Coming out of it

I have several posts started in my draft folder that were soooo depressing that I couldn't even finish typing them. I mentioned briefly in my first post-bar post that I was having trouble adjusting to life post-bar. I'm finally adjusting from my postBARtum depression. (GET IT? I'm funny.)

In this moment, I can hardly explain how I was feeling, but I seriously struggling. I would look up from whatever I was doing, and say "Ughhh, I'm struggling", silently and to myself, of course. But today, after taking a sick day to take Mia to the doctor for a long-time cough, things seem... better. For no good reason, they just seem better.

All the things I was sad about before? They're still there. Whether I want to check job postings, find out whether I could work with a recruiter, whether I want to ask for a raise... all those things are still there, still problems. But I don't feel them physically weighing down on me the way I have in the past couple of weeks.

I'm adjusting - waiting, knowing that however difficult it can be, we're getting there. B and I go to bed every night giggling about something cute and funny Mia did that day. Last night, we were a bit more sentimental than usual and asked each other how we could have gotten so lucky with our little one. So sweet and so fiesty, so smart and so silly. Are all parents this obsessed with their children? He said probably. I said I hoped so.

PS - MPRE tomorrow! And then, finally, I will get to the books waiting for me on my Kindle.

I Should Be Bald

I swear that with all the stress lately, I should be completely, 100% bald.  So much, there's just so much.  Sorry for my much extended absence.  This is obviously Frenchie's blog now and I'm a guest writer occasionally.  But, lucky you, lucky lucky you, my goal for lent is to write twice a week here at least.  May be long, may be short.  But it should be good, at least for me, because I have things to get off my shoulders.  NOT that I want every entry to be heavy, you wonderful women don't deserve that.  (Though on the absolute worst days some might be more serious than joking.)  But part of this is writing as an escape.  Writing about random happenings and off-the-top of my head thoughts so that I can dull the volume of the rest of the world around me if only for 30-60 minutes.

Just a [not so] brief listing to give you an idea of that loud world around me:

• Tybalt is 2.5 and not talking yet.  We have started seeing a speech therapist and developmental specialists.  All say he is very smart, quick, and either on par or advanced in ever other aspect.  But speech is a problem that needs to be dealt with.  1) I worry about my little boy.  2) I feel like the worst mom in the world.  Only Frenchie and B, and our fellow best friends J&D (see "host" and "host's wife" in entries such as when Terror almost sets the house on fire) who are Tybalt's Godparents are aware of this.  A friend posted something on Facebook the other day that made me think:  She basically said, "Why is it when you child can't/won't do the one thing they should and every other kid around them their age and developmental level can, the biggest dose of mother guilt sets in and you feel like the worst mother ever?"  I know I love my son and give him practically every opportunity we can.  I know he's very smart in general.  So why the frick is he not speaking?  And why can't I shake the feeling that it is somehow my fault?

• My lawsuit against the medical facility we are claiming was allegedly negligent in my care, resulting in a Stage IV bedsore and permanent damage, is coming along.  (I don't actually know how much I can say.)  I don't know how much progress, that's like OZ behind the curtain, but I did my deposition last July and am waiting to probably be called in again, and Romeo and his mom were deposed this week.  I know that this blog is a member of a MILP line-up.  You are all probably thinking that depositions and trials (if no settlement is reached first, my tentative first day of court is in November) should be the least of my worries.  Well, what can I say?  I don't deal with any of this regularly on a daily basis.  And while I knew in deciding to pursue this case it would get difficult, as the plaintiff I had NO real, actual, serious idea of the nerves, the jump my heart makes from chest to stomach every time my lawyer's phone number appears on my caller ID with a new update or question.

• We are buying a house.  Fantastic!  Great!  It's about time!  And we got pre-approved for like $50 grand more than we want to spend because we know how we prefer to budget our money.  So that put us in a particular bracket of housing, that in Las Vegas, is low on inventory because cash investors are buying them all up.  Doesn't matter if a good, hard working family like ours will ever get to live in one.  The investors just want them for business.  So shopping and finding something we wanted was more rough than we thought it would be.  But we couldn't wait any longer.  Home prices in Las Vegas have gone up something like 20% since January 2012, and continue to rise.  That, plus the reduced inventory means you have to view houses in the morning and make bids by the afternoon.  We finally got a bid accepted.  We are OVERJOYED!  I should correct that--Romeo is.  I am oh, let's just say "cautiously optimistic "  For once, I sincerely want to be overjoyed!  I want to be throwing items in boxes willy nilly and doing my own silly version of some victory end-zone touchdown dance.  Finally, I will be living in a place that doesn't have an apartment, suite, or dorm number!  For me, a 28 year-old coming straight off of that, it is huge and a dream come true.  Even if it sounds odd or petty to anyone else.  Guess I should throw out an apology just in case.  We are currently in escrow.  I know very few close friends who have bought a house, so I don't know if it's urban legend or what, but I've heard of multiple cases where people enter escrow and then never close escrow and get the house.  If any of you readers know why, can you help?  My only gut feelings would be that these stories are before the big economical crash, so people were being pre-approved quickly for mortgages and entering escrow just to find out that the lender didn't approve them properly or at all and thus the money is not there.  Or, that the families never bothered going through the pre-approval process, started to shop for houses, found one they fell in love with, tried to secure approval on a mortgage then, and didn't qualify.  Am I right on any of these situations?  What are some other reasons escrows fail and never close?  Anybody know?  At least in our situation, none of that should be the case.  We have hit at least one major road block (keep reading) but we are completely pre-approved for our mortgage loan by a woman who has such a positive reputation in town that both realtors we have worked with have individually told us that in this day and age they don't take on "just any old clients. But if Mrs. _____ _______ has pre-approved you, you're good to go.  In my 20+ years (or 30+ years for realtor #1) she has never given me a couple/family pre-approved who wasn't good for it.  If she pre-approves you, you're gold to work with.  You are basically approved already."  This should all comfort me, right?  Yeah, hello Ms. Pessimistic  My Name is Juliet.  Welcome back, I hear you'll be checking in and staying for a while.

