June 30, 2008

Because I Said So

I’m sick. It’s laryngitis, I think. Thanks to WebMD, I was able to determine why I have had a sore throat and raspy, almost non-existent voice since last Wednesday.

I honestly thought it was just a looming cold, but it’s not. Then I thought it might be seasonal allergies, but anti-histamines do nothing to relieve my symptoms. I’ve made an appointment for later this morning, and hopefully my doctor won’t be an asshole today.

Last night (or rather, this morning?) I was wide awake until 4:30 a.m. with no logical explanation as to why. I wanted to go to sleep, because I was truly tired, but my body wasn’t having any of that pesky sleep. My golly, it had better things to do; such as watch bad T.V. and read magazines and blogs until the birds began chirping outside my living room window. WTF is up with that?

And Dawson. Dear sweet, devilish Dawson. He is driving me Capital C-R-A-Z-Y. And I can’t take it anymore.

This child is testing me. I swear he is saving up all his energy to drive me batty. The constant whining. The screaming like a girl - it’s a blood curdling scream, too.

Yesterday he let out a shriek and I honestly thought he stepped on a nail (we were outside). It was enough to make my heart stop. Turns out he stepped in dog poop. Fresh dog poop that Murphy left right next to Dawson’s sandbox. Had I known it was there, I would have scooped it up right away.

And this boy of mine will not leave Murphy alone. He insists that he’s just “loving him” and he pulls on his ears and pinches his fur and drags him by the collar to wherever he’d like him to go. My poor pup clings to my side and the look in his eye says, “Please, woman! Keep that little Lucifer away from me!”

I’ve tried to separate the two of them, and it usually results in tears and whining. “But I LOVE him!” Dawson will say. Yeah. It shows. Leave the dog alone, goll’ dammit!

I refuse to kennel Murphy when Dawson is in these destructive moods, because I don’t want to punish the dog for being so tolerant of that 3-foot person.

I’ve given Dawson several time outs, but he just doesn’t seem to understand what he’s doing wrong — because he goes right back and does it again.

Oh, and we’ve entered the Why Stage. I can’t take it. Everything I say results in Dawson asking, “Why?”

Dawson, please throw your garbage away. Why? Because that’s where it belongs.

Dawson, it’s time to come in the house. Why?  Because it’s getting dark outside.

Dawson, your shoes are on the wrong feet. Why? Because you put them there.

Dawson, leave the dog alone!!! Why? BECAUSE I SAID SO!

And then I realized I’ve become my mother. Something I thought would NEVER happen. But after my husband counted how many times I said, “Because I SAID so!” (18 in one day), I realized it’s inevitable and I’m not going to fight it anymore. I’m too tired. And maybe that’s how I got laryngitis. Or why my voice has left the building.

June 5, 2008

I Drop the F-Bomb Too Much

Apparently, I’ve been cussing a little too much lately. It must be the fucking F-bomb. I admit it. Saying that word makes me feel a little better. However, it does NOT make me a classy lady. So, in an effort to once again be the good Catholic girl my mother would be proud of, each time I swear on this blog (from this post forward), I will put a dollar in the swear jar, and that money will get donated to the charity of your choice.

Now remember, it’s your job to keep track of my cursing in case I fucking forget. Oops. There’s two dollars. (Did you forget the first one up there?) I had to say it one last time….

6/9/08 Update - Current “swearing tally” is: $11.00. I’ve started donating money every time I swear on twitter and while using google talk. Yikes!

June 3, 2008

Acci-Dental

Yesterday, I mentioned that I had to see my dentist. For the record, going to the dentist scares me. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been freaked out about the fact that I have to keep my mouth open for long durations while someone sticks his or her fingers and metal dentistry tools in my mouth.

I’d rather give birth, or worse, clean out a refrigerator full of rotten food, than have a teeth cleaning or any kind of dental work. Don’t get me wrong, I know this is a necessary part of personal hygiene, so I stick it out and get it done.

Last month, I broke a filling that was originally put in when I was in junior high, well over 15 years ago. It was one of those old school silver fillings that typically only last 10 years, so mine was due for a replacement five years ago. Since my dentist is a student of new age dentistry, both preventative and cosmetic (he has a degree or something from the fancy-schmancy school of dentistry in Las Vegas — or so I read on his wall certificate), I had a consult to replace all of the old fillings in my mouth.

There are a total of four. I could kick myself for drinking Mountain Dew as a teenager. It didn’t matter that I brushed my teeth 80 times a day (my mother was a nag about dental hygiene, she still calls me occasionally to ask if I’m brushing my teeth), that shit is toxic for tooth enamel. (And smoking is toxic! Thank goodness I quit.)

Now normally I go to my appointments alone, but we had a conflict with Doug’s work schedule and it was too late to drive Dawson to daycare before my appointment, so I took him with me. If anything, it would be a good way to introduce him to the dentist so that he won’t be scared when it’s his turn for a teeth cleaning. It was a good idea in theory.

We arrived on time, and the very nice receptionist checked me in. I had brought a coloring book and crayons to keep Dawson occupied for the one hour appointment, and since my dentist is a bajillionaire (he’s the best doctor in town), he has televisions with cable in every exam room and so Dawson was able to watch Spongebob. My son sat in a little kiddie chair in the corner, right next to my dental chair.

The first 30 minutes of the appointment were fine. I tried to stay calm while Dr. M drilled away, but then suddenly I felt a stab in my tongue. I winced with pain. I thought for sure I was poked with a dental pick. My dentist apologized, said my “nosy tongue” got pinched by whatever metal tool he was using to put the new filling in. I could taste blood and I thought for sure I was going to vomit, because I began gagging.

