born, it made it a little more difficult. But we accepted the challenge with GI Joe and GI Jane

and Elvis and Betty Boop

It became a slippery slope, especially as we added kids. Each year, we felt we had to outdo ourselves from the previous year- that we had to go bigger and better and fight tooth and nail against store bought costumes.
But we always gave it our best shot.

Then, last year, on Halloween, I ended up in a hospital bed, trying to suck in a baby from flying out my vagina for the sole purpose of cleaning my house and dressing my kids the way ONLY I COULD for Halloween night. Lady Gaga, Sue Sylvester and Snookie didn’t stand a CHANCE if I wasn’t there to poof the hair, stuff the bras and put on the makeup just right.

But my nurse and doctor shrugged off my need for control and made me stay in the hospital until trick or treating had already begun. I was sent home to “bed rest”, which for me, meant, scrubbing my floors and toilets and awaiting the train wreck of pictures that my sister would soon put on Facebook of what my kids actually ended up looking like that night, left only to my mom and husband’s limited knowledge of hair manipulation and pop culture.

It was as bad as I could have imagined. Wigs were on crooked. Costumes were falling off. They didn’t even use the Bronzer and fake eyelashes! Novices! I’m certain that a number of people asked “who are YOU dressed up as?” The worst! It’s one of the Halloweens that I like to forget and truly get sad when I see the pictures.

This is my comeback year. My triumphant return to the Halloween and clever costumes (within reason- if I had my way, my 12 yr old would be dressing as this BUT NO! She wouldn’t go for it.

Lame. Anyway, I am up to my knees in yarn, feathers, sequins, and hot glue.

No hospital. No dilation. Hopefully, no stupid coats or umbrellas to cover the costumes. Wish me luck!

It was 9pm and I was so discouraged that the doctor didn’t return my call. Sure, I missed my last appointment and I may have an outstanding balance, but HELLO, CRAZY LADY, have pity on a sister.

At 9:30, finally, the phone rang. He blamed the late call on being at the World Series Game. (First world problems.)

“So what’s going on?” He asked.

“I have a major case of the big bad saddies and I should have called you a LOOOONG time ago, but I’m stupid and I’m having a problem focusing and OH, you’re at the game, it’s a good one, we’re watching it on TV, but yes, I need something that I can take while nursing that won’t make him TOO sedated, but a little is really OK because he’s a rambunctious one.”

Have you ever heard about the phenomenon where pregnant women have crushes on their OBGYN? I think I read about it somewhere or maybe I made it up to make myself feel better because, yes, I had a crush on my OBGYN during all of my pregnancies. It fades after I have the baby. Shut up, it’s totally clinical. But that crush was reignited when he said those magic words, “Oh yeah, let me call something in for you right away.”

He said they like to use Prozac and Zoloft and asked if I had a preference. First, I wondered, does anyone even take Prozac anymore? It makes me want to watch Ally McBeal and use AOL. Anyway.  I’ve heard great things from others about Zoloft. So I opted for that and was at the pharmacy door when they opened the next morning. No, I didn’t feel like a drug fiend or ANYTHING as I made a beeline for the back counter before the clerk could even put on her smock.

Now, I’ve heard it’s supposed to take effect after a couple weeks. I’m calling bullshit. I felt it immediately and not just because I took it on an empty stomach (I know, mom, I won’t do again!) and wanted to puke. That first day, I felt a little jittery, but more ‘even’, already. The second day, even more so. I take it first thing in the morning and by 10pm, I still feel sane and on a more even keel. I have thoughts that aren’t sporadic and don’t feel like I may lose it at any time. My 12 year old had a major breakdown because I made her go to her sister’s soccer game and I was able to laugh at her without wanting to cause her physical harm or crawl in a corner in the fetal position crying.  Major step.

I’m on, what I understand from talking to friends, a large dose.  I’m either really crazy or really fat, both of which are totally fine with me. Because this stuff is working. It’s helping. I feel calm. I can handle things. I can handle life.  Our garage door broke and I didn’t hyperventilate. Also, the loss of appetite is a magnificent feeling and a welcome change from eating an entire package of cookies, finding chocolate chips in my bra and eating them and then crying from the guilt.