• On the house front--close of escrow was predicted by February 28th.  We are purchasing a foreclosed home which means Fannie Mae (Government) is the owner.  And they contract with a local Title Company to do their "bidding" here in town.  Well, after over a week with no updates from our realtor or our lender, we found out the title company was dragging their feet because they were hoping no one would find out a clerical mistake had occurred and the title was TECHNICALLY not in Fannie Mae's name yet.  Please cover the eyes and ears of any children nearby--WHAT THE FFFFFFFFFFFFF? You're selling us a home (you've been sending your own hired maintenance crew for raking and mowing, etc that I already met out there one day, so you think you own it as much as we do) but anyway  you're selling us a home, that TECHNICALLY you don't own yet?  Knock me unconscious people, just do it, I can't take the stress.  But at least that was supposed to be done by Monday the 11th.  Putting us only about 2 weeks behind and making a February 28 closing date (or at least real close to it) still completely possible.  Tuesday the 12th comes and our realtor (lovely man, seriously, but by now his Irish blood is boiling and I think he's resisting the urge to tip some cows, lol) still hasn't heard back and now must call and ream someone out to get an answer.  The answer?  They never could have had it resolved by the 11th, they were blowing smoke up his angry butt to get him off their backs.  Apparently there is a trash lien on the house.  Yes, either the former owner, or Fannie Mae as they have been tending it, hasn't paid so many trash fees that the City WILL NOT release the title to Fannie Mae until it is paid in full.  More government interference, which means more time.  Which means forget getting out of here and moving by Feb/March.

• Two Huge Fears on top of all these others: First) if this trash lien has been out there for so long and the Title Company dropped the ball in paying it to clear the title and get it fair and square in Fannie Mae's name in order to sell this house (which has been on market since mid 2012--quite long for this Las Vegas Market)  and has just been sitting back playing computer games all day and hoping no one got the wiser, what else have they screwed up on, overlooked, etc., and are just waiting to see that they can't cover their own asses over anymore?  How many more things will arise? Secondly) What was their ultimate plan?  They couldn't keep quiet regarding a trash lien (or anything else that might come up, AND PLEASE I BEG YOU ALL TO PRAY NOTHING ELSE DOES) forever.  Like I said, the house is a foreclosure   It is the Title Company's job to be Fannie Mae's local eyes and ears.  And if it wasn't us showing interest, putting down earnest money, getting our offer accepted, and signing a contract, it would have been some other family a week or two later.  Did they really think things such as this would never get discovered?  Come on now, it just doesn't even make sense.

• Oh, and on top of that, seeing we have to be in our apartment longer, the management is charging us $400 extra for March and then prorated based on that exorbitant rate for April 1-14.  But we signed a 60 day notice, so as far as getting through escrow without anymore bumps, bruises, and scrapes, and for hopefully convincing the apartment management to stop trying to milk an already dry cow (the extra money is just not there) prayers, chants, meditations and crossed fingers--WOULD ALL BE GREATLY HELPFUL LADIES!  Thanks.

• And my relocating parents, Lady C and Lord C?  They spent 4 days here in sunny, chilly, but definitely not frigid (70 here compared to 10 degrees when boarding in Chi-town) to look at apartments two weeks ago.  After Las Vegas they were on to Salt Lake City, which is 45 minutes from my sister and brother-in-law.  My gut had been saying they were going to choose UT.  I was actually fine with it.  A little sting feeling like it meant choosing her over me, but I forced past that juvenile thinking.  And focused on how UT means more family time, more bonding time for them and Tybalt, yet no doorbell rings and *poof!* there they are on my front stoop, no "The car broke down, can you come jump me 45 minutes away?" no "What do you MEAN you're spending this Sunday with Romeo's mom.  We want you here!"  Well, guess what, they are now apparently 99.9% sure they have chosen Las Vegas.  That unreliable gut of mine.

Sigh, its 3:41, and you know me, re-reading and editing my own work will take me until 4am. *Note, yep, it's 5:19am now, oh how off I was on that one, lol.*

Oh, one thing I forgot is an answer to my anniversary conundrum back in October.  Our solution is in the final comment I left.  Not bad, but still room for improvement, which I feel should be the soundtrack to my life right now.  Hmm, I wonder who I'd get to sing it--I do like Kelly Clarkson. ;)

• Oh, and Harold, F-I-L, returns for three months either February 27 or March 6.  "Insert haunting "Law and Order Theme Hear."  And I'm done.

