Taking Breaths

The past three years of having a toddler in my life has put me face to face with my mortality. I doubt too many moms in their 20s wonder if they will live long enough to see their daughter marry or if they will get to meet their grand kids, but at age 45 with a 3 year old, there are moments that the panic and sense of sadness about the possibility of not being there take my breath away. 

January 15, 2012 was one of those days.

I have had a series of health issues and diagnosis over the past 20 years including PCOS, Fibromyalgia, Diabetes, and Hypothyroidism. However,  my blood pressure and heart rate remained healthy so when I couldn't quit yawning, felt my body going numb, my speech slowing, and my focus getting fuzzy, I wanted to believe it was anything but a stroke.  The ER doctor said otherwise. I was having a mini-stroke called a TIA (transient ischemic attack) -- likely in reaction to some new hormone medication. Luckily, it was minor and I had no permanent damage, but it was definitely the final wake up call I needed to throw my hands up and say "uncle" to losing weight on my own and doing everything within my power to be here for my Bean as long as possible. 


It has been 11 months since I was shaken to my core and made the choice to have Gastric Sleeve surgery and am currently down 50 pounds. Not only do I feel much more confident that I will be here for Bean, I also know that if for some reason I am not here, that her memory of me will not be the tired, overweight Mom sitting on the couch in pain and watching her child from the sidelines. It will be of the new Mom I have become this year. The mom that slides down the tall tower slide at the park; the mom that chases her down the street when she bolts away; the mom that agrees to carry her even though she is too big to be carried; the mom that lets her make messes with paint and glitter, and play dough because she isn't too tired to clean it all up.  A Mom that lives by this quote: "Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take; But by the moments that take our breath away…."

 

Broke Back Mama

The one thing that every mama HAS to do for her little ones is pick up. Pick up stuff off the floor. Pick up stuff out of their mouth. Pick up laundry. Pick up dishes. And of course, pick up the little one -- all 30 squirming pounds of them. Somedays I feel like I have bent over 10,000 times and decide I can't do it one more time so I pick things up with my toes. Other days I just step over the crap on the floor and hope that someone else (read: hubby) will pick it up without me having to ask (read: doubtful).

In my 30s when I started seriously contemplating having children, I knew that all that picking up would be a challenge. I hurt my lower back in college by rearranging REALLY heavy dorm furniture by myself out of inpatience. After that initial healing time, my back would go out with heavy lifting or a fast twist, but I would do a few stretching exercises and it would go back in place. A few car wrecks, bad falls, Yahoo frisbee games, extra pounds, gravity, and decades later it took a few visits to my back-cracker to get things straightened out.

Amazingly, I have managed to survive two years playing the pick up game with only a few back episodes. But I really did it this time. And wouldn't you know, it wasn't even Bean that broke my back. Once again, I decided to rearrange some crap by myself out of frustration. Two days later, I could barely stand up straight. By day three I was in the chiropractor for a "tune up" only to find that things were not going to come back together as quickly as they had in the past.

Enter the DXR: (Blaring medeval horns here) a modern torture device similar to being stretched on a rack. For the next four weeks I will spend several days each week strapped down to a table that angles me backwards, shoves posts between my armpits to stabilize me, puts me in something similar to a rock climbing harness which caribeeners me to another side of the machine, adds weight to my lower body, bends me in half, and stretches out my discs for 30 minutes. So not a good look for me. And I am paying for this kind of torture. I am thinking they could at least offer a few entertaining variations such as a hot guy dressed in leather telling me how bad I had been or a handsome prince coming to save me from the torture chambers.

(True confession: my chiropractor is pretty cute, which makes the visions of me being splayed out on this machine even more garish in my mind but if he would dress up at least I would be distracted from this truth.)

The first day was yesterday. The procedure itself was not horrible. In fact, I would say dental work is far worse. Getting off, however was excrutiating. Something about the curve in my spine and the table fought the whole time and I thought I would never walk right again. This is what happens after all that stretching out: your body has to collapse itself back together. Like an accordian. All my breath left me with that pain. After ice and stimulation (another device where electricity is jolted thru my body) I thought I could make it home. However, once I got in the car I realized I could not lift my leg enough to move it from pedal to pedal. In fact, I was totally stuck in one position because of the angle of my driver's seat. I had visions of still being there the next morning, but decided to call Jeff. (Yes, I should have called the chiropractor to come help me, but at this point I was a hot mess of tears and snot and mascara. See true confession above.)

Jeff peeled me out of the car with the jaws of life. Okay, it was really with his strong man hands, but to me they were the jaws of life because I was dying. DYING. On a scale of 1-10 I was at a 20.
At home, I collapsed on our bed in a heap with an ice pack and wished I had on a diaper so I wouldn't have to get up until the next day. No such luck on that so I hobbled around with a cane a few times until 6 hours later when I was suddenly able to take more than a few steps without losing my breath. Hmmmm... maybe this was not permanent. And when I woke up this morning, I was pleased that I was able to get out of bed with only minimal cane-age.