The very nice dental assistant did a quick rinse-and-suction, while Dr. M put Ora-Sav on the cut to help it heal. However, Dawson knew I was in pain because I had tears rolling down my cheek.

“What are you doing to my mommy? Don’t hurt my mommy!” he yelled.

Imagine me, mouth numb and wide open trying to soothe my child with a cheery gurgle-hum-combination. It wasn’t pretty. The dentist had to stop what he was doing so that I could assure my son that I was okay and that I wasn’t in pain. I lied for Dawson’s sake.

“Mommy ih-fwine, weety…ih dun hurt aa all….” I tried to say. I guess I was more numb than I realized, and my tongue really did hurt!

After it was over, I joked with Dr. M, whom I’ve known for years, about my minor injury.

“So, I didn’t know Family Dental Center could perform a Tonguectomy.” I laughed.

“Yeah…but you know the nice thing about tongues is, they grow back.” Dr. M joked back.

All I kept thinking was, they do? I better google this…

After I paid the astronomical bill of $700 (this is AFTER insurance, too), Dawson and I walked slowly to the car.

“Mumma? Are you okay?” Dawson asked.

“Yep. I’m fine.” I said. “See? The dentist isn’t scary!”

I lied to my son, I had to.  He will have to go to the dentist eventually.  However, my son is no dummy.

“Mumma, I don’t want to go to the dentist. I don’t want him to cut my tongue off like yours!”

Looks like I better stock up on toothpaste and mouthwash, and nag him 80 times a day to brush and rinse, because Dawson may never go to the dentist after of this experience.

May 20, 2008

Sadness, Anger, Frustration: An Update, Comments Open

I have been going through something the past few months and it’s a subject that I always feel uncomfortable blogging about. I worry that in the midst of my vent I’ll spew something that will offend others and I don’t want to do that. I’ve experienced the repercussions of “blogging out loud” and it doesn’t feel good at all.

Thing is, I’m frustrated and angry and sad and I have to get it out. Stuffing all the emotions to the pit of my stomach isn’t healthy, and maybe just getting down to it and letting it all out will allow me to refocus on the situation.

You see, I want another baby. Doug and I have been trying to get pregnant since last fall. Actually we began trying much earlier than that, a year ago really, but we didn’t focus too hard on it because we didn’t want babymaking to become stressful. Add to that my nagging family members, constantly asking when baby number two would arrive and I was in no mood to put extra pressure on myself.

Month after month I would chart my cycles, pee on ovulation sticks, have sex at the “right time” and wait as patiently as possible hoping that when I took a home pregnancy test, positive lines would appear.

And every month as the big fat negative would stare me in the face, mocking me, the sadness would set in. Followed by anger, frustration and a loss of hope.

Oh, how I try to stay positive. Oh, how I try to not let this bring me down. I pretend that it doesn’t hurt deep inside when others announce their pregnancies. Even when I’m genuinely happy for these women, who deserve to have beautiful babies as much as anyone, part me wants to run away and not think about it. Sometimes I don’t want to go through the congratulatory motions because I feel like I’m creating more hurt for myself. Sometimes I want to scream and yell and curse. But I don’t.

I think about how ridiculous it is. I don’t want to be a jealous woman. I’ve blogged about this subject only a few times before and I feel shitty for doing it. I hate ripping open the wound for all to see. But then the anger sets in and makes me think I have the right to express how I feel.

I keep thinking that my “turn” will come again. That it’s not in the cards at this moment in time, but you know what? That pisses me off even more. And there’s no one to talk to about it. People will never tell you, but they are sick of hearing about the poor girl who can’t seem to get pregnant. I’m that girl. And when I confide in some of my pals, they nod and smile, but I can tell they don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear about it and it’s me. Yet it’s eating me alive.

And what’s worse is there’s nothing that can be said or done to make me feel better. It’s pathetic, really.

This isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with conception issues. It took two years to conceive Dawson. I’ve been diagnosed with every fucking female problem imaginable. Fibroids, PCOS, blah, blah, blah. I’ve been going to the gym to distract myself from this frustration, thinking that losing weight will help. And then I start to cry, because how much weight do I need to lose to get pregnant? Dawson will be four years old in September. Will my kids be ten years apart, because I couldn’t get pregnant?

I feel awful thinking and worrying about this crap. And I know it doesn’t help matters. I know that. I’ve been through this before. It still hurts.

My period is due tomorrow. I jumped the gun and peed on the stick today. Negative. I don’t even feel pregnant. Yet I keep holding on to this small glimmer of hope. Through the tears, I keep hoping. But it doesn’t make me feel any better.

I just had to get it all out….

(Comments are closed for now. I’m just not ready to hear what everyone is thinking. I’m sure many will think I’m crazy. I probably sound like a nut job. I know that.)

Updated - Comments are now open. After I stopped dwelling on it, I realized that I need to stop blaming myself and it’s okay to let others support me.

So many of you have sent me e-mails sharing your stories. I’ve discovered my story is not unique and some of you have felt the exact same way that I do. It’s okay to let it out. Scream and yell and curse if you need to. Use the comments as your forum. I admit, just writing my post yesterday was therapeutic and I’m somewhat clear headed today.

Thanks to everyone who e-mailed me. Words cannot express how grateful I am for your support. That alone is helping me to remain hopeful. Thank you.