I Miss My Mommy

I really miss my Mommy. You'd think in your late 20's you'd be able to handle living across the country from your parents. That if you could muster the courage to move away at 22, that by 28 it'd be even easier- that you'd be completely "over" it, used to it, okay with it. That you'd feel like a grown a$$ adult and be okay on your own. But some days and times I just really want my Mom and/or Dad. Some moments I miss them so much I can't function- I just need a good cry. And I get jealous of those, like my husband and some of my friends, who have never lived more than a few hours from their folks and family. I think sometimes they take it for granted. There, I admitted it, I miss my Mommy. And I know, I wrote a month ago about how my Mom lost her job and my parents feel it's possibly the time to relocate out West, and that it makes me nervous because I don't know what I really want...*breath break*...and I still don't. Luckily, perhaps, it's not my decision to make. God/fate will step in and they will go wherever jobs can be found. But it's simply evidence that I really am torn. For every phone conversation that ends with me wanting to poke myself in the eye with a fork, there are moments like today when I am so sad it feels like someone is stabbing my heart with that damn fork.

The Following Is Selfish (aka MUST I Be Happy For You and Your Baby?)

I don't even know if I can pretend it's not selfish.  When he comes home from work my husband, Romeo, will hold me and cuddle me and rock me over it and know that I had a bad day.  But that doesn't mean he'll understand *exactly* why I'm so upset.  And he won't be even a smidgen upset himself.  I called my mother in tears, thinking maybe of all people, I could get a free pass with her.  Nope.  It was her firm reaction that made me go from thinking, "It's illogical, but it's still a big deal to me personally," to now thinking, "Wake the f^@% up, Juliet.  You are the only one in the world that would even care about this, much less give it a second thought."  She told me I was being ridiculous, overly dramatic, absurd, and ungrateful, and those were just the put-downs (or reality checks depending on which way you are looking at this) that I can actually remember from our brief phone call.

What's going on?  Many readers of this blog know that my delivery of Tybalt was not an easy one.  I had heart complications and have been told I am no longer able to have any more children.  For some people one child is their goal.  I say more power to them.  As long as they are happy and feel accomplished, life is good.  However, for me personally, I am not happy nor do I feel accomplished.  I love children (every job I've had has revolved around children) and I have daydreamed about my perfect 3-4 children since I was 3 feet tall; so being told at age 26 that child bearing was over for me was a hard blow.  No, make that a suffocating grasp by one who holds the Star Wars Force.  I don't know the movies past some iconic clips and references, but I know Darth Vader has the power to strangle someone out just by practically pantomiming it from afar.  That's what it felt like when the strange doctor hovered over my bed and gave me the news. (Against express wishes from Romeo who knew I'd be devastated and wanted to break the news to me himself, in private, once I was released from all the hospitals, but was at work that morning, so I was alone with a doctor who wasn't my normal one; and, gee, thanks "Dr. I Have No Bedside Manners and Didn't Read the Notes On the Report Before Coming In To A Room I Was Simply Doing Rounds For And It Really Wasn't Any of My Business Anyway"...)

Romeo and I have considered adoption, but for now at least, it isn't in the cards.  Adoption is expensive, and we don't have a savings to even put towards it.  And with all my medical bills, it will be awhile before we could even start to save. I love my son.  DO NOT MISTAKE ANYTHING I EVER TYPE WHEN FRUSTRATED OR ANGRY OR SAD OR HURT.  He is "practically perfect in every way" (thank you Mary Poppins).  But I want another child.  I won't rest until I get another.  I personally feel, that as for me, as for our family, we are not complete.  There is a spirit waiting in heaven that is supposed to join our family.  I don't know how, and I don't know when, but I feel it.  Maybe adoption, maybe surrogacy (new idea we've been bouncing around, but only during those "If we ever won the lottery..." kinds of conversations because of the price tag), or maybe I oops get pregnant even though we are on 3 types of birth control, God protects the baby and me through it, and I have my tubes tied after.  Who knows?  I don't.  But until then, I'm mad that without either science, a miracle, or the aforementioned lottery winnings, Tybalt is an only child.  And as friends and family get pregnant and then use social media to post ultrasound copies, update the world regarding how many weeks along they are, and then of course come the pictures of smiling Mommy and baby in hospital bed, captioned with date, time, weight, and length stats by a sleep deprived father, well...I go from mad for my own situation to Queen of Jealousy and an Angry Bitch.

There are some people I would be overjoyed to see have a baby.  Frenchie is one. My dear friend "D" and her husband "J" (Tybalt's Godparents) have been trying for years and can't conceive--they are another example.  Perhaps it's because these women are my best friends so their happiness is mine.  Perhaps it's because, while entirely and definitely not necessary, they love me and would think about my feelings when announcing their pregnancy.  But it's women my age that are on their sometimes second, but even more so third or fourth baby that drive me a little nutty.

