It's Still Your Birthday

Happy birthday, Momma.

You're not here, but it's still your birthday.

I don't quite understand how we got here.

To this day. 

Without you. 

My heart hurts. 

I look at the calendar. 

I don't believe it.

Six months. 

You've been gone that long. 

And it doesn't feel real. 

And yet. 

It is. 

But. 

It's still your birthday.

So I celebrate you today. 

I'm not sure how I'll do that just yet. 

I just know you deserve it. 

The cake, balloons, fruit baskets.

Surprise presents that make you smile. 

It's still your birthday, Momma.

Even though you're not here to celebrate. 

I'll forever honor you on this day. 

I'll forever sing to you. 

And I'll forever miss you. 

With love, from me and my broken heart. 

Your *Million Dollar Baby*.

I love you. 

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How To Keep Calm When Everyone Is Freaking Out.

Friends.

I know what you're going through right now.

I know that you're experiencing anxiety like you have not experienced in some time.

If ever.

I know that you are feeling all of the symptoms that make you stop and pause and think, what is happening to me - physically?

Take a moment.

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Guest Post: Diane, Picking My Battles

I was truly lucky to meet Diane back in the summer of 2012. We crossed paths on Twitter while attending BlogHer that year. And then we met, briefly. And met again for about a minute. But somehow we connected in a way that established an instant friendship. How that happened in a handful of minutes - I'm not quite sure. I'm just going to say I'm truly glad it did and leave it at that. 

I'd like to introduce you to Diane and encourage you to take a few moments to see what she has to say. It's important, and I'm honored that she decided to share this here. 

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I'm sorry. #ForMiriam

An open letter to Miriam Carey. #forMiriam

Miriam,

Oh, how I wish I knew what you were experiencing. I wish I knew who failed you.

I feel like it might have been me.

No matter how hard I advocate. How hard I push. I see women like you whose lives end too soon. And it triggers me. It brings me back to the realization that it's not enough. It's never enough.

What were you going through?

Was it actually a postpartum mood disorder? Were you severely anxious? Did you realize what you were doing? Did you know your baby was in the car with you? Did you mean to risk your life? And your child's?

Where was your mind taking you?

We know it was your mind that led you to those gates. Those barricades. Your mind had you put that car into drive and go.

How far did you travel to get to where you were going?

What were you thinking along the way?

Were you thinking at all?

So many women. So many mommas. Their lives end too soon.

They appear okay. Seem to be getting help.

From people like me. I'm a therapist. I meed to be working. I need to be out there supporting women like you. I am not all the way out there yet, but I do my share as best I can.

I volunteer for organizations to support moms in need. Like Postpartum Education and Support, Moms Supporting Moms - a local organization that lets me show I'm there and flex my supportive muscles via email and phone. I write posts about postpartum mental health, posts about women like you, and I try to clarify. Try to explain that not every woman experiencing postpartum depression and/or anxiety wants to harm their child(ren).

I support moms at every point of motherhood in communities like Mama's Comfort Camp, created by Yael Saar to remind women everywhere that they are not ever alone.

I spread the word about communities like #PPDChat, created by Lauren Hale of My Postpartum Voice.

I talk about Postpartum International. I remind people that help is out there. I encourage people to get help, for themselves, their friends and loved ones.

I write posts about all of the amazing bloggers out there who are available to support, love and remind you you're not alone. These women who have been places that were similar to where you were and come back from the brink of it.

And still, it's not enough.

This is not about me. This should not be about me.

It's about you. And those like you.

But I want to shout anyway. I want to be HEARD. By those who failed you. Those who have failed so many others. I want to say COME ON, ALREADY!!!

How many women have to suffer before we figure this out? How many women have to leave their children motherless? Leave their families without a daughter, a sister, a wife? How many?

We don't know. We can't know.

And honestly, I have no idea if any of this even applies to you. Perhaps I'm being too stereotypical and jumping on the bandwagon that says you must have had some sort of postpartum mood disorder to do what you did. Maybe the small words from your mom or your boyfriend or your former boss or whomever said them led me and many down this path we shouldn't be taking, but I'm going to stand on the path, lace up my sneakers and RUN LIKE HELL. Shouting the whole way through.

