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Monthly Archives: September 2012

The Avon Walk. Or, the most physically grueling thing I’ve ever done.

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Last weekend. Where to begin?

It started with a gorgeous pink sunrise, special just for the Avon Walk.

Avon Walk for Breast Cancer Sunrise

And it ended, for me, with swollen sausage fingers and a bag of ice.

Swollen fingers after Half Marathon

Icing calf after half marathon

It was an amazing experience, one I will never forget, and one I will write more about later.

For now, I will tell you that I was only able to finish the half marathon portion of the walk. And that next year, I aim to do it all.

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Four days and counting.

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Several months ago I made the somewhat impulsive decision to sign up for the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. It turned out to be one of the best decisions I have ever made, and throughout the countless hours of training and fundraising, I have been reminded of how many people in this world love and support me.

It’s a really nice feeling.

And now, here I am. Four days away from the Big Day.

Sick.

Sore.

Scared.

Let’s see how many applicable adjectives I can come up starting with the letter “s”:

Sleepy, strained, slow, shaky, snotty, somber, squeamish, stiff, strong, sturdy, sweaty.

I’m coughing, limping, and tired.

But I set out to do this. And dammit all, I WILL DO THIS. There is no other option.

Milkshakes and movies.

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This weekend was a DOOZY.  

It all started on Friday morning.  As I was getting ready for work, I stood up on my tippy toes and felt a sharp pain in my calf and hear a loud pop.  As I fell to the bathroom floor, the scene probably resembled that part in “A Christmas Story” when Ralphie says, “Oooohhhhh, fuuuuuuuddddggge”.  

However, like Ralphie, I didn’t say fudge.

Mind you, I’m 1 week away from the Avon walk so this was very, very bad timing.

Also, Emmett has a cold.  One sure fire way to sooth a sick baby is to snuggle up in bed together.  This also guarantees that you will probably get sick as well.

Which brings us back to Friday morning, the same morning that I tore my calf muscle to shreds, when I woke up with a fiery sore throat.  

All of this equals a weekend spent moving from the couch to the bed, drinking milkshakes (for my sore throat…not because they are delicious…), and watching the movie Cars (we’re on round #3) with a 2 year old sickie snuggled up next to me.  

There are worse things in the world than lounging with my baby and drinking milkshakes, so all in all, I’m calling this weekend a success*.

 

 

 

 

 

*This weekend’s success is actually due to my husband, who cleaned the kitchen, the dining room, washed 5 loads of laundry, played with a crabby 2 year old while I napped and went out on several milkshake runs.  

Daycare for Smug Earth Cookies…and Us.

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Emmett just finished his second week of daycare and we could not be happier with the school we chose. The teachers are all so mellow and loving, and the vibe is relaxed and happy, not chaotic and stressful like so many other schools we looked at.

It’s a very unique place, kind of like a little artist colony full of preschoolers. The yard is very Dr. Seuss meets Woodland Fairies. It’s a magical place that cannot be described in words; you can only truly experience it by being there. But because you live inside my computer, pictures will have to do. (and crappy pics at that, they were taken with my phone on an overcast day…)

Preschool Play Structure

Most schoolyards have your standard slide/swing/monkey bar combo, but not this place. They have a climbing sculpture with live succulents growing from it.

Playtime!

They have a reading nook in the middle of the yard, because sometimes you just want to curl up with a good book.

Preschool Reading Nook

The perfect reading nook

There are bunnies (named hugs and kisses by the kids) and chickens (they prefer to remain anonymous).

Chickens at Preschool

I mean, for crying out loud, they have an Atelier (French for “workshop”) for art classes and once a week they have dance, music, and Spanish lessons.

Preschool Art Studio

Preschool Art Supplies

I’m seriously considering dropping out of life and going back to preschool.

Tire swing

These are the things I love about his school, and they are why we chose this as the place where Emmett will learn and grow for the next several years.

However.

There are also some things that I do not like about this school.

For instance, they have a No Trash rule with lunches and ask that you try to use reusable or recyclable containers for your children’s lunches. It’s a great idea and I’m totally on board with trying to minimize wasteful consumption. But then, at Back to School night, the Director asked that parents try to pack lunches in larger containers (like a bento box, for example) because lunchtime can be crazy when there are 10 kids all asking the teachers to open their 50 million lunch containers.

I’m all about saving the planet, but seriously? I already have two lunch boxes and multiple reusable containers for E’s lunch. I’m a little annoyed that I’m now being asked to go and buy him a specific type of lunch box (that will cost me at least $20). It seems a little over the top.

Also, because this school is a bit on the crunchy side, so are the parents. During back to school night, many of the parents looked like they had a piece of reclaimed barn wood stuck up their asses. They seemed like the kind of people who think their farts don’t stink.