**INSERT NOTE HERE: I KNOW MANY OF OUR READERS HAVE MULTIPLE CHILDREN AND/OR ARE PREGNANT CURRENTLY.  I BEG YOU NOT TO TAKE OFFENSE.  ALL OF YOU ARE DIFFERENT TO ME THAN THE WOMEN AND SITUATIONS I AM TRYING RELAX ABOUT AND GET A GRIP.  THROUGH THIS BLOGOSPHERE WE HAVE COME TO SHARE OUR JOYS AND OUR HEARTACHES.  I AM SIMPLY SHARING SOMETHING THAT IS IN THE HEARTACHE CATEGORY.  AND I'M THANKFUL FOR YOUR LISTENING EARS.  IT IS THE FORMER CO-WORKERS, FORMER FRIENDS, CURRENT FRIENDS, FORMER CLASSMATES, ETC., THAT I KNOW I WILL BE FORCED TO SMILE FOR, LEAVE EXCLAMATION MARKS AFTER A WRITTEN CONGRATS ON FACEBOOK WHEN I WISH I DIDN'T HAVE TO CONGRATULATE THEM AT ALL, ETC, THAT GETS MY BLOOD BOILING.  PERHAPS BECAUSE THEY DON'T KNOW WHAT'S IT'S LIKE TO HURT, THEY DON'T HAVE THE SUPPORT SYSTEM WE DO WHERE WE HELP EACH OTHER AND REALLY SEEM TO CARE.  MAYBE IT'S MY FAULT, MAYBE IF I TOLD THEM IT'S HARD FOR ME, THEY'D THINK TWICE.  BUT I KNOW I WON'T.  BECAUSE I SHOULDN'T.  IT'S NOT MY PLACE TO PUT A DAMPER ON THEIR GOOD TIMES.  ANYWAY, I'M JUST TRYING TO SAY NONE OF YOU DEPRESS ME, BECAUSE WE ARE ALL CANDID HERE AND KNOW NONE OF US ARE PERFECT.  IT IS THOSE I HAVE TO PRETEND IN FRONT OF THAT MAKES ME WANT TO GORGE MY EYES OUT WITH A FORK WHEN YET ANOTHER NEWBORN PHOTO IS UPLOADED TO THEIR FACEBOOK WALL.**  (If you are still offended, I apologize that I can't clarify further or enough apparently, but invite you to private message me so we can have a heart to heart.)

Anyway, where was I?  Oh yeah, the part where I explain what prompted this Tuesday morning rant.  Today  is August 21st and it is Tybalt's 2nd birthday!  We are celebrating with a small party on Saturday, but today is the big day.  Every birthday is hard on me, as I found last year's was as well.  It should be noted that amongst other things, I have the usual birthday anxieties--I am simply bummed that my little baby is growing up so fast and already turning 2 years old!  And I do think most moms experience those sorts of feeling at some point.  So in that regard I'm not crazy or highly unusual.  But where the rare (and perhaps crazy) kicks in, is that at his birthday I am reminded of while pregnant my high hopes for an easy scheduled c-section, cuddling him in the hospital for a couple of days, then taking him home and making him mine all mine (oh, and Romeo's too, lol) as we became a tiny but perfect family.  Instead I have flashbacks of glaring lights in hospital "bulletin board material" ceilings, hallucinations from IV drugs, not being able to talk due to a tracheotomy, only seeing my son to feed him a bottle when my MIL brought him by, and even then being forced to wear a mask and scaring myself that I was scaring him because all he could see was my eyes.  Then being released when he was 3 months old but in rehab in the basement for bedsore complications and not being able to help my MIL with his care, even for the few hours I could stay awake due to meds, until he was 4-5 months old.  Not exactly the birth story you want to celebrate yearly.  *SO* many people (aka practically everyone I know) tell me I just have the wrong attitude about it.  That I truly should be celebrating--being alive.  And not just "alive."  But "alive!!!!!!!!!!!" as in with as much jubilation and as many imaginary exclamation points as possible.  I'm not knocking being alive.  But what the world doesn't seem to understand is, in celebrating being alive, even just knowing and recognizing that I am, I still have to see the memories.  It doesn't make the pain go away.  Flashbacks are flashbacks.  I don't choose to dwell.  They pop up whether I like it or not.  A smell, or a word will do it while I'm awake.  Other times they resurface as nightmares during the little sleep I do get.  And for a few weeks around Tybalt's birthday both years now (and Thanksgiving which is the week I was finally released from the last hospital, but that's a separate side note)  it just seems to happen more often.  So even recognizing I'm alive and thanking God for it doesn't make it any easier to grin at Tybalt's birthday party.  And it definitely doesn't make those eternal optimists that keep popping out babies, like I wanted to, like I dreamed I'd be doing, any easier to stomach.

So, I DO want to enjoy today, I want to make it all about my wonderful little Tybalt, yet I can't push the storm clouds away.  So, I've simply been doing my best to ignore them.  Realize they are there, but not focus on them.  It hasn't been easy, but I'm trying.  Honest to God, I'm trying....I WAS trying...

.....Then IT happened.  The 365 to 1 chance I prayed wouldn't.  (I even said out loud to Romeo and Tybalt last night, "Everybody pray that 'it' won't happen for the next like 24 hours.  Just 26 hours to be exact!  Then I'll be fine.")  See, last March I found out Romeo's cousin, "CD" was pregnant with her second child.  CD and I have been passively aggressively competing since I met Romeo.  CD and her husband "ND" started dating right around the time Romeo and I did.  The big Hispanic family's attention steered off of us and on to them.  CD and ND got married 3 months before we did.  Family members low on cash went to the first wedding (theirs) and not the second (ours).  I announced I was pregnant the following February.  Guess who announced she was pregnant in April?  There went any pomp and circumstance I had coming.  Beyond that, "LD," CD and ND's precious baby boy, has been achieving developmental milestones weeks if not months ahead of Tybalt.  I am not concerned about my son, as all children develop differently, but try explaining that when ND's accomplishments are practically blown-up billboard size on social media sites like Facebook for all the extended family to see!  If I have one more "Aunt" ask me whether Tybalt can do what LD is doing in his latest video, and then give me a concerned look when I admit he can't yet-----I'm going to lose my already bat s#!% crazy mind!  So, since the big announcement that CD was expecting, and due sometime in August, I've been praying, hoping, and just sending as much positive energy into the universe as I could muster...but...as I'm sure you already guessed it--guess who gave birth to her beautiful bouncing 2nd baby boy today, August 21st, and what dad already has pictures plastered all over both of their Facebook walls?