Let's help these women. These moms. They need us. They need the support and love and people to trust. When they go for psychiatric care, therapy, help - we need to be there. Clinicians and physicians, OB-gyns, pediatricians, psychiatrists, I don't care who you are - what professional label you wear. If you know that a woman has just had a baby it's your responsibility to ask if she is okay. It's your JOB, your oath, your whatever the hell you want to call it - but do NOT let these women slip through the cracks. Please. I appeal to you, those out there, and beg of you - check in with your patients. Your clients. Make sure they are okay. And if they're not? Get them the help they need. If you are not capable of doing it, find them someone who can. Please. I implore you.

Please.

Do it.

Do it for them. For yourself. For the children. The loved ones.

Do it for Miriam.

And Miriam ... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that your life had to end the way it did. There are so many if only-s. If only you hadn't turned the car around. Led the police to take chase. If only you hadn't driven there to begin with. If only.

If only you knew there was someone out there like me. Waiting to open my arms to you and hug you. So many someones who know what you were going through. And who got through to the other side.

If only.

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I need my bed.

Today wasn't a very long day, but it ultimately turned out to be a draining one.

Anyone who is anyone knows what happened in Boston and damned if I know where to begin with what I might feel the need to say here.

I had a whole post written about things.

Things that seem pretty irrelevant tonight as I sit here watching my Twitter stream go by - retweets of amazing efforts of Boston's PD/FD and more.

Explosions, people. Effing explosions.

I mean. What? The? HELL?

I could use worse wording there, but I'm trying to stay nice enough.

But seriously, people. What the EFF? YOU? SEE? KAY?

You feel me, right?

My brother-in-law and nieces and nephew just HAPPENED to be in Boston today at Fenway. Fabulous, right? First thing that came to my mind? How the hell close is Fenway to the finish line? I Facebooked him - yes that is so totally a verb - and heard back within moments. All well. Thank goodness.

Then I thought of my friend Carla (not her real name, but that's what I call her, and not just for this post) who lives in the MA and Boston area. She's a runner, too. I know she has run big races before. Even done so with her son. Her young son. Really young. Hell. I popped onto her timeline and noticed people checking in - waiting for word - it appeared her husband was to be running today. Fantastic. I'd have to wait a while, but fortunately their whole family is safe. Thank goodness again.

Twitter is a mine field. Facebook isn't that much better. But for some reason Twitter makes me want to click more. Draws me in in those 140 characters and half-disappearing links.

What? What's that about? I ask, I think, I click.

Hell no. I did NOT want to see that. Dayum.

I kept the television OFF. My 6-year old did not need to see those images.

My husband came home and turned it on. ON.

No. Nope. Not me. I watched and listened to the president speak.

Then I walked away. Drowned out the sound as best I could.

See - those images? Surprisingly or not? Triggered too many memories. 9/11 flashed into my mind in a heartbeat. SO completely different. I know it. I feel it. But still.

Two bombs. Two explosions. Just like two planes. No thank you.

Smoky streets. Police officers. Firemen. Leading people. Carrying people. Protecting people. Yep. I know. I've seen it before.

Instant flinch when those cameras showed people feeling their way through the smoke. Nope. No thank you. I'll think and I'll hope and I might cry and maybe I'll pray. But I won't watch. I can't. That instant. Those images? I already can't shake them and I saw about 30-50 seconds of them. It was already too much.

All of this sucks. I wish it hadn't happened. I hope it never happens again. I hope the bastards who did this pay for what they have done. Because I feel it. They're pushing. Trying. Shoving themselves across the line. Assuming this IS what everyone seems to be thinking it is. And I'll be damned if I'm accepting that bs.

I'm a mom now. 2001 is a long ways back in my world. I have new, beautiful and different priorities these days. And I really don't want to have to keep explaining to her about explosions caused by bad guys. Because the only bad guys she should be thinking about should be on the shows and movies she watches. And even then we might consider filtering them out. Not often, she's not a super-sensitive kid that way. But still ... we know what she's watching and what's coming her way.