This shit kicks Lexapro’s ass.

The next two weeks will be a good test. My husband is home on vacation. For 14 days.  Time for the big guns.

Here’s a revelation. When you finally break down and call your psychiatrist admitting that this feeling of despair isn’t going away and you just can’t hack it anymore on your own, only to be told that he will not give ANY medication to a woman that is nursing, then directed to a Primary Care Physician, who in turn suggests you call your OBGYN and you cry to the receptionist and beg for something that can be taken while nursing because “I’ve tried to hang in there as long as I can, but I just need some help now, my whole family hates me and I don’t blame them and I’m really not as crazy as I seem during this phone call”  … you can be fairly certain that you are in the throws of Postpartum Depression. And by you, I mean me.

Nothing like admitting the relatively obvious a year later.

I just kept waiting for things to pass.  Blaming my circumstances, my stress, my life, my age.  Since I’ve dealt with depression before and never had issues after my other kids, I always rolled my eyes at the thought of another label “PPD”.  But I have to admit, this time is different. I’m sad. I’m overwhelmed. I feel powerless- to everything. Some moments I’m functional, but even those are a struggle, a push to appear normal and human. Still. It just does’t seem to be passing. But my life is. It’s passing me by fast.

My head does not cooperate. It’s all over the place. I try to focus. It doesn’t happen. I can’t have a conversation without it taking several turns and ending up somewhere completely different than I intended.  I’ve chosen so many times to not write anything for fear of the sporadic thoughts ending up in words that would be around forever for me to regret.

Truth? I have been off medication for a long time. I barrelled through the pregnancy. Cold turkey. It was hard- lots of ups and downs, but I knew I would be second guessing myself and being afraid of the ‘what ifs’ if I did take anything.

Then came the nursing. My decision to nurse was multifaceted. I’ll admit it was more financially driven a decision than it should have been, but you gotta do what you gotta do. My babies also have a history of digestive issues that nursing has helped.

Bennett was different. I exclusively nursed him and he still had problems. Colic, screaming, crying, sleepless nights; the struggle that made me miss my meds that much more. I’d be lying if I didn’t really think about reaching for the formula and refilling my prescription numerous times.  But I didn’t.  I thought if he’s this miserable with breast milk, it would likely be worse with formula. So, I kept on.

Did I bring this on myself? Should I have stopped nursing in lieu of being able to take something that helped me cope and a better chance at sanity?

I made the call today. The call I postponed so many times. I figured I could make it till the end. I kept telling myself to tough it out, but, at this point, with a baby who occasionally screams in the middle of the night and the only thing that comforts him is to nurse, I don’t know when that end will be.

I am the first to admit that I may be one of the world’s worst photographers. I rely heavily on my mom and sister to take good pictures of my kids at family functions. I’d rather get a pap smear than bring my kids to a photography studio to get their pictures taken. My gag reflex gets fired up with the thought of scrap booking.

That being said, somehow I have still managed to have a wooden trunk full of pictures of my life and my kids’ lives shoved unorganized and randomly into envelopes and craft boxes. There are some with kids laughing and some where they are crying. It’s a reminder of when their cheeks were still chubby and when they lost their front teeth. My husband has all of his hair and I wore a much smaller size. Most are badly out of focus, the lighting sucks and the shadows, unflattering, but they tell our story and I’m so glad that I have them- poor quality and all.

The photos are from a different time. They’re not made of tin, but they were not taken with a cell phone or available at the ready in my computer files, either. I have misshapen and bubbly instant Polaroids. I have blurry shots with my grade school friends putting bunny ears up behind our 6th grade teacher’s head (that I took with my Disc camera- it was all the rage!) Then there are an abundance of spontaneous pictures taken of my kids on holidays, at the zoo, and with grandparents with the good old disposable camera. Each picture evokes emotion and memories and a long back story. There’s just something about holding the picture and not looking at it on a computer screen that just brings back the nostalgia.