So not only am I jealous of all healthy women who have healthy babies, not only is today hard because a) I don't want my baby to grow up, and b) it also throws me into a panicky tailspin of awful hospital and rehab memories, not only am I already in a personal funk because her 1st kid is so much more advanced than mine, but now...oh, now...she had her baby on my baby's birthday.

Okay, I'm done now.  Done ranting.  Done possibly annoying some of you with my pessimistic views.  Probably not done with, but trying to forgive, my mother and the rest of the world for not understanding what I'm going through and calling me selfish, illogical, and a weirdo. But on the other hand, how *can* anyone understand?  Show me someone who's gone through the *EXACT* same things I have the last two years with my health and my disappointments.  I mean exact to a "T" and I'll show you someone who might possibly relate.  Moral of the story?  Maybe I am being selfish, but walk a mile...

Warning: Probable TMI

**Advance warning: moments of weakness and probable TMI lie ahead. But if you are a mother or "to-be" it may be worth it to read.**

I wish I had been able to breastfeed. Even if only for a little while. Hell, even if only once. Maybe they would have handed me my little Tybalt in the postpartum room, I would have nursed once, and decided it wasn't "for" me. Or I might have tried nursing and found I literally physically couldn't. Or assuming it went swimmingly, maybe I nursed for a few months before weaning so Romeo could help in the middle of the night. Or imagine, what if I breastfed, loved it, Tybalt loved it, and instead of blogging at 1am right now, I was up nursing a 20-month-old still?

Point is, well, what is my point? I guess it's that I simply wish I could have tried it. Add it to the looooooong ass (excuse my French) list of newborn/mother experiences I feel I was cheated out of when my heart failed and I didn't even live with my son until he was 3 months old.

When "we" were pregnant Romeo and I discussed the breast vs. the bottle over and over again. It was perhaps the singular biggest decision I just could not make up to the very end. We knew that we wanted to know the gender in advance, we had a name chosen, for medical reasons (my back implant) we had decided on a c-section. It took a while to pick his exact bedding, but I knew I wanted a teddy bear motif, and I graphed out far in advance where all the furniture would fit best. I had picked his first stuffed animal and the outfit I wanted him to come home in. But how he would be fed? I just couldn't decide. And it wasn't really ever going to be a joint decision, which perhaps should have even eased some confusion and made it slightly easier. I mean how many things do you and your spouse agree on instantaneously? When it's not a joint decision it usually goes faster. Of course I looked to Romeo for his opinion, "Would he feel left out if we didn't bottle feed?" "How would he feel about me nursing in public?" "Would he be disappointed if I didn't choose to breastfeed, because all the books say it's best." And summarily he said he would support whatever I chose. But it truly was me who couldn't decide.

I knew the health benefits, yet for every article you read promoting it, there is another "consoling" you and saying your baby is potentially just as healthy on the bottle, and don't worry-- it's not the end of the world. Some even saying nursing is overrated. I also read that nursing helps prevent postpartum depression because of the chemicals released. This was to me perhaps the biggest item swaying me to nurse. With my history of clinical depression I knew that statistically I was more likely to suffer from postpartum. I was encouraged nursing might help. On the other hand, if it didn't I would still be nursing, yet unable to take my anti-depressants because of doing so, which would lead to a bitter conundrum. Perhaps I would be better off simply taking my meds and not nursing. Honestly not just for my sake, but Tybalt's as well. I knew that a depressed me wouldn't help anyone. Then there was the issue of father and child bonding. There is much literature about its importance, of course, but specifically of the fact that great bonding can occur by being involved in the feedings. If nursing, daddies should be awake at midnight as well, changing diapers and getting baby back to sleep. But some mothers choose not to nurse apparently on purpose so that Daddy can do the actual feedings and bond that way.

The closest I/we ever got to a decision is that I would plan to nurse. Assuming it went well (and I felt sane) I would go "breast only" for a few weeks to months. (My stamina without sleep, if or when I felt the need to start my meds again, and whether Romeo felt he was bonding enough yet or not, would determine whether it really was weeks vs. months.) But eventually I would start to pump and it would be bottled so Romeo and I could share the feedings, bonding, and lack of sleep.

