I see you shiver with antici....

.....pation.

I didn't even realize how long it had been since I last posted. I apologize if you have been waiting with bated breath for my next post, as I'm sure you have. My kids have united together in a boycott against sleep which has left me in a haze of sleep deprivation.

I didn't realize that a common side effect of antidepressants is tiredness. Well, I should say, I didn't expect it. Side effects include insomnia and tiredness, among other unpleasantness. Wouldn't they just cancel each other out and I would be fine!? Nope.
I'm balls tired.

For some ungodly reason, both kids have been getting up multiple times at night. I think they can smell weakness. They know I am compromised so they have been working together like a pack of raptors to take down their prey. When one is rioting, the other waits in the wings for his turn. I'd be okay with it if Chris Pratt showed up to save the day but so far, nothing.

Like a couple of amateurs, Nate and I went to bed at 1 or so. We know better but actually getting to spend time together, without a child beckoning, was too hard to resist.

Around 2 this morning, I woke up to Jules draped over me like sherpa throw. I was trapped beneath layers of blanket and toddler. Despite my annoyance, I snuggled him; my heart full as I cuddled my baby. After a little while, I decided to take him back to his room. Because he was all but smothering me, I had to McGyver out from under the blankets and his dead weight without waking him up. I stumbled blindly through the hallway, barely breathing, to slip him back into his bed. After my mission was achieved, I went back to my room and melted into my bed.

3:00 hit and again, there was Julian, laying over my body. This time, I was not amused. I grumped as I hauled his limp but ridiculously heavy body back to his room. Once he was settled, I went back to my room to find my dear husband, slumbering like a peaceful little lamb, sprawled out over the entire bed. I have never wanted to smother someone with a pillow more than in that moment. I picked up his dead limbs, practically threw them back on his side, and crawled onto my tiny sliver of bed. Finally, I was able to close my eyes once more.

Fate is a cruel mistress. At 4:25 on the nose, Cora began to stir. I pretended not to hear her, praying Nate would wake up to tend to her. My prayers went unanswered. I threw back the covers, muttered an incoherent string of obscenities, and started making a bottle. At that point, I was moments away from going nuclear. I reached over, slapped Nate on the arm as hard as I could and informed him that he was now on duty, or else.

As it turns out, Cora wasn't hungry. She just wanted to say hi. At no point during this interchange did I sleep. We got her changed, tried to force some milk down her gullet, and put her back to bed where she talked herself back to sleep. I nodded off around 4:45 and Nate's alarm went off at 5. I saw him off, fell into a coma and, in a cruel plot twist, woke up at 7 to Julian screaming because his bed was wet.

As a parent of a newborn, you expect to be up every 2 hours or so. As the parent of a 5 month old and an almost 3 year old, I expect to get more than two or so hours of sleep each night. Are there babysitters that just come over for bedtime? For free? Maybe I should sleep in the car tonight. I'm sure the kids would still find me. Or, I would wake up to Nate peeping in the window, eyes bloodshot, clothes covered in barf, begging me to come back inside. Is it sadistic that I get a ridiculous amount of satisfaction from that imagery?

Sometimes to stay alive you gotta kill your mind

"Am I the only one I know
Waging my wars behind my face and above my throat?
Shadows will Scream that I'm alone
But I know we've made it this far, kid."
-Migraine, Twenty One Pilots

Lately, I have been so apathetic about life, I haven't been able to come up with anything worthwhile to write.

I have dealt with anxiety my whole life. When I was young, I thought I was just a neurotic whack job (well, that might be a little true...).  Fear of aliens, sickness, dying, and the apocalypse kept me awake at night well into high school. My heart would race and I would be restless to the point where I thought I was dying. As an adult, I can look back and know I suffered from severe anxiety and panic attacks. That knowledge would have made my young life easier.

My anxiety worsened around the time I found out I wouldn't be able to have kids. Hearing the words, "It might be cancer," sent me into a tailspin. I am the kind of person who, when faced with a difficult situation, tries to find the humor as a coping strategy. Even though I am open about my feelings, I often mask how deeply affected I am for the sake of others.

When I got pregnant with Jules, things got better until after he was born. I ended up suffering from Post Partum Depression to the point where I wanted to give Julian away. I didn't want him. Having gone though everything I had to get him here, those feelings of indifference made me feel like a monster, but I never sought help. Eventually, my hormones evened out and I realized how much I loved him.

After about the first trimester of my pregnancy with Cora, I could tell something was wrong again. I had severe anxiety to the point where I didn't want to leave the house. I slipped into depression and went through every day thinking my family would be better off without me around. With encouragement from my family, I told my doctor what I was experiencing and he put me on a low dose of anxiety medication for the duration of my pregnancy.  It helped considerably and I was able to function.