Do you have one picture that evokes smells,  feelings, memories that bring you back to a simpler time? After hours of time spent going through that wooden trunk and more stories than my kids wanted to hear… I came up with this one…

Betty Boop and Elvis

Halloween has always been one of our favorite times of year. When this picture was taken, we lived in our old neighborhood that we miss terribly. Each year I planned a block party. We would shut down the street to traffic so the kids could trick or treat and had a bonfire in the middle of the street. The crisp Fall air was a welcome change from the heat of the summer. The amber leaves crunched under our feet as we walked the kids door to door to get chocolate bars that we would eventually steal from them. The smells of the candles burning down into the pumpkins and the smoke from the fire filled the air. I have lots of pictures from our Halloweens there, but this picture is one of my favorites because it was one of the last times that I remember being able to dress them up the way I wanted (before I became defenseless against the princesses and superheroes that would take hold over them.)

As I went through the pictures, I noticed that it was a tall order to find any photos within the last four years or so. The age of digital cameras , cameras on phones, e-mail and Facebook has made me lazier than normal (and that’s quite a feat.) Don’t get me wrong, I still take a horrible picture, but now I take them and send them to my computer or a social media site and forget about them.

Case in point, I have a baby that is 11 months old and, I am ashamed to say, I do not have one printed photo of him.  I have about 500 photos of him being held hostage in my computer and on my Facebook page.

Kodak is having a FREE Prints Week in an effort to change that.

Do you have pictures that need to be set free, too? (Please say you do, so I don’t feel so bad.)

Here’s the deal…

All you have to do is “Like” the KODAK Facebook page from October 17-23 and you’ll receive a coupon for 20 free prints at a local KODAK Picture Kiosk. To find one near you, click HERE. National retailers include Target and CVS/Pharmacy. Holy anxiety reminder- while you’re there you can print Christmas and Holiday cards! You’re welcome.

You can also win a Kodak prize package by submitting photos to My Parents Were Awesome Facebook Page or Tumblr throughout Free Prints Week.

This post was sponsored and I was reimbursed by Kodak for it, but the content and opinions are all my own.

I’m not much of a traveler. Maybe it’s the fact that I have 5 kids. Or maybe it’s that traveling is expensive. But probably it’s because I am painfully obsessive about everything being in the right place and traveling screws that all up.

My house is rather well organized and all things have a place. When I can’t find something, I will literally lose sleep and have been known to hyperventilate until it’s found. Thus, living out of bags in the back of a minivan or in a hotel is against all things that my brain knows.

That being said, sometimes you just gotta leave Dodge, and so, this weekend, we bit the bullet and traveled to Chicago. I mentally ran through the trip in my head and each step we would take while I was packing so I made sure to cover all the basis. In effect, I likely over packed. But it’s always better to be safe than sorry.

Two hours outside of Chicago, at a gas station for a bathroom break, I learned that all of my preparation was in vain and mother nature was in the mood to fuck with me. I paid $6.49 for a box of 5 tampons for the first period that I’ve had in 21 months.  Nothing like getting off on the right foot. (Also, one of the perks of nursing- GONE.)

We stopped in at a friend’s place for a fabulous breakfast. She was too hospitable, wouldn’t let me help with the dishes and didn’t even seem to mind my baby open mouth kissing her dog! It was a perfect breather before our day in the big city. Things were looking up.

We headed towards Lake Michigan on foot and answered no less that 437 questions from each kid. Which building is the Sear’s Tower? Is that the same size as The World Trade Tower? Why is everyone speaking a different language? Where is Oprah? We answered them to the best of our ability and tried to not appear too annoyed.

I checked the forecast two days earlier and was expecting highs in the low 70’s (note to self, check the forecast AGAIN before you leave.) We were all dreadfully overdressed for the heat of the mid 80’s and glaring sun.  As a result, my 6 year old  looked like a homeless child in an undershirt and leggings and I stripped the baby down to a plain white onesie.

