I’ve never been a big drinker. Maybe it’s the memories of growing up with an alcoholic father that kept me scared to ever getting to the point of having a problem. Or it could be the first time I had a drink, it was 4 shots of Jagermeister at a favorite local restaurant. I threw up all over a waiter that I had a crush on that looked just like Michael Bolton (yes, Michael Bolton was cool once upon a time-scraggly mullet and all) and he had to carry me out to my friend’s car. They had the best BLT’s and I could never show my face there again.

It’s a toss up as to why I’m not a drunk, both are equally scarring.

I’ll have a drink or maybe even two, but once I feel that uninhibited feeling, I cut myself off and start guzzling water because puking is way gross and one of the reasons why I could also never be Bulimic (the other one being that I’m really against wasting food, see: current weight issue.)

So, while many people may have turned into the town drunk under certain pressures and a genetic predisposition to depression, I did the responsible thing and went to a psychiatrist and psychologist and paid exorbitant prices through my insurance to help me cope through the tough times.

This may come as a shock to some if you’ve never read anything from me or, I don’t know, live under a big fucking heavy rock, but before I found out I was pregnant, over a year ago, I took anti-depressants. I was on a cocktail of Lexapro and Xanax. I swore the Lexapro didn’t do much for me and the Xanax was only taken in times of high stress and anxiety. In hindsight, maybe they did help more than I realize because I have been a fingernail biting bag of nerves, depressed, anxious, inside of mouth biter, bucket of doom and gloom since. I’m real fun.

It has been very hard to get through the pregnancy and nursing times and keep my head together without an equalizer, just ask my family.  I think I would be much better liked around my house if I would have had a bottle of happy to help me out from time to time.  In fact, I’m sure of it.

Then I remembered what the psychiatrist said the first time he gave me my prescription for Xanax… “it’ll take the edge off of a hard moment, as if having a cocktail or a glass of wine.”

Never being a drinker, it never dawned on me to have a drink if I was just sitting at home. But after 14 months of needing edges taken off likeohmygod DESPERATELY, I decided to buy a bottle of wine and partake in a glass after the baby went to sleep (when he was finally sleeping through the night.)

So, I took out my wine glass and dusted it off (it has only been used a handful of times since I got them as wedding gifts 16 years ago. And the original gold trim on the rim is worn off because I was too lazy to hand wash them and thought the warnings that it would come off in the dishwasher was just  a scare tactic and a conspiracy against people being lazy. I was wrong.)

My twelve year old saw me and, well, did you ever see something that traumatized you so bad that you thought your life would never be the same… like walking in on your parents having sex? THAT is the kind of response I got.

Oh my God, MOM! What are you DOING? WHY? Do you have a problem. Are things so bad that you have to DRINK?

I am not kidding or exaggerating at all. I have no clue why she is so bothered by it or where she got the idea that one glass of wine is evil, but now I have to SNEAK my occasional glass of wine so not to traumatize my daughter any further and I won’t be becoming a wino anytime soon.

Last week, he went from two teeth to six teeth.

He has gone from being content surrounded by toys

to crawling

to pulling himself up to his feet- all in one week.

There is never a dull moment with this little guy around. We are seeing his personality, silliness, and stubborn ways shine through.

But something that hasn’t changed…

He is still the star of mommy’s blog

Just with a little more attitude.

Times are tight, blah, blah, blah. This is the first year that I couldn’t afford to send each of the kids to their choice of summer camp. They’ve done soccer camps, art camps, volleyball camps, and baseball camps. The year I was convinced my son was on the wrong track and that huffing and glue bottles were in his future, I even sent him to Science camp- kicking and screaming. Yes I did.

So back in the spring, I got wind of a soccer camp that was very inexpensive at the parish we used to belong to. It may be important to note here my lost sheep, estranged from the Church, spiritually up in the air status. However, I am a sucker for cheap things that fit in my budget. I signed them up.

It was the only thing we had planned for the entire summer and they excitedly watched the calendar pass leading up. I was leery bringing them since it was forecast to be the hottest week this year, heat indexes topping 115 degrees, but they were too excited, I couldn’t not.