But even though that was my "final plan" I still hemmed and hawed. Part of me didn't even want to nurse, as guilty as I felt about that, I sometimes had no interest. It wasn't just the reasons that perhaps I shouldn't (meds/ Romeo's bonding) it was, "Do I really want to?" "Do I want to have to whip a boob out in public?" "Do I want to not be able to get a babysitter for the first however many months?" "Do I want my breasts to be human refrigerators?" Ever since Romeo and I had dated he had been enamored with my breasts, as I am well endowed. In all PAINFUL honesty, I wasn't thrilled at the idea of my breasts being under "new management" and turning into my child's rather than my husband's. Romeo had been my first. (Okay, not the first to enjoy my boobs, I had fooled around as a teenager with a couple boys. But he was my first "real" sexual partner.) As a young adult I suffered from horribly low self-esteem due to my obesity. However with weight usually comes large boobs, and it was definitely true in my case. You could even say "BEYOND definitely true." Especially compared to my small framed female teenage counterparts. So the boys I fooled around with weren't really into me, except for the bonus of my top half. And I couldn't describe it while pregnant and trying to decide, and I still don't know if I truly can, but where I let those teenage boys just fool with my mind because they really only wanted to fool around with my boobs, Romeo... I don't know... treated them as a prized possession. I genuinely adored him adoring my breasts because I knew he adored the rest of me as well. He had loved the person first. I guess I was terrified that once he saw "his" boobs turned into breasts in the scientific sense--feeding and sustaining life, he would feel differently. (Not to mention the shape I have heard breasts take on after having nursed a child.) And while I was brave enough to bring these concerns into our conversations about the ultimate decision, and Romeo assured me he would not be deterred and his opinions about my body would not change, I just still had my doubts.

So, I still had not made a firm decision. The only clear picture in my head was that I wanted to nurse Tybalt the very first time. After I gave birth, when the nurse asked, I would say "Sure!" and my little boy would be placed on my chest and I would nuzzle him and I would try. [Insert pause for me crying right now as I think about what I didn't get to do.] Anyway, I figured after that I would either follow "the plan" or else if really still unsure, I would take it day by day, feeding by feeding.

But as [bad] luck would have it, I had an emergency delivery 3 weeks early, went into cardiac arrest on the c-section table, nearly died, was in hospitals and rehab facilities for 3 months, and only saw my baby about one evening a week (from what I consciously remember with all the drugs). He lived with my in-laws and was very lovingly hand-fed via bottle by them and Romeo. I didn't get to live in the same house as him until he was 3 months old. And because of complications and extended home nursing, I didn't come out from the basement and really know him until he was about 4 1/2 months. I wasn't strong enough to be full-time mom and sole caretaker (of course with Romeo, I just mean without MIL) until we moved into a new apartment and Tybalt was 6 months.

His feeding choice was not mine. It never became mine. Actually, I can't even begin to describe to you the joy I had when he was 6 months old, we had moved into our new apartment (we terminated our old apartment lease when it was obvious we had to be at my in-laws for my home nursing care and we were paying rent on an apartment no one was living in), and anyway, the joy I had in going to Target and actually choosing which canned formula to buy for my son! It sounds insane, I know. But my MIL or Romeo did the shopping when I was recovering, and they just bought the brand that the hospital had sent home samples of. Finally, I was the one in the baby aisle and I could choose.

But that's all the choice I got. And there are nights, like tonight, when my husband has fallen asleep and I can't yet, that I daydream. I lie in bed in the dark, my hand will graze my breast or my nipple as I roll over or some odd motion, and my mind drifts to 2 years ago, and how VERY, VERY, EXTREMELY SILLY I was for ever doubting I wanted to breastfeed. And I sob as Romeo snores and saws logs.

If only I could have done it, just once. Just once, God. Why couldn't you have given me just once?

Please, if any of you reading are a mother-to-be, or know one: Nurse. Or tell them to. I am not a "granola, crunchy mom." I'm not extolling the health benefits and everything else. I'm not telling you to nurse your child until he is old enough to unbutton your shirt himself. I'm just saying try it. For me.

Look, I know we are a small blog and not read by many, but if you can share my story with anyone, please do. We as humans are not omniscient and often don't even know who needs what help, so maybe you should just share it for the sake of sharing, and it will find and touch the person in the universe that it was meant for. Share the link on Facebook (the Internet is a powerful thing), copy and paste it in an email, heck-- print the screen and snail mail it. If it will be of any help-- perhaps to a woman who is still on the fence, or maybe you nurse now or have decided you are going to and need help defending your position, etc, whatever the case! And if you do choose to share it, and/or it does help you or someone you know (in any way at all) I'd be thrilled to know. So PLEASE email me at julietcap702 at gmail dot com, or even leave a comment here. I'd like to think my regret is not in vain. That as cliche as it is, when God closed that door of choice on me, sharing my story is the window he opened. Perhaps it's the point.


**Again, my apologies for the moments of TMI, vocab, etc, in this post.**

Thank You

I'm here. I exist. I haven't fallen off the face of the earth. I'm just struggling with my situation still and honestly haven't felt up to writing. But I wanted to say thank you for the comments and support. They are all very much appreciated. I am trying to take advice and remember my worth in the face of adversity.

I am also thankful for a place I can be [sometimes brutally] honest and for other moms, women, readers, followers, and friends who allow me to be so and accept me even when I'm feeling so low--just as I am and for who I am.

Tick Tick Tick

Tick Tick Tick Tick.

I feel like a prisoner on death row. It's happening. There's no avoiding it.

It's 2:31 in the morning. I can't sleep. And it makes me wonder how death row inmates have any appetite for that last meal, because I feel like I'm going to puke.

And I'm not dying! I *only* have to deal with my FIL. (P.S. Which adds to my stress and guilt, because really in all sanity I have no right comparing my situation to losing your life, yet here I am doing it. Sigh...)

He's BAAAAAAAAAACK!