I went off the meds late in my pregnancy because I assumed it was better and again. But, I ended up with PPD after Cora got here. Since I recognized the issue, I figured I had a handle on it and I ignored it.

Eventually, it hit me that my anxiety had become crippling. I worried about every person who drove by my house. I worried about Nate dying on the way to work. I worried about the lady smiling at me on the street; what did the smile mean? I struggled to get off the couch. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I would lay on the floor, playing with Cora and a voice would tell me I didn't deserve to be alive. This was a few days ago.

The reason I am sharing this isn't so you all feel sorry for me. I'm not looking for attention or pity. In the last few days, I have seen several of my friends post on Facebook about their battles with anxiety and depression. If nothing else comes of my struggle, maybe I can at least offer some solidarity for those who are going through the same issues.

I have gone to the doctor and I am taking an antidepressant and an anxiety drug. I always thought it was a failure if a person had to be medicated for anxiety or depression because that means you can't control your emotions. But now, I realize that sometimes, you need help to overcome your demons. Even though I am still recovering, I feel hopeful that I am on the right path. I actually wish I would have talked to someone long ago.

So, if I seem distant, flaky, or quiet, please understand what I am going through. If you are going through the same struggles or you have in the past, rock on, you. You're not alone. Some may not understand what you're dealing with, but I think you'd be surprised by how many others know the struggle all too well. To quote my good friend Sarah (and channel some High School Musical), "We're all in this together!" Hang in there, yo. There is no shame in what you're going through.

And I'll be holding on to you

Naptime and bedtime are the bane of my existence. Jules will fight, and riot, get up 600 times, and literally climb the blinds. But for some reason, when I am dangling precariously over the edge of sanity, I will look into those big doe eyes and I'm putty.

When I have threatened and all but beaten him into a bloody pulp, I usually resign and just climb into bed with the little booger. I will take a deep breath, wrap my arms around him, and all those frustrations fall away. When he was just learning to talk, he would drape my arm over his little body and say, "Mommy, schnuggle me." Nothing has changed; Jules would schnuggle all night if I would let him.

Today was frustrating. Cora is teething and Jules was particularly grumpy. Add in the two kids I watch in the mornings, and boom, instant headache. I wanted nothing more than peace and quiet at bedtime so I could sit under my snuggie with no pants. The kids had other plans. Nate struggled to get Cora down and was only successful with vigorous rocking and a little assistance from good ole Tylenol. Jules was just missing the flashing pacifier as he raved in his bed. Even after we read a few books, he was still going hard.

As per usual, I climbed in his little bed, the vinyl sheet crinkling beneath me as Jules snuggled up next to me. I just wanted the kid to go to sleep so, I was mildly annoyed when he asked for one more song (which is code for every song I have ever learned). I sang everything in my repertoire, repeatedly. But as I laid there recalling the lyrics to Baa Baa Black Sheep, my face buried in his hair, I wanted nothing more but to keep that moment frozen in my mind.

We talked, we sang, we giggled, he asked questions about life, and I soaked it all in and squeezed tighter. He gave a scenario in which Daddy went to the dollar store to get an energy drink, and he dissappeared and went to Heaven. Since our dog died a few weeks ago, he has been very intrigued by the idea of death. He told me he would be so sad if Daddy went to Heaven.

Then Jules asked what I would do if he dissappeared. The thought made my heart ache. I told him I would cry because I would miss him so much. His question prompted me to tell him about my miscarriage for the first time. I told him I was supposed to have another baby named Lucy but she died before he was born. He got tears in his eyes and he said, "Oh, no! What happened to her?" I told him about how she died but then he started growing in my belly and I was so happy he could be here. He grabbed my face with both hands, brought my cheek to his cheek, and said, "Mommy, I'm so sorry."

Had I not slowed down and taken the time to sing one more song (or twenty), I would have missed such a beautiful moment with my baby boy. I cannot even count all the times in a day I want to throat punch that little turd. But then, these beautiful moments happen and all the frustration, and fits, and arguments melt away into nothingness.

In this sweet interaction, it hit me that there will come a day when he doesn't want me to lay with him. He won't need one more song. He won't need Mommy's arms wrapped around him. Laying with each other blowing raspberries, telling stories with silly voices, smooches, and ticklish snuggles will be nothing but a fond memory.

I am ridiculously blessed to have such a wonderful little boy for a son. He brought so much light to my life when I was in such a dark place. Eventually, Cora will need those snuggles, and I am ready. But until Jules tells me otherwise, I will love the crap out of that kid. I will pinch those sweet little cheeks until they fall off because, he is my baby and that's what a momma is for.