I’m sure many of them would have gasped if they knew that, last night, I fed my kid McDonald’s for dinner. OH, THE HORROR! Quick, someone fetch me a glass of locally produced organic wine or some homeopathic smelling salts!

The funny thing is, I recycle. I’m all about saving the planet and when given the choice, I will typically choose organic, locally grown food. But I know that my farts stink, that’s the difference between them and me.

I’m sure there are some nice parents there, parents like me who share these ideals, within reason, and some who I hope won’t judge me because I don’t drink fair trade coffee.

I haven’t proofed this post, so good luck with that…

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I have like 5 blog posts floating around in my head, waiting for me to tap them out on my ridonkulously old laptop. But there’s always something that needs to be done more. We have to eat dinner, Emmett needs his lunch packed for daycare, and for the love of Pete I need to give myself a mani/pedi because what I’m sporting now (3 day old chipped polish) is not really appropriate for the office. Or anywhere ever.

I want to tell you all about Emmett’s AMAZING daycare, it’s like an artist colony designed by Pottery Barn. I want to write my next blog post for Postpartum Progress (Katherine, sorry for stalking you and thank you for giving me the opportunity to post again!).

But.

I need some down time.

I have to get some work done that I couldn’t get to today at the office.

I will shrivel up and die if I don’t get some Emmett snuggles.

Also, my baby is sick, so he needs some Mama cuddles. And because he slept with me last night, and essentially blew his germs directly into my mouth for 8 hours, I think I’m coming down with his cold.

This is all to say, I am still here, just wearing a little thin from the 80 directions I’m being pulled in. I’ll be back soon.

Remembering Nathan.

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Just a few weeks before my Junior Prom, 17 years ago, one of my little brother’s closest friends took his own life. This was a boy who had spent countless nights at our house, staying up late, and playing video games with my brother. He lived just down the street from us. We grew up in a small town where everyone knows everyone, and his family was no exception to this rule.

We all knew he had been having a hard time. His parents were divorcing and he’d recently been put on anti-depressants, but no one imagined just how bad things were for him, and if they did, no one took him seriously.

I remember feeling terrified after I heard the news. I was so worried about how my brother would handle such devastating news. He was such a sweet boy, so sensitive, and I was always more of a Momma hen to him than a big sister. What if he couldn’t handle it, what if he spiraled down the same dark hole and did the same thing? He was my main concern, making sure he was ok.

At the time it didn’t even occur to me that a Mother had just lost her baby. I was only 16 and as I said, I was so worried about my brother that I didn’t even think about how others would react. Only now, as a Mother myself, can I fully comprehend the agony and despair she must have felt, and likely still feels to this day.

I’m incredibly lucky that during my PPD I never struggled with suicidal thoughts. Sometimes I would wish for endless sleep, but never a sleep that I wouldn’t eventually wake up from. Not all Moms battling PPD are as lucky, not everyone will have a second chance at happiness.

I found it so difficult to admit to myself that I had a problem, and when I finally did it was even harder to admit it to my husband, my family, my friends. I can’t even imagine the shame and embarrassment I would have felt having to tell them I was suicidal as well. Not that one should feel these emotions, but with the negative stigmas attached to mental illness today, I can only imagine that is how I would have felt.

There are far too many people shamed into silence. They are slipping under the radar, hurting silently and alone.

If you need help, or know someone who does, you are not alone. You are not broken and you are not worthless. You are loved and your life is worth living. If you need help, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.

Feeling funky, and not in a good way.

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I woke up on the funky side of the bed today.  And I’m not talking about the George Clinton kind of funk, which would probably be a little shocking to wake up to (seriously, picture opening your eyes and seeing this guy sitting at the foot of your bed) but maybe a tiny bit awesome at the same time. 

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No, I’m taking about this kind of funk, but picture me wearing warm weather clothing because it’s hot as hades and we have no air conditioning.  

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It’s the kind of funk where you feel exhausted all day, even just laying on the couch.  When even taking a shower (which I finally got around to…at 5:30 pm) might as well be climbing Mt. Everest.  And even mountain climbers get a Sherpa.  Where’s my shower Sherpa?!?!

There are so many things I want to do and NEED to do.  I want to write, learn how to use our DSLR camera, I need to make lunches for the week, spend time with my bugaboo, clean the house, wash our filthy bedsheets, finish those Christmas stocking kits I bought last fall, and I feel like if I learn Spanish and take a yoga class I will immediately become a better person.  

Basically, I want to do ANYTHING but lie here and feel sorry for myself.  But that’s all I can do today. 

Honestly, I’m so tired of dealing with this shit.  Just when I think I’m starting to feel better, happy, normal, I start feeling this way again.  Will it ever end?

When did you feel like you were fully out of the clutches of PPD?  Do you sometimes have little relapses?  It gets better, right?