Bless Her Heart, She Can Be Such an A*sshole

This is a post that I really, really wish weren't true. I'd take it back if I could.

Yesterday, I went completely ballistic, as in totally bat shit crazy, at the library. (And it had nothing to do with the mommies at storytime.)

If there is one thing I hate, it's late fees. And if there is one thing I hate even more than late fees, is being charged a late fee that I did not actually incur. So when the librarian told me when I was attempting to check out that I had $8 in late fees that I'm certain was an error, I lost it.

Lost it.

Yelling. (I'm pretty sure I said things like, "I'm going to give THEM a piece of my mind." And, "This place is so stupid. We're NEVER coming back." *cowering*What do you have to do, return books a week early to avoid a late fee?" Oh. Yes. I. Did.)

Rolling my eyes.

Stomping.

Huffing.

Name calling.

At the librarian.

In front of the storytime mommies.

In front of my children.

It's as if my wack-job alter-ego, Trixie LaRue had taken over.

As I'm writing this, it's only been about two hours since the incident and I'm extremely remorseful and embarrassed. This part of my personality, the part that can blow a fuse without a moment's notice, is something I hadn't seen in a long time. It's something that I'm ashamed of and something that I wish I knew how to control.

There are several instances that I've completely lost my cool. Yelling at the man who said some off-color things to my friends and me in an LA restaurant at 2:30 AM, at the beyotch cashier at Kroger, at a friend who changed plans on me. Each of these incidences I had reason to be angry, but my reaction was completely uncalled for. Recalling each of these events still puts a knot in my stomach, I can feel my cheeks flush from the embarrassment.

I wish I could describe what happens in these moments where the anger portion of my brain suddenly becomes unleashed from the logical and sane portion. When I say suddenly, I really do mean suddenly. It's not as if I was already angry or stewing from another injustice, but without warning I'm shouting and making a complete ass of myself. In an instant I can go from perfectly calm to raging lunatic. As I'm in the throes of my tirade, I realize I should stop. Somehow I just keep ranting, though, knowing how idiotic I am acting, wishing I could stop acting like a childish two-year-old.

I'm not sure I can face going back to storytime next week. I made an ass of myself and I don't know how to get past that embarrassment. Also, I owe the librarian an apology, but I'm not sure if I have the 'nads to tell her how sorry I am that she was on the receiving end of my tantrum. The sad thing is, is that Carson had actually really enjoyed storytime yesterday, participating during the songs and interacting with the children. Also, the other moms and I actually had a conversation and I was feeling really great about the day. Then I go and act like such a jerk. Because of $8.

I've been imagining all day that after I left, the librarians were in the break room saying, "Bless her heart, she was being such an asshole!" That at least puts a little smile on my face.

Maybe We'd Fit In If I'd Let Carson Wear Jon-Jons and I'd Named Ella, Mary Something or Other

Yesterday was the first day of the fall session of storytime at the library. Since I'm not feeling overly confident right now about my appearance, I worried about what to wear, fretted over my hair, and actually put on make-up. Nothing in my closet looks good on me anymore, I'm still wearing some maternity clothes. I also felt really anxious about making conversation with the other Moms, since I've yet to make one friend since beginning storytime a year ago. I was hoping that it would be different this time.

I've read several posts lately about different kinds of Moms and making friends with other women. Before Carson was born, I naively assumed that he'd be my ticket to easy, ready-made friendships. I dreamed of going to the park, meeting other friendly Moms who were just like me, commiserating over our Starbucks grande mochaccinos, easily making conversation and having loads to talk about since we'd have so much in common.

This, obviously, has not been the case. And I don't really know why I'm surprised. And I wish wasn't always disappointing myself.

Yesterday's foray into the world of Gap Moms, Alpha Moms, a sprinkling of crunchy mamas, and several women who made it very clear they were uninterested in having a conversation with anyone left me feeling rejected and disappointed yet again. I immediately realized that my much fretted about outfit was completely wrong. Most of the other Moms were in their color-coordinated work-out gear with ponytails and sun-visors. My children weren't even dressed correctly since I refuse to allow Carson to wear jon-jons and Ella wasn't wearing a smocked and monogrammed dress.