KALI MA!!!!!!

My uterus is demanding a sacrifice. A sacrifice of Cadbury Cream Eggs. It was a stroke of genius on Cadbury's end to come out with the Scream Eggs so I can enjoy those suckers twice a year, rather than binging on them at Easter. My waistline thanks you, Cadbury. But in all honesty, if my kids were made out of Cadbury Eggs, I would eat them with no remorse.

Today was one of those days that had me teetering on the edge of sanity. Thanks to my repugnant hormones, the family is lucky I didn't go all Mom-Hulk on them. Julian whined about dinner, he was horseplaying and broke my candle warmer, Cora wouldn't nap at all today, I bled through my pants at the library, I burnt my arm on the oven, and both kids are rioting in their beds as we speak. But in spite of all of that, I have to stop and remember that we are raising them to be decent kids.

I was raised that one of the worst offenses in this life is being a douche bag. My brother, gauges, tattoos, and all, is one of the most polite kids you would ever meet. Don't get me wrong, he can be a butthead. But he will hold the door for every old lady who walks past. That is what I want for my kids. Julian may complain about dinner, cry when he loses his privilege of riding the horse at Meijer, and throw a tantrum on the floor at the library because I have to put the library books in the bag, but by Joe, that kid is kind to everyone he meets. I guess that is why I have zero tolerance for dill weeds I meet in public.

Yesterday was a day like today. So, when my friend asked me to meet for coffee, I happily obliged. I needed a minute to be a ladyadult and not have a kid summoning me every time the peach fuzz on my buttcheeks skimmed the couch. So, she came and picked me up and we were grown-ups.

It was mostly empty in the coffee shop. There was a woman up front, the batista, an Emo teenager, and us. We ordered and sat at a two-person table that happened to be next to wannabe Pete Wentz. He was listening to angry scream-o music out loud on his phone, rude. We were annoyed by the music but knew there wasn't really anything we could do. He strolled over to the barista and we realized the two were most likely dating.

As he walked away from us, I realized he had full tat sleeves. I am super into tattoos so, imagine my nerdy squeals of delight when I realized he had Spiderman sleeves; I was borderline giddy! As he came back from his attempt at mating with the barista,  I asked, "Hey, are those Spiderman sleeves!?" He confirmed with a slight head nod, his black hair nearly covering his eyes. I clasped my hands together in excitement and asked, "Can I see?" He immiately pulled down both sleeves, looked me dead in the eyes and said no, as he walked back to his table without missing a beat.

I looked at my friend, she looked at me. "Maybe he didn't hear you?" She said. I told her he said no, and she exclaimed out loud, "HE SAID NO!?" I could see the kid peeping at us from under his hair, obviously impressed with himself for shutting an old broad down. The rest of our time there, he gave us the side-eye as he continued his attempts to woo the barista.

I would say that I'm all about private things staying private, but you all know that's not my style. With that being said, I would like to think that I do a decent job of respecting other people's privacy. However, if you want privacy, DON'T GET FULL SLEEVES ON BOTH ARMS! Why would you get artwork tattooed on your body with the expectation that it will remain private? It's not like I saw a tramp stamp peeking over the hem of his jeans and asked him to drop trou. The day I get a sleeve (yes, that is the plan), is the day I prepare to share my interests with anyone who has eyeballs. No salt necessary. What if there is a day I don't want people looking me up and down with their judgy judgement? It's called long sleeves!

The moral of the story is, there was no reason for that dude to be a big turd blossom. The day my kids treat someone like that, especially someone older, is the day they get smacked upside the head. Maybe he was self-conscious? Maybe he thought I was being salty? Maybe he was just a douche. Whatever the case, with my hormones set from stun to kill, he's lucky I didn't go all Indiana Jones on him.

There will be blood

First of all, I have a few disclaimers. 1) I beg your forgiveness for any misspellings, mistypings, run-on sentences, poorly worded phrases, etcetera etcetera. I hate bad grammar as much as the next guy. However, I write these bad boys on my phone and for some reason, my phone autocucumbers overzealously. 2) I type like I talk (I know, a less forgivable offense). So, if my posts ever seem like they just keep going on and on and on and they make no sense and don't ever get to the point, blame it on my AD... Did you know they have really cool Superhero ABC flash cards on Pinterest? Go to my Pinterest and download them! (Ashley Klingler) (I tried to include a link but I am inept when it comes to all things technical. If you've seen New Girl, think Nick Miller). A is for Aquaman!!