We had a leisurely walk down the lakefront and sat under a tree for a snack.  My plan for the day was to not have a plan. It worked pretty well besides the rush to get back to the car before the meter ran out.  We shoved all seven of us and our stroller into the back of a trolley, we had to stand. It was full of mentally disabled people that wanted us to stay and chat and insisted my son write his name and number down on a napkin so “they could be friends”, we felt rude but had to race out to get to our car. Then we rushed down Michigan Ave. and my husband asked to stop for aspirin since he was convinced he was having a heart attack. He wasn’t and we didn’t stop. I won.

We made it to the car on time, thank you very much and headed towards the hotel. We spent a lot of time on a dreadful highway with traffic that we only found since a very nice man took pity on us and led us there. We freshened up and headed out for deep dish pizza- the whole point of the trip. We had an address and a phone number. I called to get directions and was told we were about 20 minutes away.

Two hours, asking for directions from AT LEAST 20 people (of which only 2 spoke English), 5 more calls to the pizzeria to clarify directions later… we arrived!

I MAY have cried in the parking lot. It was a culmination of emotions from the baby screaming, the kids fighting, being lost, having had 2 hours sleep in the last 24,things not going as smoothly as I would have liked and just being overwhelmed. It was one of those cries that turned into a laugh, a crazy institutional laugh.

It was a good weekend with just enough dysfunction to qualify it as a family road trip. And the pizza was good!

My husband is not the greatest gift giver. In his defense, I am hard to buy for. I’m painfully practical and simple.

Since he has an issue with buying me the things I asked for, like socks and contact solution, the first few several years we were together, he would buy me things he liked.

For example, he likes watches. He has many. Many colors, many styles: a Batman one, a Quisp cereal one (I wish I were kidding), a dressy gold one with his badge on it, and an Elvis one, just to name a few (seriously. It’s a wonder I’m sane, right?)

I am not a fan of watches. They feel constricting to me. I also have that energy issue where watch batteries go dead when I wear them (seriously, it’s a thing, look it up.) He knows all of this, but he still has bought me 4 watches. All that still sit in a jewelry box.

He has more winter jackets and coats than any woman I know. He has an entire closet for them in the den. He has bought me no less than 8 coats  in the last 15 years. I don’t like coats. I hate them, actually. Again, constricting. I feel like the abominable snowman or that kid in The Christmas Story. Also, hot flashes.  When it’s cold, give me a hat, scarf and gloves and I’m good.

Anyway, about 10 years in, he started understanding that my tastes were different than his. It only took ten years of me pretending to like the gifts and him finding them with tags still on them in the closet.

In the last 5 years, he’s been making more of an effort to get me things that I would like. It’s been hit and miss,  but this year for my birthday, he did good.  Well, it was a joint effort.

He explained he needed to look something up on the computer to order my birthday present. I’m not going to lie, I was nervous. First, this is the guy that asks me where the “dot” is on the keyboard. Also, the last time I let him on the computer to buy something, UPS delivered a box of laminated campy horror movie posters that he thought “would look cool in the bathroom”.

I guess he could tell my apprehension. He says, “do you want me to just tell you?”

Yes, yes, I do.

“I was going to order you a Chicago Deep Dish Pizza from Lou Malnati’s. I know how you’ve been super upset that Uno’s Pizzeria closed down and I saw on the Food Network that you can have these delivered to you.”

Here’s the thing. All of this is true. I love deep dish pizza and have tried every deep dish pizza in a 75 mile radius, ones that everyone RAVES is so AWESOME and, eh. I’m a deep dish pizza snob and they’re no CHICAGO DEEP DISH!

So, as much as I loved his idea and thought it was pretty much the best idea for a present that he ever had, my wheels started turning.

Long story short, this weekend, my husband, myself, and five kids will be driving seven hours to get a pizza. A deep dish CHICAGO pizza. In Chicago. It should be interesting.

It will likely be the most expensive and stressful pizza I’ve ever eaten.

You know how when you buy a pair of shoes that cost, let’s say $59.99, and you come home and show them off and when you’re asked how much they cost you say, “fifty bucks” (when, let’s be honest, after taxes, they’re really closer to $75!)