Please excuse me for not doing a Whatnot Wednesday today.  I just don't have it in me.  Mainly because my mind is circling 'round the drain and only about one thing:

FATHER-IN-LAW RETURNS IN TWO DAYS.
THIS IS NOT A DRILL.  I REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A DRILL.  FIL RETURNS IN TWO DAYS.

Yes, my FIL that hates me, belittles me, has even told me that he *knows* I'm going to die at any moment and he *may* choose to grace everyone with his presence at my funeral simply because I'm his grandson's mother.  Of course all of that is only when he's not choosing to just give me the silent treatment like a high school girl.

And why?  Because I'm fat.  He's given other excuses for it, some family members have guesses for ADDITIONAL reasons as well (!), and so we don't really know exactly how many reasons he harbors such disdain for me, but the main reason is because I'm morbidly obese.  (Ugh, I hate that term, but if we want to get realistic about it, that's the medical term.)  And the more I struggle with my weight, the worse he treats me.  And the comment made to me about dying because I'm so fat was unfortunately when I was at least 50 pounds lighter than I am today.  Yes, I don't love myself for having gained that much weight back since I lost 100 in the hospital, but his hatred has also correspondingly skyrocketed!

He splits his time between Las Vegas and his other son's hometown in the Pacific Northwest, and he's returning on Friday for one his three month stints here.  For those of you that are either new to our blog, or could use a refresher on our "relationship" and his horrendous nature, please click the following link to see last September's post, "The Silent Treatment."

Anyway, I'm nauseated, depressed, frustrated, angry, and having a hard time concentrating and focusing.  If it wasn't for being a Mommy I don't know if I'd be getting out of bed.  As it is, I have hard time doing so.  And I get this way every three months for about two weeks right before he returns.  And that intensity (aka crisis mode) will last anywhere from a week to a month once he's here, depending on how bad and nasty he is upon his return.  Then at least a less complex but general anxiety will stick around for the remainder of his three month visit, until he finally leaves again.  But I'll only get to breathe normally again then.  By my calendar that means sometime in May.

Happy New Year (and Whatnot Wednesdays?)

Hello again, and Happy New Year.  Well, if it wasn't obvious before, it's pretty dang obvious now that Frenchie is the more dedicated blogger between the two of us.  But I mean well, I swear!  And like I said recently, my depression is just in full force right now.  And while I hope to feel better soon, I don't quite yet.

I did want to introduce you though to a blog that I've become addicted to as of late: "Every day the wonderful happens.”  The author is a married mom of two pre-school aged boys.  They are 6 months apart—one biological son, and one adopted son.  I encourage you to read more at the blog’s “About” page and then blog post after post, after post, after post!  Believe me, you’ll be hooked!  :)

Once Frenchie returns from her oh so fabulous French holiday, I will discuss with her starting “The Wonderful Happens” trend of “Whatnot Wednesdays.”  I am very excited about the prospect.  Go to the blog and check out some of the author’s Whatnot Wednesday posts to see what I am talking about.

Stopping By To Say Hi

Just wanted to take to the time to assure everyone that I have not actually fallen off the face of the Earth. I've just been having a rough go of it with my depression. I was having difficulty to begin with, but the holidays, money, schedule, missing home--it all adds up to a crazy mind and sad time.

But I am alive and kicking (granted it may be underwater). And in case I don't get on again in the next week, I just wanted to say "Merry Christmas." As for all the other holidays you may celebrate, feel free to comment and wish us all a Happy or Merry one! :)

What To Do?

Two posts from Juliet in one day? What???? Yeah, I know. But there's stuff on my mind.

In this case, the "stuff" is what to do about that toxic friend/non-friend I wrote about recently. See, I took Frenchie's advice and feel passive aggressive is my best option right now at least for keeping my sanity and for making as few tidal waves in the friend circle we both run in as possible.

However, passive aggressive can work well like on facebook, but I am going to a party this Saturday night that "YY", let's call her that because I failed to give her a name before, will more than likely be at. After all, it's hosted by Tybalt's Godparents, who are friends with both of us.

Assuming she's there, what do I do? I've seen her before, obviously, while times have been tough between us, but I've been in a better state emotionally. And with my fragile (read: depressed) mental state right now about everything else, I just don't feel like I have the same "grin and bear it" resolve that I have been able to muster up before.

I WILL NOT start a "thing" (a fight, an issue, a scene, whatever you want to call it). I'm not that kind of person. I not only have far too much respect for those around me, but what I hope I also got across in my last post about YY is that I'm not the one that's ever started any of the stuff between the two of us! However, if she is snippy to me, I am more afraid of the fact that I might lose it and either cry and/or have a panic attack where I start sweating and shaking and hyperventilating. Her online and text comments and rants have caused me in the past to do both. And I definitely cannot do either Saturday night. I cannot break down in front of everyone and cause a scene.

So, what to do? How to handle the situation? I need moral support.

This Cheers Me Up

I've been feeling down the last few days. I had a crying fit in front of/to Romeo last night. It's mainly over the baby blues and not being able to have another one right now. Anyway, I don't have anything exciting to post due to my mood. But I did want to share this picture because it makes me smile. Tybalt ate his first orange a couple weeks ago, and I caught the moment on camera:

Oooh! Tart!