Moms and dads know, need to know, and act accordingly.

These exploding bastards - they need to step off. America is not playing this game.

At all.

Because we may move forward, be strong, feel roughed up and tossed around a bit. But we never. Ever.

EVER.

Forget.

And we never will.

* Obviously we do not know the cause, the people, the reasoning behind today's events at this time. And I'm not pointing fingers. Not presuming. Not really assuming, either. But those bombs? They didn't get there all by themselves. And these are bad guys. Girls. People. Whatever. They're bad - the ones who put them there. And they're attacking and hurting people. And that sucks. And they should not get away with it. Justice for all and all that comes with it. Maybe I'm wrong turning this into a bit of a patriotic rant, but it is (was) Patriot's Day today, right? That should mean something. And so I did. I have. I am tossing it all out there. Just because this is my space and I can.

Stay safe, my sweet friends. Wishing you all the sweetest of dreams. Cuddle with your wee ones as often as you can. Remind yourself of the good. The sweet. The love.

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With all my heart.

I wish you and yours a beautiful Valentine's Day.

You know what I've been doing this morning?

Yeah - well - let me tell you.

My daughter crawled into bed with us at I don't know what hour.

While she was in the bathroom my husband suddenly realized that she doesn't have school tomorrow, NOT Monday as we had been discussing.

Oops.

Someone's homework needs to be put into her binder.

*made mental note*

Got her to focus on getting dressed.

Came downstairs with the dogs and the cats. Focused on feeding the dogs.

Grabbed child's knapsack.

Do you call it a bookbag? A knapsack? A backpack? We use backpack. So why I just referred to it as a knapsack I have NO clue.

Anyway, the bag. Remember the bag? No. You couldn't. I haven't posted much this week.

On Monday we came downstairs to find that Harley (veteran cat in the household) had taken the liberties to pee on the part of the couch the bag was hanging out on and ON THE FREAKING BAG!!

Fantastic.

Well, today I went back to that area of the couch. It's been removed from the full couch because the husband has to do some work on it *cough cough* yep. And he peed over there again. Fecker.

Fortunately the only things that were there were oh, her hat and gloves.

Double fecker.

So then we discuss breakfast and lunch. I had it in my mind to make her some cute heart-shaped cutouts for her lunch bag and thought it would be a cute ... "Can I have lunch at school today?"

At school?

"Yes. At school."

Uhm. Okay.

"Because you didn't make it yet?"

"Right. Sure. Okay. Lunch at school. Do you want breakfast at home?"

Breakfast varies. We used to be on an eat at school kick which made our lives somewhat easier. Lately she's been eating at home, which I'm cool with because every now and then she comes home and says she ate a donut for breakfast. Say wha?

Now, where was I?

Right. Breakfast. At home.

I'm the kind of parent that gives choices. I know. Maybe I do too many. But they have so little control over so much - breakfast can be a choice. Lunch is usually my pick, but sometimes she helps so she has a say. But dinner is all me. If we go out we decide as a family. Don't judge, m'kay?

Anyway - waffles? French toast sticks? Cereal? Egg/Sausage/Cheese sandwich? No. No. No.

Fabulous.

We ended up with French toast sticks - my call. And I gave her some yogurt to get her started. If she doesn't make the call I do. We're good.

Somehow I notice that something smells. It's not the cat pee. It's not the house. Or the child.

It's me.

I stink.

How'd that happen? Maybe the cleaning up of the cat pee? Whatever it is.

Do you ever do that? Notice you stink? It's a fun realization.

So I've moved dishes around. Stared at the clutter on my counters and sink and more. Made myself some tea. Watched a little Ellen. And started to write.

Like this. Like now.

Happy Valentine's Day, friends. May you and your day and your family and everyone around you smell like roses. Me? I'm going to go take a shower.

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It's time.

It's time I joined the lovely Kim for a Secret Mommy-hood confession.



Today is the perfect day. Especially as I was writing this post in my head since this morning.