This is known as the round down.

Now, sadly, I do not do this because I have this issue with guilt and lying (can’t do it). I am also the responsible one in my house that does the bills and, TURNS OUT, the round down is not conducive to good bookkeeping. However, my husband is the KING of the round down. It is a subject of many fights conversations in our house.

I am guilty of the round down in another way, though. In ages. Not my own (not yet, anyway), but in my kids.  Specifically, the baby. I held onto using “weeks” to describe his age for, probably, too long and I’m usually rounding down a month until my big kids correct me to strangers asking his age, “No, mom he’s  almost 11 months old, not 9!” They’re so picky!

I caught myself answering “he’s 10 months old” to a lady at the grocery store today.  Next week, he’ll be 11 months old, but dammit, UNTIL THEN, he’ll be 10 months old and no one can tell me different. Don’t rush me with your halves or think I’m going to make my baby older than he is.

He’s on the small side, so he wears 9 month clothes, but the other day I found a 12 month pair of pants that were very close to his size. WOAH, hold it right there. It just hit me. Twelve months… is a YEAR!

I think it’s denial. He’s our baby, he will always be.  Even though we’ve watched the newborn slip away into an infant and the baby is morphing into a toddler right before our very eyes, I’m pretty sure he’ll be referred to as “the baby” in our house until he’s driving. And then we’ll be all “Wait, Oh my God- the baby is driving? Already?”

It wasn’t really a big deal fudging on his age here and there when he was 6, 7,  or 8 months, but he’s getting to that place that I can’t hide from soon.

He’s going to be ONE in a month- OMG! But I just had a baby! (That’s what I tell my scale still and my husband when he catches me wearing my maternity pants.)

It’s Meme Tuesday. Ok, so maybe it’s more like a mid week meme. I’m posting this with an hour and a half to spare cause that’s how I roll (but if you want to join in, throw caution to the wind, and do it on WEDNESDAY, we’re easy like that.)

This week, we’re doing annoying quirks. We all have them. I have too many to mention. I’m quirky and OCD-y. So when I sat down to list them, why the hell couldn’t I think of any? No clue.

So I decided to go to THE source. The one person I knew would take pleasure in listing off the annoying things I do. My husband. And I was right…

1.) I chew on the skin on the inside of my mouth (I know it’s gross, but it’s a stress thing, when I’m really stressed I do it MORE and then it gets kind of raw and gross, and then I get stressed about about THAT and … it’s a vicious cycle.)

2.) When I lay down- on the bed, on the couch, wherever, I rotate my ankle (only my right one) in a circle. It relaxes me and helps me fall asleep. Most times I don’t even realize I do it. I have no idea why or where this comes from. My mom and sister both do it and my kids seem to be doing it, too. My husband thinks it is the freakiest thing ever.

3.) I hate crumbs on my feet. I sweep about 43 times a day because I like to be barefoot and cannot handle things sticking to the bottom of my feet.

4.) When eating french fries or anything salty, I eat with my middle finger and thumb and rub them together after each bite, dusting the salt and crumbs off. I don’t know why this one bothers him so much, but it apparently does.

5.) I sit VERY close to the steering wheel. I’m 5′4″ but I set the seat as close as it will go. Makes me feel safer. Everyone that has tried to get into my car assumes I’m a little person, even people that are shorter than me.

This is where I stopped him. He was enjoying it too much, I was getting a complex and was afraid of sounding like I was weird. Which I’m not.

Tell me your quirks, make me feel better about being… quirky. Join Angie and I in bringing the Meme back in our old school blogging experiment.

Every year, my mom holds a small get together for each person’s birthday. She always gets the birthday person their favorite treat. My daughter, it’s mint chocolate chip ice cream, for my Brother in law, it’s cheesecake. For the last ten years, I’ve told her that I love Tiramisu.

My mom is slightly air heady and can never remember what it’s called so she usually resorted to something chocolate for me (which is always a safe bet.) Last year, when I showed up for my birthday, she said, “I even asked the ladies at the bakery if they had any Tsunami cakes and they didn’t- they had never even heard of them, so I got this Boston Cream instead.”