Speaking of Aquaman, it's shark week at my house. *Real quick, no filter. Right? Right. Okay.* I have a useless uterus. That worthless pile of cells only has one bloody setting: bloody. That is a big reason why it was so hard for me to get pregnant. They call it endometrial hyperplasia, or an overgrowth of the lining of the uterus, which causes severe menstrual bleeding. I'm one of the poor unfortunate souls who doesn't just bleed monthly. After I had the boy, I bled for 6 months STRAIGHT. I had a day or two where I would get a break but that was few and far between. My poor vagina. My poor husband. I think Kotext should endorse me, seeing how I singlehandedly keep them in business. Hey Kotex, hmu, yo!

Anywho... after I had Co, I bled, and bled, and hey, I bled some more. In the past, when I have been dragging much uterus behind me in a Radio Flyer for an extended period (period, get it!?) of time, my doctor has put me on Progesterone to stop the bleeding. Well, for some reason this time, even when I was taking the highest dose of Progesterone possible for me, I didn't stop bleeding. I had the worst cramps I had ever had, second only to miscarrying my first baby. I went in to talk to my doctor and he asked if I was ready to get my junk yanked. I'm 28 so, I was not super enthusiastic about that option. He told me to take a bit to mull it over and to see what would happen as far as my ladybits. I was a day away from my appointment to discuss my decision and the bleeding just stopped. I didn't care the reason, be it good, bad, or witchcraft. I was just happy for solice. So, I cancelled my appointment and began waiting for anything to change.

If anyone reading this has never had a period, let me provide you with a little insight. Normal periods are uncomfortable. Abnormal periods can be a nightmare. Each month, if an egg is not fertilized, the lining of the uterus begins to slough off and shed. Uterine contractions, or cramps, help move the old lining out of the vagina in the form of blood. Imagine for a moment, a time you took an exhausting poop. The kind of poop where your whole body aches, your butt hole burns, and you feel like you need to shower. The Taco Bell poops. It's kind of like that. The uterus constantly contracts so the whole downstairs section is just plain shot. I can't speak for all women, but I get the poops something terrible when I bleed. It all just turns to crap down there, literally. So, imagine for a moment, that this happens to you for 6 months straight. How am I not dead? I'm a wizard, Harry.

By some act of God, I had not bled at all for the past 2 months. I thought I might be pregnant because, why else would I get respite from the bloody horror that is my cycle? A crossroads deal? I was about to buy a pregnancy test yesterday, when I felt a familiar twinge. I knew the bloodletting was upon us. Sure enough, my uterus is hamburger.

You can imagine that with all this blood, it is not exactly easy to shelter a toddler from the truth. We are a very open family. We poop with the door open, we walk around naked, it's normal to us. *By we, I mean me*
So, Jules is almost always in the bathroom when I am. He noticed there was blood in my underwear after I had Cora. I explained to him that mommies bleed after they have a baby. He seemed grossed out but he was surprisingly cool with it. He knows I wear a "mommy diaper" for "my bleed." But, since I hadn't bled for a while, I think he kind of forgot about it.

This morning, when I was in the bathroom, he was there chatting me up. He looked down. "Did your bleed come from your vaginey?" "Yep, Mommy bleeds from her vagina." "Bleh. I don't want to bleed from my penis." "Jules, if you bleed from your penis, we have a big problem." "Oh, okay." I got a new pad and started to roll the old one up in the wrapper. "HEY! YOU'RE MAKING A DIAPER BURRITO!" "Yep. This is how I throw my old pad away." "Can I keep it?" You can imagine my response.

I know there will be more conversations about my "bleed." Have you ever had to explain your period to a little kid? What did you tell them?

Hopefully "my bleed" lasts for a normal amount of time. If my douche of a uterus could hold out for one more baby, that would be great. The more I roll along though, I kind of want the backstabbing little traitor out of my body. Is it customary to keep your uterus after a hysterectomy? In a little jar or something? I want that sucker to be my slave for the rest of my life. Uterus paperweight anyone?

Ode to (no) sleep

Once upon a time, around 2 am, my daughter awoke to a lake in her bed.
She fussed and she flailed to show she was unhappy, all because she had peed right through her nappy.
Oh, dear Huggies diapers, I loathe you, I do. Especially when you do not hold her poo. When from out of her diaper leaks an unholy mess, and she screames and she cries due to all her distress.
Know she should not have awoken until around 6 a.m., so this Momma could beat you with her own two bare hands.
Pampers will now grace my dear daughter's butt, so this Mommy's tired eyes can finally stay shut.
So, as I bring this limerick into conclusion, I really just have this one small solution.
You will no longer have my loyal support, you have caused my patience to be cut very short.
Huggies, you're lucky it's 2 in the morning and my brain is only partially performing, because I promise that were I more awake and alert, I WOULD COME AT YOU, INSOLENT FOOLS!
You suck.
The end.