And then I read her post and before I could even allow myself to comment I grabbed the button and came over here to write.

I'm so tired.

I was away last weekend and kid-free, so what do I have to bitch about, right?

Right.

But this morning - after I busted my ass in my very first Zumba class (YAY, FREAKIN' ME!) - and my daughter enjoyed her third week of ballet and tap - I was ready to lose it.

Why? Why - you ask?

Because we got into the car and my husband proceeded to tell me that this week they had the cameras on in our Zumba classroom.

My first mother-loving Zumba class ever.

The one where I KICKED ASS?

Yeah. That one.

And then he proceeded to tell me I was * you know, I got so ticked off at him for saying it that I forget the exact wording. Isn't that always the way? * let's say, off target with the routine towards the end of the class.

What the eff?

For real?

Thanks, honey. I just felt really great. I just worked up more of a sweat than I have in quite possibly years. I just moved and jiggled and did things with my body I wasn't sure I knew how to do.

And you're telling me I was off track?

Damnit, what the hell was the wording he used?

He didn't see my eyes blur behind my sunglasses.

He did hear my voice as I thanked him for making fun of me.

It wasn't his intention. He did apologize. I shrugged it off. I know he was just joking.

It stung, though. It kind of stung. A lot.

I really DO know he was joking. And I know he doesn't know how harsh those words scraped me. Raw. Because I'm trying. Really trying. And I'm also kind of trying hard to put myself first now and then. Not always. Just enough to know that if I do it I can maintain the semblance of sanity. The way a movie night does for him, a workout does for me. I just need more of them. It's a way to find myself again. Remind myself I'm worth it.

I love my husband, and I love my daughter. But sometimes I just feel a little twinge of wanting to just BE. Flying around taking care of me for a short while. It shouldn't be that hard, should it?

I mean, shouldn't I be able to get some of that stuff done WHILE being incredible mom? A wife? Why can't I define the kind of wife I am - where are the words? Is it true that once you become mom you lose track of the other roles in your life? Shoot - that'd totally suck.

Because I try to be them all. Somehow I try to get all done that needs to be done. And I try to make some time for me in the midst of all that. My daughter's being really tough lately - I know we're both drained because of it. And it sucks. The never-ending battles? I want them to end. And soon.

There's no class next week because of the extended holiday weekend for the Fourth. But I'll be back in two weeks. Shaking my behind. Bustin' a move. Working as hard as I can and breaking a sweat. Who cares what I look like? I just want to MOVE. I want to feel my body and have it belong to me again.

And I honestly don't care what the hell I look like while doing it.

I'm getting ME back.

So there.

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Motherhood makes me tired.

So my daughter has been a little bit of hell on wheels lately.

Twitter tells me it's normal - because, you know, she's five and all.

And this past weekend (oh, yeah, it's usually on the weekends - like whenever my husband and I have something planned to get us the heck out of dodge for say, a few hours, maybe? And then our plans? They get sucked into nowhere land. But I digress ...) was no exception.

She threw some sort of fit as we headed on some random errands and were going to grab some dinner out. "Strawberries! Strawberries! I want to go pick strawberries!"

This was on Friday night, if I recall correctly. Or maybe it was Saturday. See, that's the thing. She has these fits and cries and loses herself and knock wood or spit a few times we haven't had the physical explosion in a week or two, I guess, but the attitude and actions/reactions suck nearly as badly. And then I have no idea what day it is. Or when it happened. Or anything much at all.

So where was I? Right. Strawberries. My husband drove around and redirected us, so maybe we could at least pick up a bucket of strawberries or something. He was being reasonable. I wasn't having it - and the more she recited a stream of "Please, please, PLEASE!" the more we decided against that plan.

She wasn't listening. At all.

Some days I am so tired that all I can focus on is her meltdowns. Like right now, I'm typing this to say how we actually had some good moments last night. Some great ones. It was fun. It was positive. And instead I have to reprimand her for taking over the remote control and messing with the DVR.

NOT FUN. Not fun at all.

Damnit.

Ah, and now that's what happens. The slightest thing triggers me and I lose track of a positive.