My conversation attempts were just that, attempts. Most of the other Moms seemed to know one another (presumably they work out together?). I asked people how their summers had been, only to get one word responses, "fine," they'd say. The other Moms easily made conversation with one another, telling each other how Mary Claire and Riffington had a wonderful time at Helen Brannon's birthday party. And how little Mary Elizabeth and Margaret Ames* had had the best time playing together at the park.

I felt sad and jealous that Carson and I have never been included in any of these birthday parties or playdates.

I don't really know where I fit in with these women. Honestly, I kind of wish I was more of a Gap Mom or Alpha Mom. I want to look put together or look like I've been working out. I want my kids to look the part, too, with the "right" clothes. I drive the SUV, I live in the brick house. I wonder, does my husband not make enough money? Is it because I'm a "Yankee?"

I don't feel like I'll ever fit in with these women. What I really want is for these Moms to want to know me.

I'm tired of always being at the edge of other's conversations, smiling and nodding like a fool, but never having anything to add. I'm tired of making the effort to be friendly and my attempts never reciprocated.

Why is making friends still so difficult? Where do I fit in?

*I changed the names of the children in storytime, however they are based on real names. It's very common in the Deep South for little girls to be called by their first and middle names.

Hello Pot? This is Kettle

He simply told me how he put her to sleep differently.

"Didn't you see how I held her and rocked her. She didn't even cry after I laid her down."

That's all he said, but to me it felt like he said, "your abilities as a mom are really lacking, why can't you do a better job?"

Me and melodrama...we're tight.

I've dealt with Ella's nap and bed time battles nearly everyday since she was born. And nearly everyday, I wonder what I'm doing wrong. It's always been a struggle. So when he put her down, successfully! twice yesterday, it makes me question my parenting skills even more. How is it possible that I do this everyday, yet I can't put her down without her sounding like a drowning cat?

I know that he is a parent to our children, too. His way of doing things certainly isn't wrong, I just don't like to hear when they're better than my way.

Even writing that, I know it is just like the pot calling the kettle black. How many times have I questioned something he's done with the kids? "This is how you fold the dirty diaper correctly." "You should be holding up on your shoulder, she doesn't like being held the way you're holding her." "No, you dilute the apple juice this way."

Most of these ridiculous directives are combined with excessive eye rolling and exasperated sighs.

My "wife skills" are starting to rate right up there with my ability to put my child to sleep. I know. (Eyes roll at myself.)

I feel resentful, though.

I'm guessing this is how he must feel when I correct his parenting attempts...

I suppose I should also feel remorseful.

Wherein I Admit to Being Wrong

Before we had kids, most of us probably had very specific ideas about how we would parent. We knew what sleep method we'd use, how much TV we'd allow, how much sugar was acceptable, and how we would discipline. In fact, we may have be been so knowledgeable and well versed in the latest, greatest parenting books, we possibly even spewed our ad/assvice on unsuspecting people with children.

Yeah, I was one of those people.

I'm here to say, first, that I'm sorry I ever offered even one speck of ad/assvice to any of my friends with children. PLEASE forgive, for I knew not what I was doing. Secondly, I want to say that I was wrong about my views on parenting. (You may want to print this particular blog since I'm admitting to being wrong. It's rare that I'm ever wrong, and even rarer for me to admit it.)

You know that rule about two hours of TV, as recommended by the AAP? Oh yeah, my son would not be allowed to watch even an hour of TV. Seriously, we were going to do enriching, learning activities TOGETHER. Reading books, fingerpainting, crafts, outdoor activities (humid 100 degree weather be damned), and singing/dancing/tumbling classes were all on my carefully scheduled agenda. There wasn't going to be time for TV.

I'm happy these days if he only watches 4 or 5 hours of TV. Per day. Go ahead and judge me if you want, but I've learned to accept my slacker parent ways. He is QUIET when he's watching Blue's Clues, Hi-5, and Live with Regis and Kelly.

He learns things by watching TV. In fact, we think he may be a genius. He can count from 1-4, 8, 3, 2, 6, and 8. He knows the colors blue, blue, blue, and black. Occasionally, he even knows orange. The little genius is even beginning to tell time. He knows that at 7:00, the monster truck cartoon comes on, followed by Peep and the Big Wide World. So all this TV is actually helping him and NOT stunting the growth of his brain.

