You know what’s really annoying? When you have absolutely nothing to say. The stress of this stupid asshole blog starts to weigh on me, but then again, I’m weird:
Brain: Dude, you really should fill that empty gap on your piece of shit blog. It’s been a month now.
Me: What the hell am I going to write about? More lame updates about my kids? I’m not funny anymore, brain. I’ve lost my edge. I read other people’s blogs and I’m jealous of their creativity. Or even their ability to remember the funny daily monotony, and actually have the time to document it.
Brain: Yeah, I know. We need to talk about that, you. Because really, I’m atrophying away up here.
Me: Yeah, thanks, asshole. No pressure or anything. Like I wasn’t stressed enough.
Fast forward to three days ago:
Me: Hey, I actually have something funny to write about. I think I’ll log onto my blawwwwwwwg. *Goes to login screen. Writes furiously. Hits publish* Gets an error.
Me: Fuck. BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABE. MY BLOG IS BROKEN. *mutters under my breath* Of course it is, because I actually have something to say. Fuckers.
But now it’s fixed and immediately, my brain suffers from incontinence and holds back what it is I had intentions of writing about.
I’ve started to see a therapist. Since becoming the mother of two, I’ve lived on survival mode. I’ve been told by several people, that this is normal, and that I need to give myself a break and let my kitchen be on the messy side, and that going from one to two is really hard. No one can really tell you this, or describe what it’s like. This is one of those things where you have to find your own way. Figure out what works best for you. Some have an easier time than others, obviously.
I am not one of those people.
Maybe this is largely because of the fact that they’re so close in age. Especially in the beginning, I couldn’t leave her where he was, since she was still so little and I had no idea if he was plotting her death as retribution for bringing her home. Now, I just put her anywhere. Counters, garbage cans, the dining room table (joke. I don’t have a dining room table. The kitchen table fits her quite nicely). I figure, she’s a good 17.5 pounds. She can hold her own.
One of the things we’ve been touching on, is my raging anxiety. I was on Zoloft for post partum and it made my anxiety worse. It also made me so complacent that I was running out of even the bottom of the drawer underwear. Something she said to me, really resonated. Basically, having ADHD (as I do) and not being treated properly (as I am not), can cause symptoms like depression and anxiety, because it’s extremely hard (and sometimes, nearly impossible) to accomplish a single task. BINGO. It was as if someone had flicked on a light switch. Why, after years and years of therapy in my teenage years and early adulthood, hadn’t any therapist figured this out? Why didn’t they mention this? For years, I have sworn off meds, because they never worked properly, and also, they just threw pills at me. If it had a possible off label use for ADHD, I’ve probably tried it. Because of this, it’s so hard for me to follow through with a simple task, that at times it’s crippling. One of these times, is right now.
To say I get distracted by the sparkly is an understatement. In fact, I’m getting fucking distracted right now, writing this very post and quite frankly, I feel as if I’m on a nice roll here.
Because of this whole crippled feeling I have going on, my doctor suggested that I try meds again. Specifically, Strattera, since it’s not a stimulant and because my history with ritalin and Adderall is at best, flat.
But I have to wait, because there’s one small problem. A dirty secret I’ve been keeping, if you will.
I’m still nursing.
Yeah, I know, for those of you that know me, you read that right. For those of you that don’t, well…… you can read about that whole scandal here. I know that those of the people that know, that I told, were surprised. Really? You? I never really blogged about it here, because it’s really nobody’s business whether or not I use my boobs or a bottle. But for the record, I’m not pro breast or pro formula. I’m pretty much pro whatever works for you to feed your baby. Key point being, FEED YOUR BABY. But with the Mini, I knew that my anxiety ridden personality along with the fact that we were moving cross country, and a littany of other reasons, I just didn’t feel compelled to stress myself out more than necessary.
What changed this time around was the fact that I probably poisoned the Mini by giving him him ready to feed formula from cans lined with BPA in microwaved polycarbonate bottles for the first six months of his life.
That Mom guilt, man, it eats at you. And if nothing, having another child is a way for you to undo all of the stupid things you did with your first.
And so, I forayed down the path of nursing and I’ll tell you, people, I hated it. Fucking HAAAAAAAAAAATED IT. We got off to a horribly rocky start. She was clueless, my milk was delayed. Then HELLOOOOO MILK, and then all of a sudden LG was like, “oh, all day buffet, sweet. NOM NOM NOM.” And I was like, “why did I think this was a good idea again?” I was almost set to give it up, and I almost did. I wanted it to be that magical fairytale experience that everyone tells you that it isn’t in the beginning. And of course, it wasn’t, but in my heart of hearts, for some weird reason, I didn’t quit completely. But that said, she’s still both formula fed and nursed. At this point, getting to be more formula fed (due to her extreme need to be nosy and my nipples just don’t stretch that way), but not ready to give it up, and the thought of ending that relationship forever, just isn’t sitting well with me.
So, in the meantime, I am a sitting duck. Floating by, day by day. My kids know I love them. They’re cared for, and loved. One of the things I never have a problem doing, is kissing them and telling them that I love them 8 billion times a day. Until I find a solution that helps me to make things just a little bit easier to deal with, that is about all I have the brain capacity for. The dishes will have to wait. The blog might be neglected.
I’m learning that this is OK.
*Sung to the tune of Adam Sandler’s “Piece of Shit Car.”