It's not fun. It's mommy feeling on edge. Maybe emotionally charged. Maybe PMSing. Maybe on overload with various things that have set me off, I don't know. I just know that when the behaviors happen, I have to confess. I curse. A LOT. Not at her, but about her actions. Usually TO my husband. Like driving around in the Jeep I found myself saying things like, "Every FUCKING weekend!" and banging my hand against the side door.

Double damnit.

So my title changes and a post that was supposed to cover how fun it was to take my beautiful 5-year-old daughter to The Children's Place and take her into the dressing room to try on clothes and actually have a successful shopping trip (the last time we were there I walked out with her, she was awful. I put every single thing I had picked up for her down and back. No shopping for you, little girl!) and then head over to the bookstore and have her behave well there, too. And this was all after actually eating dinner, the three of us, without any storming off or mess-making issues.

So while all that was well and good and wonderful, I worry myself about when the next dose of attitude will be. When will I have to plop her into time out next? Send her to her room? Raise my voice?

I remind myself she is only five.

I remind myself how very much I love her.

And I remind myself I ALWAYS WILL.

But I also remind myself that I am human. I'm a mom, a strong one, but I'm a human being. And I'm entitled to anxiety, stress-related reactions, and to be TICKED OFF when my child refuses to listen in a way I know she can.

Le sigh.

Thanks, peeps. Thanks for listening. Despite where this post turned.

I poured my heart out, indeed.

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It was time.

Another night where I sat in my bed, trying to sleep. Willing myself to close my eyes and fall out. Longing for a peaceful transition from crawling into bed to waking up in the morning (or - who was I kidding? - during the night when I'd wake up to go to the bathroom).

I lay there, tears pooling in my eyes, thinking to myself how impossible this would be if I had to experience months of it. How would I ever get to sleep again?

Motherhood loomed before me. I thought to myself that once this baby came it would be even worse. I'd be on an erratic schedule and never know which end was up. I had no misconceptions that sleep would come easily to myself or my newborn, knowing full well that I would sleep when he or she did, assuming I could.

But what if I couldn't? This baby wasn't going to arrive for a few months. How could I last that long like this? How could I continue once the baby arrived? Would I be able to do it? I rolled to my side. Did I have to?
What was I going to do? I listened to my husband's deep breathing as he lay still beside me. I wanted to stifle him with a pillow. I didn't - but man, I totally wanted to. He was going to become a parent, too. Why wasn't he awake - tossing and turning with these fears? It was completely unfair. I was worse than restless, I was terrified. Wide-eyed. Hopeful and hopeless all at once.

I lay still, staring at the ceiling. A stream of light streamed in through the blinds as I tried to block it out. The tears fell down my face, streamed down my cheeks. Covered my pillow. I'd had enough. I needed help. And I needed it now.
With the purpose of transparency, I don't remember (now) exactly how long was left in my pregnancy at the time. But it honestly doesn't matter. One week, one month, less, more ... these are the moments in which I recognized what I needed.

And because this topic is so important to me, I am also using this post to link up with Shell at Things I Can't Say and her Pour Your Heart Out Meme tomorrow.

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Dear Jacka$$ ...

** I honestly feel really horrible about using Shell's new and pretty PYHO button for this post, but I am going to do so, anyway. And I am also considering linking up for Throat Punch Thursday, as soon as I find the right button for it. Because if anyone needs a throat punch it's this asshole. **

Dear Jackass,

Thanks so much for ramming into our car. You know - the one that was sitting RIGHT IN FRONT OF OUR HOUSE? Yeah, that's the one.

I'd like to replay my morning so far for you. See, my husband woke me up this morning, as he was leaving for work.

Him: I need you to wake up.
Me: NNnnuh.
Him: Someone hit the car.
Me: WHAT THE FLETCH?
Me, again: I'm up. I'm up.

So not only did you ruin my morning's slumber, but you fecked up our new car. Bastard.