Then I got to repeat the procedure. This time I took Jeff for entertainment; no costumes -- he was my Pandora DJ. The accordian collapse of my intestines and spine did not send me to tears this time and within 3 hours of the procedure I was able to walk without the cane. And 6 hours later I was actually STRAIGHT!! Not pain free, but straight up and down for the first time in 10 days.

So there is a glimmer of hope that this Broke Back Mama will be able to get back to picking up. For now I will keep using my toes, teaching my toddler how to pick up for me, and praying that my husband doesn't decide to trade me in for a better model.

(P.S. In case you are wondering, I have some fabulous friends who are helping entertain Bean for part of the day so I can get tortured without worrying about her. LOVE them.)

The Party is Here

Today my Bean is 23 months old. This is the last month I can name her age by months without someone thinking I'm a bit silly, but I may just do it to keep her my baby a little longer. Of course, she is blasting through this baby business lately and I am seeing a determined, confident little girl starting to appear. At mother's day out, they always say "the party is here" as she runs down the hallway to her class waving and saying hi to everyone along the way. A friend of mine says "This is Bean's world. We are just visiting."

And they are right. Bean is a beautiful child. (I have no qualms in saying this since we don't share DNA.) I see how strangers turn to look at her and how she lights up any room she walks into with a happy energy. She rarely meets a stranger and while she loves all the attention, she is also ready to "He'p" someone who is hurt or to ask if someone is "Okay." And each time I see her in action I think "don't mess this up, Julie." I have never felt so terrified as I do thinking about her future. I know all too well some of the things that can really hurt a girl's spirit. I am still putting pieces of myself back together years later. I so want to protect her from the bumps and heartaches of growing up, all the while knowing that is just part of it. But is it too much to hope for a few bumper pads to cushion the blow?

Raising a girl in this "modern world" is tricky business. I believe whether a girl is deemed beautiful or plain, girls are expected to be a long list of juxtapositions: soft but strong, kind but tough, smart but relatable, trusting but cautious, friendly but not inviting, safe but daring, mainstream but creative, etc. And don't get me started on how horrible girls can be to each other (at age 9 or at 40!)

And while i know I cannot control the future, I pray that somehow my life experience will prevent her from having to learn too much the hard way. I pray that her happy energy is not squelched by hard knocks along the way. I pray she can hang on to the self-confidence and loudly proclaim "Hello world! It's my party, glad you came, now get out of my way so I can lead!"

Messy Confessions

I have been so irritated with our home lately -- less storage, smaller rooms, etc. It was just barely enough house when Jeff and I moved here three years ago. We downsized and still ended up having to rent a storage room for some family antiques. Then we added Bean and her collection of toys and tutus has us bursting at the seams. For decades, families had a lot more people in a lot less space and one bathroom behind the house, but they had a lot less STUFF.
So lately, I have been convinced that if I had more storage and larger rooms (not to mention a maid) that I would be a much better housekeeper. Seriously, how is that as a stay-at-home-mom with less house to maintain that I do a worse job of it than when I worked and had more house?

But then I made this list:

True confessions:

• I am the child of two "stackers". (My father's home office was a mound of paper and my mom's trick for getting ready for company is to dump it all in baskets or make neat piles.)
• I had few chores as a child. (My father had so many chores on the farm when he was a kid that he was way too easy on what my brother and I were required to do around the house.)
• I hate to pick up. (When I was about 11, my mom went back to work and we had a maid once a week and I recall having to do a mass pick up to get ready for the maid. That seemed so weird -- cleaning up for the maid.)
• I was a very messy kid. (I still have a book my mom bought me called The Big Clean-Up to encourage me to keep my room clean. It didn't work.)
• I have been known to step over something 10 times before I will bend over and pick it up.
• At home, I am lucky if I can find my keys much less my favorite book or that watch I am still missing.
• My creative brain can be highly tolerant of chaos and rejects routine.
• I have trouble putting something back in the same place twice, but in jobs I am able to be very organized unless things get really stressful at which point my desk disappears.
• I sleep in a nest of 3-4 pillows.
• I appreciate my family heirlooms.
• I love to see photos of my friends and family on my table.
• I enjoy my art and collectibles.
• I tend to keep quirky things that bring back memories.
• I save pieces of ribbons, buttons, and cool paper to use in art projects.
• I find it difficult to throw away good cardboard, an old spiral, or the piece that I am not sure what it is but I may need it later.
• I always end up needing the one thing I finally sold, gave away, or threw out.
• I have boxes of clothes from when I was a baby that Jilly has gotten to wear and I love that.
• I have my mom's prom dress.
• I have my prom shoes.
• Trust me, my husband has just as much stuff!
  

Oops. There it is. The problem isn't the house. In college, my freshman roommate told me during a fight over decorating our room that I lived in a lot of space. Funny how that stuck with me, but as you can tell from the list above, it is true.

I found this entry in an old journal blog which reminds me why we bought the size home we have and what our goal was for living here. It is good to remember this when I have spent the last few days lamenting the wisdom our choice:

July, 2008: Jeff and I came to an agreement tonight that we wanted to make some changes in our life that buying a larger, more expensive home wouldn’t help us do. Sure, we can afford a house on the lake, but do we want to be slaves to a house payment and then never home to enjoy it? We’d like a little slower pace of life and time to enjoy it. If we buy a little away from the lake, but close enough to get there, we may actually be able to afford for me to stay home and start our family. At age 40, that dream is getting a little more time-sensitive, so if we are going to make this type of life change, the time is now.

