Naked Mermaids Riding Seahorses

What?!? No?  Okay, fine!  I'll try to explain.  My insomnia comes and goes.  Right now it's camped out in my house (mind, body, whatever).  After multiple nights of insufficient sleep, I start to have weirder thoughts than usual.  I think it's a combination of fatigue and anxiety about not being able to sleep.  This morning I woke up about three hours after I had gone to bed.  I was very frustrated, and decided to take a stand (or in this case, a lie down) against the insomnia monster.  If you know anything about insomnia, experts say that you shouldn't stay in bed and fret.  You're supposed to get out of bed and do something else.  I was irritated and determined to go back to sleep.  I tossed and turned and pouted.  My mind was, of course, running 90 mph.

I was trying to think of email subject lines that would elicit the most curiosity from the recipient.  This is also kind of a personalized thing.  You have to know your victim (oops... I mean "friend").  One person might be intrigued by naked mermaids riding seahorses while another wouldn't be.  There is also the line between intriguing and gross/horrifying/terrifying/calling the police that you really don't want to cross.

After I decided on a subject line and mentally composed my email, then I began insomnia math.  Just in case you are unfamiliar with this, I'll explain.  Insomnia math is when you become increasingly agitated as you lie in the bed and calculate exactly how much sleep you will get if you fall asleep right now.... now..... now..... now.  You take the frustration level (scale of 1 to 467) created by this and multiply it by 78 if the person next to you is snoring.  Multiply that number by 1000, and that is how much money you will need for bail after you hold the pillow over the snorer's face until they stop squirming.  This is real world math, people, unlike that crap they tried to teach us in high school.

I need a nap.....

If It Wasn't For My Children, I'd Probably Have A Mullet

So... MB and I just returned home from vacation a couple of days ago.  The kids wanted to stay in Alabama with their grandparents a little longer.  This means I'm kid-free for a few days.  Oh the plans I had for my days of freedom.....  It's not going quite as I expected.

First, I miss those little monsters like crazy.  I've been by myself almost all day and not once has anyone asked me to prepare food for them.  I have not wiped even one tiny bottom.  I haven't asked anyone if their hands are clean.  I haven't broken up any fights or threatened anyone.  And worst of all--- there are no sweet little voices ringing in my ears NONSTOP.

Secondly (and likely most disturbing), I realize that I need to have constant demands on my attention otherwise I'll get into trouble.  My mind wanders while painting and organizing.  I come up with "brilliant" ideas like buying a crimping iron.  I lived through the '80s. Why am I considering this?  Next thing you know I'll be online hunting down a HyperColor shirt and layering neon color socks.  I would add rocking out to Cyndi Lauper to this list, but I already do this on a semi-regular basis (thanks, Pandora).

Clearly, I need my kids to come home.  They keep me out of trouble.  Who can possibly plan horrible hairstyle choices (the mom ponytail is totally unplanned, I swear) when you stay so busy?  Hurry home, babies, before Mommy rocks a fe-mullet!

Crying, Whining, Candy Wrappers, and Stretchy Pants (aka Tuesday)

Quick update on the last six or so months:  had the hysterectomy, survived the hysterectomy, still crazy.   Just to clarify for everyone (because I get this question A LOT), the hysterectomy was performed for reasons relating to physical pain.  I kept my ovaries which means that my perimenopause roller coaster will continue on its terrifying, scream-inducing path.  Having surgery was the best decision I've ever made.  I still have moments of wishing I hadn't had to cut my child-bearing career short, but then my kids wake up and I'm okay with it.

I'm still crazy.  Most of the time it's the fun kind of crazy, but occasionally it gets mixed with an unhealthy dose of do-we-know-where-all-the-sharp-implements-are crazy.   Usually my bouts of hormonal Hulk rage end quickly.  It's the simmering anger and irritation that can sometimes last for days (note:  MB would like me to change "days" to "months or years").  I will have a week where I get on my own nerves.  I'll be bitchy and whiny and just generally irritating to even my own endless patience (no, MB, I will not change "endless" to "nonexistent").  These are the times when I cry because we're out of milk and going to the store seems just like climbing Mt. Everest on a Tuesday whim.  I send emails I live to regret OR I just ignore everyone.  I eat really, really unhealthy foods and allow Ginger (in case you missed the earlier explanation, Ginger is my perimenopausal alter-ego---- she's certifiably insane.  And possibly homocidal) to talk me out of running.  It's just an all-around mess of crying, whining, candy wrappers, and stretchy pants.  

I've tried to convince my family that it will get better.... one day.  Let's face it--- none of us are buying that.  Hopefully the good days outnumber the bad, the running days outnumber the not running days.  And hopefully-- we all live long enough to laugh about the times Mommy cried because someone else ate the last Moon Pie.  

Prepubescent Son + Perimenopausal Mom= Someone Will End Up Crying Every Time

Okay—so I have a degree in microbiology.  Based on this degree title, you can guess that I had to take a lot of anatomy and physiology classes.  I want my money back from UAH.  I didn’t learn one single thing in all of those classes that prepared me for a 9-year-old boy going through the beginning mood swings of puberty.  I thought boys matured slower than girls.  I thought I had time.  I thought he would start sprouting hair in unfortunate places and become a stinky boy before I had to deal with mood swings.  Well, if you thought that too, then we’re both wrong. 