Apologies and Retractions

So, I took down the postpartum description post. It was overly whiny and insensitive to those who have complicated pregnancies and labor. Nothing happened to me that doesn't happen to every single woman who has a vaginal delivery, so who I am to whine about it? A million women wish they had my postpartum experience. Although I don't believe that just because someone has it worse than you, you're not allowed to feel badly too, I think I probably went too far with that one. In person, I am super sarcastic and if you heard my postpartum spiel out loud, you would know not to take it too seriously. But this isn't out loud, so yeah, I took it down.

In the spirit of what Juliet Cap was saying about owning up to having mood swings, I'll admit it. I have been feeling pretty frustrated with life in the past week or so. Looking back on the past few days, that post was just a symptom of how I've been feeling since last week.

I'm reluctant to blame this 100% on PMS, but since I haven't had it in almost a year, I'm guessing that it's going to come back with a vengeance. I'm going to describe my irrationally depressing week to you, and watch for the parentheses, because those are the thoughts of a rational person poking through.

I had a lazy weekend, not even bothering to run the vaccuum, which I usually do obsessively thanks to Swarley. (Get off you're ass! You're not going to feel better if you leave dog hair on your carpets, and you're not going to get more energy by sitting around all day!) I wanted to go to the pool and do the one thing that you can do in the Las Vegas summer heat, but Mia was fussy on sunday and was worse when B was holding her, so I couldn't leave them alone. My stomach cramps were baaad on Monday and I ditched work (even though really, I could have dealt with stomach cramps at work, grow up!). It was B's day off on Tuesday, and he dropped Mia off at my office for an hour so that he could get his hair cut. That upset me because I can't do that with his work, why does he get to go to the barber for an hour when I haven't been able to get a pedicure since she was born? (Because, dummy, that's the kind of job he has, and you've got an awesome one that lets you do this kind of things! At least he's working!) Wednesday, Brian woke up early and tended to the baby, but as soon as I was awake, he handed me the baby and said he was going to the gym. Hey! I want to go to the gym, why can't you take the baby?? (You don't get to lounge in bed, and go to the gym. Wake up earlier!) It was also my day to bring Mia to work for the week, and she slept for a total of 45 minutes, fussed for the entire afternoon when she usually takes her solid 3 hour nap, and had 3 poopy diaper blowouts! We went through all but one diaper, all but one baby wipe, and every single spare outfit in the baby bag, that she was left wearing a plain while Gerber onesie that I usually use as an undershirt by the end of the day. (Shit happens!) It all culminated when B came home from the grocery store with the wrong carpet cleaner and I totally lost it. (Over carpet cleaner? Really?) I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed the carpet with the stupid carpet cleaner he bought and worked myself up so much that I couldn't even look at him when I finished. I told him to leave me alone for an hour, and I went in the bedroom, closed the door and felt sorry for myself.

The hour helped a lot, and I came out, we had a good talk and I told him about how frustrated I was feeling. We ate dinner, Mia took a bottle, and slept from 9:30pm-7:00am. So after a night's sleep, I woke up feeling much better about everything. On my way out the door, I grabbed one of my many weight loss guides and a bag of almonds. It's time to stop being passively upset about everything (because it leads to breakdowns over carpet cleaner), and start taking charge. I WILL start working out. I WILL stop telling myself that breastfeeding is all I need to do to lost my baby pooch. I WILL communicate with my husband! I will also stop at Target and get that darned carpet shampoo.

???

So, I know I haven't posted since my introduction. And I swear it's not because I haven't wanted to. In fact, I have wanted to sooooooo much. I've logged on every day, if not twice most days. Hovered my mouse over the "new post" link, and then...just lost my courage. I just don't know what to post about! I wish I could say that I want to write about so many things that I actually just don't know where to start, and, perhaps, that is partly true. But in all reality it's also about not knowing what readers will find interesting. Sure, I honestly do have a million things in my brain on an hourly basis. But how much of that is interesting to the outside observer?

Then there's this fact: I suffer from depression. I was diagnosed in college but have known something was "wrong" much earlier in my life than that. And while not everything I think about and do revolves around the pessimistic life views that plague me, much does. Many of my musings are frustrations and disappointments. And I REALLY didn't/don't want anyone's first impression of me to be, "Oh my gosh, what a freak!" So, yeah, that eliminated a few of the topics I could have posted about in the last few days. I just didn't have anything super happy and upbeat to say. I go through swings.

But, all of this has gotten me thinking. I can't be the only mom, (or woman, because I believe some of our readers may not be mothers, at least not yet) that suffers from depression, right? Please, say "Right!" :P

So, while I plan on keeping most of my posts as upbeat as possible, perhaps I NEED to share when I'm having a bad day too. Perhaps it will help someone else to know they are not alone. Whether it be postpartum depression, or "plain old" clinical depression, maybe even just one reader out there needs to feel validated and know that someone else can relate. Maybe if more women and moms on more blogs shared their mood swings, their depressed moments, I wouldn't be so scared myself to begin with! Because I would know I wasn't alone as well. So, perhaps, just perhaps, being real, being myself, would be a good thing. I know, what a shocking realization, right? LOL.

[And a final note, maybe you who are reading this right now have never been depressed a moment in your life. If so, congratulations! Seriously, I wish I was you. But if that's the case, then it's definitely not about making you feel less alone in this world. But maybe sharing with you my sometimes fragile emotional state will make you see that not everyone feels great 100% of the time like you do, and open your mind to the trials and tribulations of at least this one mother.]

Lots of love to all out there! Sweet dreams!