And it was the right choice. We adopted Jillian in 2010. I am home with her. I am grateful for both of those things. My mantra needs to be "We have enough." Because we do. In fact, we have more than we need. I need to accept what I have as a gift and figure out a way to be happy with where I am planted.

Which leaves me addressing the stuff. How do we make a life for ourselves in the present if we are bogged down by the stuff of our past and overwhelmed by the stuff gathering as part of our future? I have friends that tell me just to get rid it. Take a photo of what you love and then the item is not taking up space. I have been giving away and selling stuff, but it is hard to let go (see above confessions) when I don't just want to see the item but I want to feel the wood smoothed by many hands touching it, study the scratches and tooth marks on it, and be reminded of how I tripped and scratched the back of that prom shoe. But I am working on letting go of all that so I can make room for what is to come.

I don't really have a nice bow to wrap up this package of thoughts; in reality if I was making a bow I would have misplaced the ribbon, lost the scissors, and stepped on a Duplo block while looking, so I am ending here:

Depression is caused by living in the past.
Anxiety is caused by living in the future.
Happiness is caused by living in the present.

Guess it is time to clean house.

Poop or get off the pot

WARNING: This post contains potty humor.

I rarely ease in to anything. I either do nothing or I jump in with both feet. Evidently, my daughter has this same trait as she decided Tuesday afternoon that she was ready to poop in the potty -- catching me quite off-guard when she actually DID!! (She is 22 3/4 months old so not a potty genius like her friend M.D. at 18 months.) There I was without a camera, stickers, M&Ms or anything but a high five to commemorate the moment.

So she spent a few hours Tuesday and all day Wednesday running back and forth to the bathroom because heaven-forbid she just use a little potty chair like other kids... we had to go on the BIG potty which meant Mommy (me) would have to bend over (remember, folks, I am over 40 here) and lift her wiggly 27 lbs. onto the potty and then help steady her little booty from falling in since I didn't have a seat insert. I finally got smart enough to put a step stool in front of the potty, but I bought a seat insert with so much cushie for her tushie that I am back to helping her get on the toilet.

We ended Wednesday with only one turd on the floor and a few minor wet spots all without a single tangible reward besides a high five. I was pretty proud of both of us!! For those keeping score:

Potty: 3 poops and 3 pees
Carpet: 1 poop and 1 pee
Mommy's lap: 1 pee
Couch: 1 pee

And then came today. She willingly went potty right when she woke up so I didn't put a diaper back on her. To jump start the day, we watched a video about girls going potty and she started to show some interest in the smaller potty chair (which is kind of gross, but would at least give us a fast option and much easier on my back). We had a few accidents, but by noon the score was:

Potty: 1 1/2 poops and 3 pees
Footstool: 1 pee
Carpet: 1 1/2 poops (I have to add here that when she makes these perfectly formed poops on the floor she freaks out and starts screaming "Icky! Icky!" and runs to me like it is a snake that is going to bite her. I have had to hold in my laughter every time.)

...and it all went down hill from there. Evidently the novelty wears off about 36 hours in. I put her in pull ups for nap and when I tried to take them back off I was met with kicks and screaming "Mine!" She pulled them down for an after nap potty and eventually took them off herself, but refused to sit on the potty for the next two hours so I finally put them back on her and called it a day. Final score - Bad Attitude: 2

And for the record, I am willing to bet that "Shit or get off the pot" was first said by someone toilet training a toddler at the time. I am seriously considering installing a chaise lounge and hiring a personal masseuse if we have to keep this up for much longer.

(P.S. I promised to show you the disaster I created in my kitchen cooking, but that has now turned into a complete house disaster that might lead to some sort of inspector showing up at my house so instead I am including a photo of the disaster she made of me in just 24 hours...today's look is probably worse, but I refuse to look!)
Yup, this would have been easier in my 20s. But then again, it wouldn't have been with Bean and THAT wouldn't be okay.

Hello World!

So, here’s the deal. After two years as a stay-at-home mom of a now toddler who is kicking my ass daily, I have decided it is time to blog about my experiences as an over 40 mom raising a beautifully exhausting nearly 23 month old girl I call Bean. I often say to people “This is why people should have kids in their 20s” as I am chasing her around — thus the title of this blog.

Of course, like all good mommies, this blog will also create a "history" for our family of our antics, our challenges, and our fun moments. However, this blog will also be alot about me -- the Bean gets most of the attention these days, so I need all the attention I can get elsewhere. If you know me, you will know I am often honest to a fault and often an "over sharer" and certainly don't consider many (if any) topics to be private. Therefore, this blog will be a random collection of stories I have written, art I have created, disasters I have made, ah-ha moments I have had, and more than likely a chance to bitch about something such as my husband's dirty bathroom, needing to get serious about getting healthier, and anything else that annoys me.

So, there you have it. My first post. Welcome to my world.