If you're going to spew, spew into this

I assumed I would only be writing a post every few days, every week maybe. I don't want to bog you all down with mundane details of my everyday life. I ate chicken fries and tots for lunch. I did some dishes. I showered. I may or may not have made my bed. But as typical as my morning was, my evening was anything but, and to withhold those sweet, sweet story nibblets from you would be a downright disservice. 

We decided, after much argument over naptime (if you can call it nap when Jules blatantly did not nap), to pack up our little troupe and make our yearly mecca to the Allen County Fair.

 It was a nice breezy day, according to my Weather Channel app. In my opinion, The Weather Channel can take a nice little stroll straight into the pit of hell. Had I realized that the sun beating down upon my pasty, delicate body would cause me to experience Satan's sweaty buttcrack firsthand, I would NEVER have worn jeans and a black shirt to the fair. Forget the fact that I decided to wear makeup that, by the end of our affair at the fair, had run down my face like a clown caught in a tsunami. It was just plain balls hot. 

We strolled along, watching Jules take in the splendor that is the fair. Seeing the wonder in his 2 1/2 year old eyes made the sweat running down my face slightly more tolerable. He wanted to ride everything, to eat everything, and to touch everything! We perused the animal barns. Jules was mortified by the cows. Cora sat in her stroller, gnawing on her fingers. I was mortified by the street youths dressed like street walkers. Nate pushed the stroller, gnawing on his fingers... er... maybe I have that wrong...

Anyway, some kind Samaratin gave us free meal tickets, which was pretty awesome. We ate, we walked, we played one game in which Jules "won" a Spiderman poster. I do believe we just paid for a Spiderman poster but, don't tell the boy... We shared a lemon shake up, Jules rode ride, after ride, after ride. Surprisingly, he had the same look on his face each time. Complete skepicism. Not the reaction I was expecting. He stared at the mechanical parts of those rides with the look of a man who just knew that the ride was going to fail, and he would plummet to certain death. He was completely and utterly unamused. So why he kept riding, I have no clue.

We got his face painted like Spiderman, which was the highlight of his evening. In the meantime, Nate stabbed himself in the head on something sharp in the Bumper Car line, which coincidentally, Jules ended up being too small to ride. Blood was running down his head. I'm pretty sure he has tetanus. Maybe he'll pull through, the verdict is still out. 

When the sun started to go down and Julian was resting his tired little head on me while we rode the Merry-go-round,  we decided it was time to bid farewell to the Allen County Fair. 

We hiked to the car, sweat still running down our cracks, loaded up the kids, and started the 20 minute ride home. Cora was already asleep and Jules was close behind when we heard it. We heard that unmistakable sound that causes fear to rise up in the hearts of all parents, the sound of barf. 

Tonight we learned a lesson that will serve as insight for years to come: Julian plus spinny rides at the fair equals exactly what you we should have expected. Is it so bad to expect the sweet, melodic giggles of a small child? The answer is yes. 

As we were driving down the highway, still covered in sweat, dirt, and some sticky residue of unknown origin, we heard the dreadful sound of Julian losing the contents of his stomach. It was red. Bright red. With chunks, that in my hypersensitive mommy mind, were probably bits of his organs, and we needed to go to the hospital, and HE WAS DYYYYYYIIIINNNGGG! And just when I was about to hyperventilate, my brain kicked back on, thank God, and I realized it was the blueberries he had for lunch. And I needed wipes. Stat.

He freaked. He is not a messy kid. My fault. He is actually borderline neurotic about messes. Again, my fault. So, he began to flail. Bits of chunky blueberry vomit began whizzing through the air, like confetti, in the backseat. Tears streaked his face paint until he looked like teenage hearbreak Emo Spiderman. I turned around in my seat to start the damage control. I unbuckled him, stripped him down, rebuckled him, and cleaned up the car seat. I went through almost a whole package of Huggies wipes and guess what? No fiberglass... Moving on...

I finally got the barf cleaned up to the point whare he wasn't screaming at level 10. We had finally made it home to claim sanctuary. It was raining, hard. In a stroke of parenting genius, I had Ju get out of the car, in his blueberry stained Justice League underwear, and his tear-streaked Spiderman facepaint, and run around in the rain to wash the last of the spew from his little body. 

We got him inside, bathed him, and he was perfectly fine. Apparently, the dude just can't handle the fair. I don't really blame him. Seeing some of the teenagers running around acting like zoo animals made me want to barf too...