I pulled into the parking lot greeted by signs that read “Christ Power Camp”. Huh?

So apparently, it’s Jesus soccer camp. Who knew that even existed? Not me.

They pray before, they pray after. They stop in the middle of the day to pray the Rosary. Do you know how long it takes to say the Rosary? Me either, but I know it’s a long time to repeat prayers over and over in 100 degree heat for 150 five to ten year olds. They went to Church and did Adoration. I’m not sure if they’ve played any soccer or not. All I’ve heard about is Jesus and snow cones.

During the day, there is a little person Deacon (VERY reminiscent of Mattheus from The Glee Project) under the pavilion in full on religulous garb looking like he may spontaneously combust at any moment (my youngest, the only one that never attended Catholic school said he was wearing a dress- we need to talk.) He entertains the heat exhausted kids by playing marbles and singing hymns.

Today, the big kids went to Church and my youngest says, “We saw Jesus today. He was on a cross that they brought into the field.”

The whole thing is like an episode of the Twilight Zone to me. I didn’t even know Jesus played soccer.

I had one of those spa direct sales parties at my house. I had just run into an old friend from high school and invited her. During the party, we caught up. When she learned that I stayed home with my kids, she had a look of disgust on her face and said, “WHY? I love my kids, but I need to get away from them.”  She went on to say some rather belligerent things about my lifestyle choice.

My feelings were hurt and an on the spot emotional breakdown was luckily saved by a mom of my son’s who chimed in and said, “well I think it’s great that you stay home with them.”

For so long I had people patting me on the back for choosing to be a stay at home mom. It’s the hardest job you’ll ever have. It’s the most important job. It’s so rewarding. Good for you. All of those people and their corny cliches got me through to that point because the fact of the matter is I don’t really like it.

Her statements had all of those feelings I fight everyday of convincing myself that I’m doing what’s best for my kids and my life come rushing back.

I know what I do is important. I’m glad that I get to do it, and by “get to” I mean that we make sacrifices. BIG SACRIFICES. I can’t lie, it’s hard. Lately, more than normal.  My husband does not make a ton of money. Probably not even enough to support a family of 7 by most standards.  We don’t live high on the hog. Then I get the must be nice to be able to stay home. Fuck you! No, it’s not. I work my ass off and I don’t get a paycheck. I don’t get vacations. I don’t get a break from my kids. I don’t get to have adult conversations. I don’t get to have a reason to dress up and don’t ever get a “happy hour”.

Once upon a time, I worked. I did well. I loved it. But then after I birthed a very high maintenance child number two, it just seemed like something was more important for me to take care of- at home. I worried about burdening someone else to take care of that child. I have never been one that was good at asking for help.  And with each child, that feeling of leaving a burden of caring for my kids on someone else became that much greater. It was my responsibility and I have been seeing it through for 13 years.

After that amount of time, my confidence of my worth in the workplace has diminished. When I worked, not many people used the Internet.  Married With Children was in prime time and people still carried pagers. It was a different world. I’m an antiquated commodity that has wiped butts and broken up fights over toys for too long. That being said, I don’t think I have an option now. My husband doesn’t work a 9-5 job.  Any money I would make would be all but wiped out on child care.

In a social situation, if someone asks the dreaded question, what do you do?… I sink a little. I don’t scream it from the rooftops. When I have to fill out forms and can’t write anything on the “employer” line, I feel like less of a person. I am a stay at home mom. But the truth is I hate saying that. It’s an important job, I get it. Many applaud it. Many expect to be martyred for it. I do not. I hide from it.

I wonder if this girl said that as a defense mechanism? If she has been criticized for being a working mom? I think when people start defending what path they have chosen and works for them, they start attacking, whether they mean to or not. I wish she would have known where I stand. I don’t judge working moms, I envy them. Please, don’t judge me.