Before ever even getting pregnant with Peanut, I knew how he would be disciplined. Actually, he wasn't actually going to need much discipline since I was going to teach him the proper ways to handle his frustrations. Instead of hitting, he was going to have words to convey his feelings.

I'll give you a minute to stop laughing AT me and compose yourself. Are you done? Moving right along then.

So I was wrong about how much discipline he was going to need. He does have words, all right. He screams "NO!" really well. I was sure time-out would nip any and all misbehaviors in the bud. Uh, time-out kinda makes him giggle. And his naughty chair is his favorite place to sit.

Such innocent fools we are before having kids, huh?! Who knew that TV would be such an excellent babysitter and that time-out was such joke (at least for my kid)!

What have you done since having kids that you swore you'd NEVER do?

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Check out Suburban Reviews today! Sarah from In the Trenches of Mommyhood is the guest reviewer! Go see how she used Clorox on her kids!

Sippin' on Gin and Juice

So I was obviously feeling pretty low yesterday. Had a really stressful, no-naps-for-Shel weekend. Thanks for your support and no-advice comments yesterday. It's truly nice to know I'm not the only one.

I did leave for a while Sunday afternoon. I drove around for an hour or so, listening to songs that reminded me of anything besides my children. Mostly, I listened to songs from my college days and was able to feel nineteen again, eventhough it was temporary. It was nice to remember the days when my biggest stress in life was a midterm or where I was going to get a fake ID or why that cute boy hadn't called me yet.

The music was loud, bass thumping. I was that annoying car whose music you can hear when stopped at a red light. I sang as loudly as I could, making up words where I'd forgotten the real lyrics. Smashing Pumpkins, 1979, N'sync, I want you back (shut up), Lady Marmalade, Independent Women, Snoop Dogg...It helped while it lasted.

I cried most of the way home, knowing I was really going back. Driving far away, getting a hotel room sounded pretty tempting.

Admitting how far I've fallen has made me feel unbelievably vulnerable. Pushing publish on yesterday's post left me feeling regretful, but also somehow better.

Let's talk about the giant elephant surrounding my post...Post Partum Depression. I know you're all thinking it, as I did receive emails from many of you.

One week ago, I began taking birth control pills. I have a history with going bat shit crazy on BC pills and it took trying several different types to find the right kind for me. Prior to taking these pills, I did feel stressed, but it wasn't anything that I couldn't handle. I certainly didn't feel the need to escape. I don't want to dismiss the possibility of PPD, but I do suspect these pills are playing a leading role in my sudden inability to feel joy, make decisions, and general feeling of being overwhelmed. That coupled with a newborn who flat out refuses to nap makes for a very weepy and crazy me.

I'm taking myself off the BC pills. In one week if I'm not significantly better, I'm calling my Ob/Gyn and getting help. Also, I'm going to start leaving my house, alone, with no children. I've been pumping milk so that I can actually leave Shel behind.

Thanks again everyone for caring enough to comment. Your support is something I need. Knowing that I'm not alone in my feelings makes me feel less vulnerable and crazy.

Second Place

Saturday began as a terrific day. Sun shining, we went to some garage sales. We used our double stroller for the first time, Shel napped for the majority of the morning's shopping, and we salvaged all kinds of junk at cheap prices. The little things were bringing me joy.

The day continued with little crying, long naps from both children, and time on the computer for me. It was a good day indeed. I was feeling happier than I had in a long while.

Then like a switch, the good day darkened and my mood changed.

It's the rare occasion that I have the opportunity to give Peanut his bath, read him his bedtime stories, and put him to bed. This is usually the time of night that Shel needs lots of tending and I get the responsibility of calming her. However, Saturday night was different. Shel was calm, so I gave Peanut his bath.

After his bath, Peanut demanded that Tate come in and read his stories and put him to bed. He was pleading for his Father. He didn't want me.

It felt like a slap in the face. This second place parenting. My confidence has been shaken.

All I could do was take Shel from Tate's arm and leave the bedroom. I didn't, I couldn't even tell Peanut goodnight.

I began to nurse Shel, crying because of the hurt and sadness that had so suddenly washed over me. That voice in the back of my head who has been taunting me since Peanut was an infant, had spoken quite clearly to me that night. I'm always going to play second fiddle to Tate in Peanut's eyes. I've never had the ability to soothe and comfort Peanut. I've never been the one he's run to. I can't make the truck noises, give him tractor rides, and play for hours outside. Daddy can. Mommy can't.