My beautiful 8 lb 5 oz baby boy who came into this world after 21 hours of labor (2.5 hours of pushing—I want credit for pushing out that enormous head) has morphed into a moody, short-tempered man-child.   Where is the toddler who always said, “Mommy, you’re my bestest friend”?  Oh that’s right—now he’s the kid who slams his door and mutters under his breath when he is reprimanded for something.  He’s now the kid who cries at the drop of a hat or a minor change in plans.  He’s the kid who sobs on the refrigerator door because making two different kinds of sandwiches is “backbreaking work”. 

When you combine his mood swings and my mood swings, you have the recipe for a disaster.  I don’t know how we are going to make it through the next few years.  I can only hope that he and I survive this and come out the other side before my little girl goes through puberty.  If there are 3 crazies in the house, MB may just not come home from work one day;).

Sex Gives My Doctor The Willies

Or maybe I should rephrase that…. Talking  about sex makes my gynecologist uncomfortable.  First, I love my doctor.  She is my age (a very young 35), very knowledgeable, compassionate, and thorough.  She does have one flaw.  She is a doctor who deals almost exclusively with the hoohah and talking about sex makes her very uncomfortable.  I didn’t ask any questions about small animals or which sex toys she recommends.  We were discussing my impending uterine eviction and all that would entail.  She explained that I would be having a total hysterectomy meaning that my cervix will be removed, too.  Based on my knowledge of human anatomy and a lot of 1am Google research, I was nervous hearing this.  I wanted some reassurance that this wouldn’t negatively impact my sex life.  Close your eyes, Mom, we’re going to talk about hoohahs and weenies. 

I asked Dr. P how losing my cervix would affect my post-surgery sex life.  I haven’t seen someone that nervous since I asked my mom where babies come from when I was in the 4^th grade.  God bless Dr. P --she began fidgeting with her computer and shifting in her seat.  She wouldn’t look me directly in the eye.  Didn’t she take some classes on this stuff in medical school?  I used medical terminology.  I even used the words “intercourse” and “post-coital”.  She was sweating and drinking water.  I was worried for her health if I continued my line of questioning.   She gave me a few roundabout answers including, “Well, it’s different for everyone” and “It’s really difficult to know those things ahead of time”.  Not selling the finer points of this surgery, Dr. P.  Finally, I let her off the hook and decided to continue my own research.   I also enlisted the husband’s help in some field research.  Ewww—not outside.  There are bugs and dirt out there;).  

Magic Mike Makes Me Cry Too

So… my sister wanted to go see Magic Mike and we planned our girls’ day to go see it.  All was well with the world as we waited with the throngs of overly excited women filling the theater.  As the previews started, I burst into tears and began sobbing about something which shall forever go unexplained.  I, who share shamelessly, won’t give you all of the mystifyingly irrational details of this breakdown.  Let’s just say I misunderstood something because my phone’s internet connection inside the theater sucked.  I cried for several minutes, sniffling and babbling incoherently.  All the while, wanton females were shoving popcorn in their mouths in anticipation of seeing man booties.  My sister who knows me pretty well was at a loss as to how to deal with weepy sitting next to her.  First, she handed me tissues.  Then she asked if I needed popcorn or chocolate.  When neither of these tactics worked, she tried to console me which was very awkward for both of us.  While we love each other deeply, my sister and I do not have a huggy, say “I love you” kind of relationship.  This is most likely due to my overwhelming dislike of hugs.  So… girding herself for what was to come, she put her arm around my shoulders and said something akin to “there, there”.  Holy awkward, Batman!  She said, “I know you hate hugs but I just don’t know what else to do.”  I am pretty sure she was desperate to stop the weeping because I was harshing the Magic Mike mood of the ladies (and one 70+ gentleman) around us. 

Well, eventually the webpage I was trying to see loaded completely on my phone, and I was able to see that I had clearly overreacted.  I sniffled again, dried my eyes, wiped my nose, and enjoyed some Magic Mike right alongside every other woman in the KC metro area. 

Sometimes Jesus Makes Me Cry...

Before you start sending me nasty emails, let me explain.  This may surprise some of you, but I do go to church.  The last several times we have gone have resulted in me making an unexpected and teary exit before the service is finished.  Anything can trigger the weeping.  It could be something said during the sermon or it could be the feeling of being surrounded by pregnant bellies everywhere (or 2 out of 150 people—those are overwhelming numbers) or it could be lint balls floating in the air.  Sometimes I have to leave during the sermon, but occasionally I can wait until a song and sneak out while everyone is standing.  I think the people at church might be getting worried. The poor greeter guy at the door looks like a deer in the headlights as I pass by him weeping.  He is an older gentleman and is so sweet and kind.  He always smiles and says hi as we enter the sanctuary and I am dry-eyed.  When I am making my hasty, red-eyed exit, he looks like can’t decide whether to ask me if I am okay or to run in the other direction.  I just keep my head down and get out the door as fast as possible.  I go to the car and wait patiently for my family to join me.

My baby daddy picks up the kids from child care and gets everyone out to the car.  Then he draws a steadying breath and tries to determine what level of freak out he is going to have to deal with.   He has tried a variety of questions to ascertain this information.  I believe I saw him whip out the mental notebook and jot down a quick note that, “So what set you off this time?” was a poor question choice last Sunday.  Depending on the level, he will begin damage control.  Sometimes it is just hand-holding and quiet understanding.  Other times it involves telling Crazy that he understands what she is going through.  He’s getting better and better at determining the most appropriate course of action.  He’s a natural problem-solver, my man.