I’ve been escaping from real life lately in the best way I know. Watching TV.  So, wanna know what I’m watching? Aside from being embarrassed that my kids and I religiously watch America’s Got Talent, I do watch other things…

Jaycee Duggard Interview- I’m rather speechless about this. I was consumed about her in the news when it broke. I expected her to look haggard and to be not so well spoken after living in tents with her 5th grade education for 18 years.  I was so impressed by her and her mom. I think I would have given up after 18 years. Not that I wouldn’t WANT to think that they would return, but I’m such a realist, some may call it pessimist.  It was a great interview and I was blown away by this woman!

Casey Anthony Channel- otherwise known as Headline News.  Yes, I have fallen into the trap and I am sorry and feel dirty for it. I did about the week before the verdict. Since the verdict and the upset stomach that followed, I felt compelled to learn more about it. I like hearing from people that knew the family and weren’t able to testify in court, just background information. It is, indeed, a guilty pleasure.  I’m especially disturbed that Cheney Mason is already working to defend another women accused of killing her child. My husband is desensitized to it because he sees and hears of cases like this every day and wonders why this one stood out so much. It must be Nancy Grace’s clever nickname “Tot Mom” that gave it the steam, I don’t know. I have my opinions. I believe she was guilty. I believe that “reasonable doubt” was lost in translation. I believe that the jury wanted to get on with their lives. I believe that just ONE person should have held their ground and that the circumstantial evidence had more weight than they gave it.   But then again, I’m not a big fan of the legal system at this time. Another story, for another day.

Happy Endings- this was a mid- season replacement show. I’ve often found that many of these kind fall through the cracks. People get set in their schedules- set their DVR’s on oldies but goodies and miss out. This is not one to miss. It’s witty and fast and reminds me of Friend’s. Find it. Watch it. Thank me later.

Platinum Hit- I tried hard not to watch this.   I have harsh feelings about Jewel’s snaggle tooth and Kara DioGuardia tarnishing American Idol and wearing her stupid bikini on stage during the finale. But some things you just can’t fight. Like the power of Andy Cohen. I am a cheap slut for anything on Bravo.  This is no exception. The songs they write on a whim give me goosebumps. Damn you, Andy!

The Glee Project- OK, so I watch Glee. And for the most part, my kids watch it with me. But Glee has pushed the envelope on content here and there.  Not that I don’t want my kids to understand tolerance and self-esteem, but sex is at the forefront and sometimes I’m just too tired to explain why Santana and Brittany are kissing in bed. My kids watch Glee for the music and singing. that’s why The Glee Project is PERFECT and so well done. I love it! Even if I get uncomfortable watching a little person thrusting and showing his abs.

Yesterday was an emotional day. I got some news that was hard to take. My husband was sleeping and I carried it alone- just me and my computer. It was one of those days that I should have held my tongue (or my fingers, in this case.) I don’t usually run with my knee jerk reactions, but yesterday I did.

I hate how vulnerable and irrational it makes me seem. I’m really quite level headed or, at least, good at hiding how crazy things are.

Maybe that’s why I don’t have a lot of real life friends. I don’t let many people in. I’m not prepared to expose myself. Never would I have let on to my upset yesterday to someone in person. But there’s a safety net online. I can turn off the computer, walk away, my embarrassment and humiliation isn’t quite as noticeable through my words. Online I am all me. Warts and all- no holds barred- pick your cliche.

For good or bad, there’s a inclination to share too much, to go too far, to step outside of your comfort zone, and to feel regret. When I hit publish yesterday, I did just that. I second guessed how unstable I sounded. What will people think?

But that is how I felt. So I kept it and went to the bathroom and cried it out and did my best to move on with my day- puffy eyes and all.

Later that night, I sat down to the computer. And here is where the good comes in.  The comments- virtual hugs and pats on the back.  I cried again, but in a good way. I felt less alone, less bewildered, less crazy.  The words, thoughts and reassurance  were painfully needed. So thank you.