Tate does not comprehend why I am feeling so down, so resentful. I haven't had the words, or even the courage to admit that Peanut hurt my feelings. Even saying that a 20-month old could hurt my feelings to this extent seems trivial and immature. I'm an adult and know that I should realize that Peanut is just a small child and his intent was not to hurt me.

But I feel my confidence in my parenting abilities waning. I wonder how I'm going to handle always being the second place parent. It's not a competition, shouldn't be a competition. But I can't help but wonder, can I do better? How do I do better?

At Least It's an Attempt

You gotta have goals in life. You can't go anywhere without goals, I say.

Here are my goals for the week. I'm aiming high!

1. Try not to bitch on my blog about colic or acid reflux.

2. Record three weeks worth of receipts in the checkbook.

3. Do Pilates three times this week and go for a walk at least twice this week.

4. Try not to get pissed off at Tate because he gets to go to Knoxville for a party on Wednesday and Thursday.

Here's what is likely to happen.

1. I'll post a blog about my dismay at Prevacid's instructions on how to administer this f*cking medicine to an infant.

2. I'll record two or three receipts and get distracted by blogging the children.

3. Do Pilates once, realize how my "core" no longer exists. Moan the rest of the week about how damn bad my abs hurt. And the walking? Yeah, well, it's supposed to be 759% humidity and 1,000 degrees, so the walks probably won't happen.

4. I'll stomp around and huff and give the silent treatment because I have to stay home alone with the kids.

Hey, at least I have goals.

Bow Chanka Bow Bow

First off, Mom, Dad, any family members reading, and Jesus, you may want to not read about my lack of sex life. Don't say I didn't warn you!

Okay, are we all clear that I'm going to talk about sex? Whew. I'm nervous and totally blushing. I can't believe I'm so embarrassed! At least this didn't happen to me. Snort!

Okay. Deep Breath. Here goes.

I want to get me some. And to make it really great, I'd like it to be drunk sex. You know, the uninhibited, really fun kind.

I know, I know, this is a weird thing to hear from a 3 week post-birth, breastfeeding mom to a colicky baby and tantrumy (is that a word?...well it is now) boy. My husband, sweet, dear Tate, has been so incredible these past 6 weeks (don't forget about The Attack of the Kidney Stone) that I'm feeling all sweet on him. Actually, I'm feeling all warm and tingly for him.

There's nothing like a "honey, what can I fix you for dinner" or "do you want the laptop?" or "here, babe, you take control of the clicker"* to get me ready for the sweet, sweet love. *Except on Wednesday nights...Modern Marvels is on. Nothing stops this man from getting his Modern Marvels fix.

Unfortunately, there's a few hitches in my "action" plan. The size E boobies are still ever so ouchy and the, uh, girly parts down below have not fully returned to normal. Oh yeah, I also have a very unsexy, jiggly stomach with thunder thighs to match. I am HAWT! Sorry, hope I didn't make anyone hurl with the possible visual I may have put into your head.

It doesn't help that everywhere I turn, there are phallic symbols and sexual references. The other day at the airport there was a GIANT phallic symbol looking very happy to be welcoming all those arriving in Mobile. And Peanut's new Elmo bathtub fishing pole looks exactly like a giant man part, except that it's blue, yellow, and green. (I certainly hope that there aren't any real man parts that are blue, yellow, and green...ewww.) And the Dick and Jane book that Peanut demands to be read to him 758 times a day, has way too many sexual innuendos for a kiddie book. "Dick said, Oh! Oh!" And how did I never notice before that the Volvo symbol is the male symbol?

I suspect that by the time my body is healed and available for sex, my mind will have wandered on to other obsessions.

This, too, shall pass.

Yet Another Reason I Should Be Seeing a Therapist

Not only do I have issues with holding grudges and assertiveness, I also have MAJOR control issues.

See, I lurve being in control.

I'm incredibly bossy. And I know the right way to do just about everything. Just ask me, I'll tell you.

Here's the problem. I'm going to be having a baby, like soon, and there are going to be people in my house. They are going to be here to help. I'm not sure as to how I'm going to relinquish control.