Today is my birthday. I am 39. For real. Next year, I may say the same, but this year, it’s no joke. And somehow, by the grace of God (and maybe 10 years of me repeating the word TIRAMISU) she got me a Tiramisu! For the record, she still called it a Tsunami cake when she pulled it out of the fridge.

My day started off with a crying baby, a six year old with a fever staying home from school, a dog dragging mud into the house and a “I can’t keep track of which day it is because of this damn night shift” excuse as to why I had to ask my husband if there was something he wanted to tell me.

On the bright side, I have a half eaten Tiramisu cake in my fridge that should numb all the bad stuff today.

I’ve been blogging for about 3 and a half years. Before Twitter, before Facebook.  I’m hardly a pioneer, but I’ve been around long enough to see how blogging has morphed into many different things.

When I started, it was to journal. Period. We didn’t really advertise and ‘pimp’ our posts. Traffic wasn’t driving us. And very few people saw payback from advertisers.  We were doing it because we loved it. We made connections. We liked the outlet.

As much as I love that we are beginning to be taken more seriously and that our opinions and crafts are being recognized and compensated, I must admit, I enjoyed the simpler time when there weren’t so many damned expectations.

It’s like when I had a job when I was in my teens. The money I made was to pay for Taco Bell, Guess Jeans, Aussie hair spray, the occasional 4 pack of Bartles and James wine coolers or 2 liter of Purple Passion. It was fun money. And in turn, the job, wasn’t quite so bad. I showed up a few hours a week to peck numbers into a register and got $3.35 an hour while I talked to my friends about the new Paula Abdul song.

Flash forward 10 years. Now the money I made was paying for baby formula, health insurance, car payment and rent- that really took the fun out of it.

I don’t think I’m the only one that feels this way about the new blogging. There has been a push to get back to basics.  Many of us got caught up in the ‘business’ of it all. We had to grow up, but at the same time, we lost some of the fun and the connection that made us love it in the first place. We miss the good ol’ days when you wrote something because it was on your mind- not because you felt it would get a lot of hits, comments, or to stir up a controversy.

I wrote everyday. Then I would go and read all the blogs I enjoyed and comment- every. single. day. I was all quantity over quality, but it was fun and thoughtless.

When fodder got low, you could find a meme. A universal subject that everyone would write on a certain day of the week. It could be post a picture, or show us your bathroom cabinet or what’s in your purse (yes, I participated in all of them and I’m still  not ashamed of my Eccedrin that was from the late 90’s.) Everyone would link up and you could go be nosey with what everyone else posted. It was fun. It was silly. Sometimes I thought it was stupid, but you know what? I always had something to post on that day.

So me and my friend, Angie, are bringing back the MEME. (Why, yes, I did ‘raise the roof’ motion when I did that!) The same meme that we mocked a hundred times and thought we were above. Who were we kidding?

This week? SHOW US YOUR UNDERWEARS! Well, the underwear drawer, that is. (This week was TOTALLY Angie’s idea, for the record.) On the positive side, it did prompt me to throw out my maternity underwear before I took the picture.

Here’s mine:

Welcome

Most of the drawer are bras. Bras that I can’t wear. Then we have the 3 that I can. They’re take up a lot of space, hello 38G!

I have a pair of knee highs with tags still on them that my mother in law bought me about 3 years ago. I can’t, in good conscience, get rid of them since I’m not sure if they are even in style or if they ever will be. I have a small collection of Spanx- if you don’t, we can’t be friends. It’s a safe bet that 95% of my underwear (as I call them) are “PANTIES” that I got with the free cards that get sent in the mail from Victoria’s Secret. I, really, have no shame. I do have one thong that I hide under my sock. I’m not sure exactly WHY I own them as I wouldn’t wear it if you paid me. I probably lost a bet with my husband at some point.

Join in and get the code so everyone knows you’re cool like us.
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OK- I showed you mine- you show me yours!