There’s a land where I go, when I need to share,
That’s not on a map, yet exists everywhere;
Lots of names without faces, a curious place,
A virtual creation that’s called — cyberspace.
Some can be snobs, though most are great fun,
And some of them just want to talk with someone.
Both good and bad, they all play a role,
And each one’s unique, but part of the whole;
We chat and we laugh and often we sigh,
We ‘hug’ and sometimes we cry.
We can’t be heard and we can’t be seen,
Still we can ‘talk’ right there on that screen;
But, all in all, the most curious part
Is the power this has to open our hearts.
We share with a stranger stuff we’ve concealed
From our closest of friends , things we never reveal !
Our deepest regrets and most troubling fears,
The scars in our life which bring us to tears.
What gives them the power to reach into me
And show me the truths that I never see ?
How do they manage to open my eyes
And make me confess the pain and the lies?
This must have been planned by Spirit above,
Few places on earth can bring so much love;
When I need some direction I know I can find
Those angels from heaven just waiting online.

~Author Unknown (Adaptation)

There are good days when I could convince you everything is OK. Then there are days like today.

I’ve been living in a big black hole. Someone that looks likes me, carts my kids around and has the same voice as me makes appearances only when absolutely necessary, but it’s not me.

I’m in this hole. Scared. Unsure of what’s to come. Paralyzed by the unknown. In my head is a circus of ideas- worst case scenarios, one after another, spinning out of control.

I tried so hard to keep everything together. To put on the good face when I had to. I can’t even fake the good face anymore. The fear has piled up so heavily that it has taken over. It’s in control and it does not pretend- it can’t. A somber look, an occasional tear in my eye, and a mumble is all I can produce.

The aches are magnified and hurt so much more. The noises are so much louder. The light is too bright and the dark is blinding. The emotions are elevated. Living like this physically hurts.

I just keep thinking that it can’t get worst, but keep getting shoved down lower. I need the bottom so I can bounce back. I need the powers that be to lay off. It’s been a bad day.

I am from aluminum swing sets that were never truly installed correctly and one leg lifted off of the ground with each swoop of the swing. I am from above ground swimming pools. I am from Raggedy Ann and Andy, View Master and Silly Putty. I am from two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun. I am from CB radios and Instant Poloroid cameras.

I am from watching The Brady Bunch, Battle of the Network Stars and Three’s Company on a 19 inch black and white television with rabbit ears enveloped in aluminum foil long before remote controls. I am from sneaking to watch Saturday Night Live and Benny Hill after 10pm. I am from listening to K-Tel records on my Holly Hobbie record player with a penny taped to the stylus so the records wouldn’t skip.

I am from linoleum floors, from clear, plastic runners to protect the shag carpeting in hues of gold. I am from a kitchen adorned with country blue geese on glasses, dishes, and the cookie jar. I am from walls covered in faded wallpaper with orange, black, and brown flowers as big as my head and a wooden spoon and fork the size of a 12 year old child hanging on the wall. I am from the smell of my mom’s Lauren perfume, hamburgers fried in onion grease and cigarette smoke.

I am from honeysuckle vine that grew on the fence near the old rusted galvanized pool we kept in the driveway during summers. I am from the bees that were attracted to the sweet smell of its nectar.

I am from French Toast and cereal for dinner. I am from family Barbeques and drunken fights that ensued. I am from Laura and Dale and Helen and Kay. I am from Dedert and Biship and Smith.

I am from a short life expectancy. I am from alcoholism and heart disease. I am from depression.

I am from try your best, but you can always do better. I am from you’re grounded. I am from don’t judge anyone unless you’ve walked a mile in their shoes.

I am from Protestant to Catholic and Catholic to Evangelist. I am from Sunday School and singing songs and making crafts to First Communion and memorizing long prayers to speaking in tongues in huge auditoriums. I am from followers. I am from wanting to please and believe, I am from longing for spirituality. I am from doubters. I am from be kind to others and live the best life that you can.

I’m from Missouri. I am from Germany, England, France. I am native to America. I am from traditional Thanksgiving turkey and lumpy mashed potatoes and always chocolate pie.

From spending the night at my Aunt’s and deciding to try and shave my legs for the first time while there and filing the tub with blood from the gash. From wrapping my leg in bandages and then watching Endless Love on her cable television. From watching my baby brother die to watching my baby sister sleep.