See, we got a new vehicle a few weeks ago. A new-used one. But new for us, ya know? Right now we have three cars. I know - one driver, three cars - but it's temporary, I promise. Why am I explaining myself to you? Oh, I don't know. That's just the kind of girl I am. I like to be honest with people. Like them to know who they're dealing with.

Obviously you know nothing of this honesty I speak of. But I digress ...

So my husband goes out to leave for work and it appears that someone did a U-turn or something in front of our house and backed into OUR CAR!

WTF? Why would you do that?

Did you not recognize that there is a cul-de-sac like a few inches down the road? Or that street that intersects with ours, that you could have used to turn around on as there are NO CARS PARKED OVER THERE, EVER. It's an intersection. USE IT.

So listen, you know that you didn't just hit us, right? I mean, you hit us, but you also busted your taillight enough so that there is a huge chunk of it sitting on the ground on the street. I mean, it was RIGHT NEXT TO our car. We filed a police report but lucky fecker that you are, they can't tell anything from the chunk-o-light that was left behind.

My husband is really quite calm but not me. I want to find you. I really do. Whether you're the person who delivers those random newspapers that don't have much purpose, or someone else who visits our 'hood on occasion. I'm seriously contemplating calling the newspaper to let them know that we think it might be you. Yeah - you, you jackass. G-d, why are you looking at ME that way? I'm not the one who hit someone's car and ran! Oh, yes, regardless of whether it was the middle of the night or during the day, it's still a hit-and-run, schmuck. You should know better.

Who DOES that? I mean, seriously.

So this is just a note to say thank you. Yeah, thanks for ruining my day. For messing up our vehicle. And for just plain pissing me OFF.

Oh, yeah, and stay tuned - you fucker. Because karma is a bitch. And she's waiting for you. Somewhere. When you least expect her. She'll find you. And she'll pay you back.

Bastard.

Yours in the sweetest affection,

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Mama Kat's WW: Blogging Challenges

I've decided that today is the perfect day to take on Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop, as this prompt is just calling to me after my long weekend at Type A Parent Conference.

* What do you find most challenging about blogging?

Wouldn't it be easy for me to say everything? But that would so not be true.

I love blogging. I love writing. I love being me. I love revealing more of who I am to the world at large, or the 400 or so people who may choose to read me on any given day. Or something like that.

I love reading what other people have to say - about themselves, their family members, their friends, books, TV shows, their jobs, their wishes, hopes and dreams. And whatever else is on their minds.

I love connecting. I love putting myself out there and receiving even the tiniest bit of validation in return.
I love commenting. I love reminding people that their words are being read, even if it's just by me.

I HATE no-reply-at-blogger ... uhm, yeah. That's a pet peeve as if I can't get back to you or figure out where you blog or how to email you it's going to drive me somewhat crazy. And with so many people moving to WordPress, that is definitely difficult and showing up more often. I wish there were a way to adjust things so at least I'd know their URL info when they comment.

I'm not the hugest fan of captcha either, and think that people would fare better with comments when they remove that and moderate if they are that worried about spam. I was a late convert to that as I figured it would cause mayhem, but all is well in the GGGR world. Whew. It's all good. (Knock on wood 3x or something like that!)

And sometimes I would say the most challenging thing about blogging is ME.

That would be my answer. Because you know what? It's MY blog. MY space. I put the criteria up for myself. I set myself up to fail. I am the only one who can tell me that I'm too small, too fluffy, too easy, too whatever else I might categorize myself as on any given day.

I learned a lot of things this past weekend at the conference. My very first blogging conference experience. But I also learned that it's okay to just be me. I may not be as big a blogger as some, or as small as others, but the same way I convince myself to accept my size, my motivation or lack thereof, and who I am inside and out, I need to do the same with blogging.

I need to remind myself that I belonged at that conference in Asheville. I belong out here in the blogosphere. I belong wherever I deem myself as belonging. I am worthy. I'm special. I'm me. And I am not going to challenge that anymore.

Or at the very least, not as often as I have in the past. Because damnit, I'm good enough. I'm sweet enough. I'm cute enough. And people like me. So there!

p.s. For anyone looking for my South of Superior review, it's coming - just hang tight!

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