Although, I've confessed about my weak housekeeping skills, I am actually quite particular about how my home is organized.

Here's just a wee glimmer into my sick mind.

I'm very picky about how my laundry is folded. I have a specific way that I like for my T-shirts to be folded because they fit better in my closet when folded correctly. There is a right way for my dish towels to be folded, if they're not they won't fit in the drawer.

I hate when other people put my dishes away. Tupperware, pots and pans must be properly nested or they won't fit in their designated spaces. There are VERY SPECIFIC locations for most of the kitchen items due to the fact that there is very little room and everything has it's place in order for it to fit.

It drives me absolutely insane when people use my decent dish towels to clean up gross, icky messes. I have towels especially for these types of tasks. USE THEM!

I like for my pantry to be organized. Not Sleeping With the Enemy organized, but there is a place for everything. Cans belong on one shelf (actually on two different shelves to help evenly distribute the weight). Boxed items belong on another shelf. Things that are associated with baking have their own area. Paper and plastic items belong on the top shelf. The floor of the pantry houses the crock pot, toaster oven, iced-tea maker, paper towels, and wine. These must be placed in a certain pattern or the door won't shut.

When making the bed, I like for a certain amount of the blanket and sheet to hang over the foot of the bed so that it will tuck in properly.

I like for my bath towels to be folded in just the right way, which is my way.

Peanut's clothes are organized by size. There are several items of clothing in his drawers that don't fit him yet. They are in the back of the drawer. Current clothing is in the front of the drawer.

There is only one sippy cup that I allow Peanut to have while riding in the car. And only milk is allowed in the car. I don't need to be searching for mystery odors as a result of a funky, chunky forgotten milk cup.

I'm very, very sick. I know. How do I give up these ridiculous control issues? When this baby is born, not only am I going to have to deal with my "issues", I'm going to be wacko from all the hormones. I'm apt to go ape shit over some pretty petty stuff. There are going to be lots of visitors whose sole purpose is to help. I'm already grateful. I just hope that I can let go. Let the dish towels run amok. Allow Peanut to wear clothes that are too big. Sleep in a improperly made bed. Sorry, I can't help it.

She Who Cast the First Stone

I've been struggling with this post for awhile. I write something, I erase. I get to where I think it's complete, worthy of the Publish button. Then I have second thoughts and start revising. Writing this post has been painful and healing, forcing me to really see the person I wish to be.

My New Year's resolution was to give up grudges against people whom I feel have wronged me. Admitting that this is a big enough problem for me that I needed to make a resolution about it, is not something that makes me proud. This is a major flaw in my character and I really am trying to overcome it.

Generally, I'm a really nice person. In new social situations, I think people see me as someone who is quiet and shy. It takes me time to warm up, relax, and feel comfortable around new people. When I do make friends with someone, I expect a lot from them. If I need help, companionship, or loyalty, I want them to provide.

I can't always say that I give as much as I expect. It shames me to actually type this and admit that I don't always meet my own requirements. I don't call people as much as I should. I don't offer help as often as I should.

There have been friends who in the past have broken one of my arbitrary friendship rules. Maybe they didn't come through for me when I felt it was needed. Maybe they made me feel left out. What happened in most cases was that I expected something from them and when I didn't get it, they landed in my personal penalty box.

I chose to give up grudges as my New Year's resolution because this is not the person I want to be. Do I want to teach my children to be petty? Do I want to them to see that forgiveness is a "weakness"? No. No. No. I want my children to have the ability to look past the minor indiscretions that occur between friends. I don't want my children to be petty like me.

The loss of a friend or the intense anger I've felt towards them has eaten away at me for years. I've allowed this to happen. I made the decision to stay angry after being hurt. Anger was something that I controlled. The hurt was something they imposed upon me. I can't live a complete, full, and happy life if I continue to let this festering anger fill me.

Although I have no way of knowing, I suspect most of the people who have been on my grudge list have no idea they were even there. It's been hard to let go of the hurt that I feel they caused, but it has also been very freeing. I continually remind myself that the anger needs to go. It's a decision I make every time I feel the anger and hurt swell inside of me. No longer am I going to live in the past, angry with anyone who couldn't live up to my expectations. I'm living for now and looking towards the future.