I am from a huge green photo album inscribed “To Tena, Happy 5th Birthday. Love, Gram” in my mom’s cabinet. I am from yellowed photos glued onto the paper sheets with ink pen descriptions in my mom’s handwriting of events that made me who I am today.

This is a writing exercise going around the Internet. I’ve seen so many done and they are all so intriguing to read. I hope I did it justice. If you would like to join in, let me know you did, so I can take a peek at where you’re from.

It’s not a big secret that I am still not back at my fighting weight since the baby. I have felt really torn with how to get back to a weight that I am happy with. Of course, if I do anything, I want it to be safe, for him, since I am still nursing. Also, I feel silly worrying about such superficial crap when I have this little dude progressing so fast and changing before my eyes. But, I can’t lie, I hate having to get dressed in real outside-of-my-house-presentable clothes that are not sweats and t-shirts.

As with past babies, I’ve learned that nursing is a way my body holds on to extra weight.  I don’t know if I’m doing something wrong or if it’s physiological.

Sure, I eat. Sometimes, I eat junk, but the majority of the time, I eat well.

I don’t go to the gym. I don’t run on the elliptical everyday, but I do try to get in a half an hour a few times a week. I don’t lay around and watch soaps all day. I’m active, I don’t have much of a choice.

But none of these small adjustments have made a change in my body. So, I have tried my hand at more aggressive steps.

A few months ago, I attempted to start running. I was doing well until  a pain in my heel sidelined me.  I self diagnosed it as heel spur/plantar fasciitis (thanks to Dr. Google.) I taped up my foot. I did special stretches. I rested it for a few days. Nothing relieved the pain. It felt like it had been put through a meat grinder.  The pain started in my heel and vibrated into my ankle. The pain has not gone away in months. It still hurts, but I have learned to deal with the discomfort. Running, however, just isn’t happening anymore.

Last week, I decided to come at it from the diet perspective- I tried out the Atkins Diet. I stuck with mostly lean and white meats and vegetables. Judge if you will, but I felt it was a pretty healthy way to eat and didn’t think it could hurt. I lost five lbs, but I got very fainty after day 5 and my milk production slowed to a crawl by day 6. Soooo, I hurried and shoved some carbs in my face so I could make the baby happy and promptly gained back the 5 lbs.

I think I’ve given up, at least for now, trying to get to that elusive weight. It just doesn’t seem to be working. The baby is at a great stage and I want to be able to enjoy and not be so damned focused on my waistband being too tight. He’s fun and sweet and so cute and he’s becoming more animated and crazy every day and I think I’m just going to enjoy him for now. And maybe a cookie.

I have problems. Real substantial issues that I have to deal with. They aren’t things I share openly, but they weigh down on me, heavily.  They keep me awake at night. They change my complexion of the world on most days. My mind is always running a mile a minute with what if’s and worry.

So when I rant and rave and cry about my inability to make hard boiled eggs correctly without the shell coming off with half of the white, making the egg look like a mutilated, misshapen golf ball even though I followed tried and true directions, explicitly, it’s more than just the egg. That was just my breaking point.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s frustrating as hell that I can successfully bake a 3 layer cake from scratch, make a to-die-for pie crust, and prepare a homemade pasta dinner for 30 people, but I cannot master the hard boiled egg. What’s even more disheartening is that my Mother in law can make them in her sleep.

Bygones.

Sometimes the little things just add up and crack you. Making you appear ungrateful, superficial, and just a big, spoiled, whiny bitch. I am not any of that (OK, maybe I’m a bitch). But mostly, I am a person that is burdened with real problems and hurdles to overcome. I am a person with a lot on my mind, trying to make everything right and feeling like a failure in the process.  The little things chip away at my being able to handle anything- one at a time.

I keep waiting for the tide to turn, for things to start looking up, for some resolution. It just feels like good news doesn’t come my way any more. It makes going through the obligatory motions of life that much harder. And it’s not at all about a hard boiled egg.